A Bitter Magic

by Roderick Townley

  To my left, a staircase spirals up to Asa’s laboratory. To my right, past a confusion of corridors: Mother.

  I could try. Maybe I can figure something out.

  Starting in that direction, I see the corridor has been hydraulically raised again, but I know about the control panel. A quick click, and the floor groans and lowers. I continue on.

  Around the first curve, I run straight into Anna. She looks wild, distracted.

  “Hi, Anna.”

  She stares at me with big eyes, then seizes my wrist and drops something into my hand. She closes my fingers around it.

  A key.

  “What’s this?”

  She shakes her head. “I cannot help you more.”

  “Is this…?”

  “My brother Nicolae makes it. I am careful, but Mr. Strunk suspects.”

  “Anna.” I don’t know what to say. She risked her job for this. “Anna, thank you.”

  I’m not sure she heard me, because she’s already down the hall, not looking back.

  With the key tight in my fist, I hurry on. But the way has changed since yesterday. Mirrors are realigned. Partitions have been re-angled. Even the aquarium is not a reliable landmark. Today, it’s a mirror, the fish within it mere reflections. Where are the actual fish?

  Then comes the Mirror Maze, which tourists seem to love. It’s a source of revenue for Uncle Asa, frustration for me—all those twisted Cisleys! After blundering into glass walls and ducking under mirrored arches, I pick up a scent of, yes, roses and follow it. Down one blind alley, it becomes quite noticeable. How can it be strong here, if there is no way to go? Then I find a narrow glass panel that swivels aside, allowing me to slip through. The scent is more definite now, and before long I find myself in front of Mother’s door.

  I slide the trembling key in the lock. It doesn’t turn. Anna’s brother is no locksmith. I wiggle it, then work it harder, to wear down the rough edges.

  Open, you!

  No good. Here, Anna took this big risk for me, even got her brother involved, all for nothing. I could cry.

  I take out the key and examine it. Scratches and file marks, as if it’s been attacked. Wounded by clumsiness.

  Could I heal it? Could I warm it enough?

  I enfold it tightly and sink down along the wall to a crouch. I clasp my joined fists to my chest and bow my head. Soon the key grows warm, then hot.

  Unbearably hot!

  Agh! Teeth clenched, I grasp it tighter.

  I can’t do this! It’s like holding a live coal in my hands!

  Not yet! Not yet!

  When I can bear it no longer, I feel the key bend slightly.

  Try it!

  I shove the key in the lock, give it a second, then turn it hard.

  Click!

  With a sigh, the door swings open.

  But my hand! The skin’s begun to blister. Pain surges from my palm halfway up my arm. I stumble into the room and peer through the semi-darkness. There! A white rose above the fireplace. I grab the vase and dash cool water over my hands.

  Better!

  Barely.

  I look around. I haven’t been here in months, but the room looks just as it did when Mother, feeling lonely one night, called me in. It surprised me to learn that she could be lonely, too. She never lets such emotions show. She’s either cool or amused, when she isn’t furious.

  That night, she looked sad, as if it was all too much effort to be, what? Perfect?

  I’d never seen her without makeup. I liked her better without it and told her so. She gave a little what-do-you-know laugh. And I remember thinking, Why can’t we always be this way, just natural? She told me a little trick to do with my hair. (My impossible hair!) And that made me brave enough to mention something I’d always wondered about: those little points of light she sent out over the audience during her magic shows.

  She hesitated. “It’s a secret.” But then she threw me a sidelong look. “It has to do with elementals,” she said in a low voice, as if the drapes would overhear. “The astral light’s full of them.”

  “But how do you make them do things?”

  “They warm up. I don’t know how else to put it. They warm up if you concentrate in a certain way.”

  “Show me.”

  She shook her head. “That’s what Asa’s always saying. He’d love to know my secret. But he’ll never get it out of me.”

  I looked down. There was suddenly a big sadness in me. Why did it have to be this way?

  She caught my look. “Here. Hand me that bottle.”

  I brought her a slim blue bottle from the vanity.

  She shut her eyes in concentration, and soon a dozen “elementals,” as she called them, hovered in front of me. She uncorked the bottle, and several tiny lights slipped in. She recorked it and handed it to me. “In case you need a night-light,” she said.

  A present. My mother giving me a present! I couldn’t stop staring at it, the tiny lights circling and weaving in their little blue world. “Oh, thank you!”

  She nodded. “That’s fine. Now you’d better run along. It’s time for me to get my beauty sleep.”

  I was being dismissed without so much as a hug. But with an amazing present. I’ve kept it on my night table ever since.

  Now, all these months later, entering the outer chamber—what she calls her sitting room—I trail my hand along a silk table runner. She loved elegant things, like the bronze sculpture of a rearing horse on the mantel. Beside it stands the vase with the white rose. On the floor beneath lies a puddle—the water I spilled on my burning hand. I stare at the rose. This is the flower that was calling me through the maze. Calling, as if it had a voice. Mother’s voice. Yet all I can feel is her absence.

  Only once—on that special night—was I allowed into the innermost chamber. I enter it now, heart hushed. It’s her vaulted bedroom, the ceiling lost in dimness, the whole room suffused with reddish light, like a cathedral. I realize I have never seen the room in daytime. The glow is from sunlight pulsing through the red draperies.

  I fling open the drapes for better light, and the room comes blindingly into focus. I’m searching for signs of the full-length mirror that used to live in the corner. Had I imagined it?

  Wait. The crisp daylight reveals four sharp dents in the carpet. Yes, that’s where it stood! So she did take it with her to Trieste!

  Next to the canopied bed hangs the full-length portrait of Mother in a satin gown. And there’s her walk-in closet. Is the gown still there?

  Don’t open the door. You have no right.

  I fetch an oil lamp from the vanity and step into the closet, finding myself faced with rank upon rank of dresses, gowns, furs, hatboxes, shoes. Battalions of shoes.

  How far back, I wonder, does the closet go?

  Holding the lamp carefully, I move along the narrow aisle, dresses brushing against me on either side: “Shhhhhh,” they say.

  Is this a closet or a tunnel?

  Halfway back, I notice a pure white evening gown, with a line of diamonds running down the side. Imagine wearing such a thing!

  No one’s looking.

  As I drape the dazzling dress over my arm, I swear I see it wink at me. Back in Mother’s bedroom, I hold it against me in front of the vanity mirror.

  Mother’s taller than I am, and fuller in places a tomboy like me can only dream about. I change out of my things and slip the gown over my head.

  The sensation is indescribable, like a hundred caresses. I shrug the shoulders snug, give the sides a little tug, and again look in the mirror.

  Not possible! It fits me perfectly, taken in where I’m smaller, tucked where I’m narrower. Even the length has been altered as though by invisible hands.

  “Mother?” I whisper.

  I sit down on the bed and stare at her portrait.

  I remember looking at the picture that long-ago night, half thinking it was the painting of a goddess, a mischievous one, with just the slightest smile tweaking the corners of
her mouth. She stands straight, her white neck elegantly long, one hand resting on a pedestal, the other holding a black rose.

  In the shadows behind her—I hadn’t noticed this before—there’s a tall mirror on a stand, but turned away from us, perhaps reflecting the moon in the painting’s background.

  I stare at her face, at her eyes, at the black rose she holds so lightly in her hand.

  Black rose, white rose.

  Mother, who are you?

  Chapter Eight

  It’s my birthday today. Well, well.

  In celebration, Miss Porlock and I are out on the town, a great concession on Uncle Asa’s part. Truth is, if it weren’t for Miss P., there wouldn’t be a celebration at all. Every year, she appears in my sitting room, holding a tart with a candle in it, and sings her little song. Then it’s off on an excursion somewhere. One time, it was a carriage ride in the country, another time a picnic by the cliff. It’s a chance for her to talk about important things—Romantic poetry, fabrics for dresses, and the princes I will someday marry.

  I remember only one birthday that didn’t have the Porlock touch. I must have been five or six. Mother threw an extravagant party, importing children I didn’t know from the village, showering me with presents, and performing magic tricks. I got overexcited and came down with a fever that night.

  And that was it, as far as Mother was concerned. I don’t think it occurred to her that this was something that should happen again. It was a sort of motherly meteor shower.

  But this year, says Miss P., I have an important birthday. I’m turning thirteen, and I deserve something special. A closed carriage takes us to Pendleton’s, a dry-goods emporium in the better part of town, where my tutor makes an examination of all the fabrics in from London, asks my opinion, then disregards my advice. It is her chance to play the great lady, and I wouldn’t deny her a minute of it.

  She tells me to pick out anything I want, anything at all. The place is full of so many things that I’m sure I’ll find something wonderful. Turns out they’re wonderful if you’re Miss Porlock’s age. I finally find a charm bracelet I like, and she buys it for me.

  Soon she’s lost in reverie among the shawls, arranging one around her broad shoulders and making a coquettish turn before the mirror.

  “What do you think?” she asks about a blue paisley.

  “Perfect!”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think it goes with my coloring.”

  Miss Porlock doesn’t have coloring, unless you count gray. Still, it touches me to think Edna Porlock was once a girl hoping to be pretty.

  From Pendleton’s, it’s to the pharmacy for Miss P.’s eyedrops and anti-itch cream, then to the tea shop for a treat. My tutor sheds her cape but keeps on the shawl, the blue paisley one. She couldn’t resist it and now can’t be parted from it.

  The scones here are actually good (well, compared to Miss P.’s ginger cookies), and I’m allowed—because it’s my birthday and my companion is feeling so devil-may-care—a strawberry ice, topped with whipped cream.

  The light outside the window begins to lower, and the passersby step a little faster. We all know about afternoon rain showers in this part of the world. I loll a Maraschino cherry in my mouth and look out.

  A crash and a gasp make me whirl around. “Oh!” Miss Porlock cries. She’s on her feet, holding the front of her dress, a wisp of steam rising from it. Even the new shawl has been spattered. A broken teacup lies on the floor.

  The shop owner hurries over, and she and I do what we can. Soon all is well, or almost. Dear, clumsy Miss P. This is not the first or the fifth time she has broken things.

  The worst thing to be broken is her mood. It takes me a while to get her smiling again, and I succeed only when I draw her out about fabrics. That sends her into a happy daydream, and before long I’m free to look out the window and have daydreams of my own.

  Miss Porlock is going on about woolen tartans or something when I notice a commotion across the street. It’s hard to see with the rain starting, but there’s no mistaking two kids, a boy and girl, racing from a clock shop, the boy holding something under his coat while the girl, smaller, narrow-faced, struggles to keep up. A moment later, the storekeeper bursts from the shop and chases after them.

  The children dart past my window, and for a split second I see the faces clearly.

  Cole!

  “My dear!” exclaims Porlock. “Are you all right? You don’t look well.”

  I forget to remember to answer.

  Cole? A thief?

  —

  I don’t want to see him.

  I want to see him.

  Elwyn and I are on the seawall, watching the sun come up. Though it’s late spring, the wind is almost cold.

  “I told you not to trust him,” says Elwyn quite distinctly.

  “You told me nothing of the kind.”

  “Don’t you remember? I clawed his foot.”

  “That I do remember.”

  “I could hardly have been clearer.”

  I look down at the lobster perched at the edge of the wall. “Why don’t you like him?”

  “Other than the fact that he’s a thief?”

  “You didn’t know that then.”

  Raising one of his heavy claws for emphasis, he turns to me. “What do you expect from a boy like that? Did you see how he was dressed?”

  “I think you’re as snobbish as my uncle.”

  “That would be difficult.”

  “Agreed.”

  Elwyn turns in his slow and delicate way to look over the harbor. “So, where is this boyfriend of yours? In prison?”

  “Elwyn, stop it!”

  We don’t speak to each other for most of a minute, but his question has hit a nerve. Where is Cole? Is he ever going to show up again?

  “Quit worrying about him,” says Elwyn, picking up on my thought. “He can’t help you.”

  “Can’t help me what?”

  “Find your mother, of course. Isn’t that what you want?”

  I’m almost too surprised to answer. “Of course that’s what I want. Don’t torture me with the impossible.”

  “Why impossible?”

  “Elwyn, she disappeared five months ago, on another continent. I’m just a girl standing here, talking to a ridiculous lobster.”

  “You’re a Thummel. That means something.”

  “But what can I do?”

  “Think. Who else was there when your mother disappeared?”

  “Uncle Asa.”

  “And what do you suppose he’s concocting up there in his hissing laboratory?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to have an idea? Think like a Thummel. Stop being a weak girl mooning over a ragamuffin.”

  “I’ve never heard you talk this way.”

  “It’s about time you did. Now get me back in that bucket. I’m parched.”

  —

  We head home in silence. Approaching the gate, I see the labyrinth is still closed off. A great pile of dirt stands by the hole where mechanics are working on the underground metal plates. I go around to the side entrance.

  Once in, I hear my uncle’s distant shout.

  “Good morning, Miss Thummel,” says Mr. Strunk, a model of composure.

  I glance down the corridor. “What’s he mad at today?”

  “New dining chairs have arrived. Master Thummel is not happy with them.”

  “Strunk!” Like a magic trick, Uncle Asa appears to step out of a column halfway down the hall. His black shoes click on the marble.

  “Sir?”

  Asa pulls up beside us, gives me a glance, then turns to his steward. “Strunk, I hate a spool-turned leg!”

  “Sir?” Mr. Strunk glances nervously at his own calf.

  “They disgust me. Stacks of billiard balls, that’s what they look like.”

  Strunk looks lost.

  “I think, Mr. Strunk,” I murmur, “my uncle is talking about chairs.”
/>   “Of course I’m talking about chairs. Now, what’s his name, the crippled fellow who fixed the Chinese side table last year?”

  The steward’s face brightens. “You mean Havens, the cabinetmaker.”

  “The very one. Get him here.”

  Asa finally notices the covered pail under my arm. “What have you got there? Not that filthy reptile, I hope.”

  “Elwyn is not a reptile, and he’s cleaner than we are!”

  Asa’s eyes narrow.

  “I bathe him twelve times a day. He even sleeps in the bathtub!”

  “In the bathtub! Worse than I thought. Get rid of that disgusting creature right now!”

  “Uncle Asa!”

  “Or send him down to the cook. At least he can serve some purpose.”

  I pale at the thought.

  “I’m serious. I can’t have you making a laughingstock of us.”

  I start to object, but he holds up a silencing hand. “I know what people are saying. It’s not Asa Thummel the magician. Not anymore. It’s old Thummel, uncle of that peculiar girl who goes about with a filthy whatever-it-is. I won’t have it!”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “Your friend.”

  “I know that sounds odd to you.”

  “It sounds absurd to me.”

  There’s no way to make him understand. “You’re not really angry at me,” I say finally.

  “Oh, I am.”

  “You’re angry about the chairs.”

  “That, too.”

  “And you’re mad about the chairs because you’re mad about the labyrinth.”

  I can see this isn’t getting me anywhere. In fact, he’s smoldering. “And?” he says, his eyes flashing.

  But here I hesitate.

  “And why am I angry about the labyrinth?”

  No. This is a minefield I mustn’t cross.

  “Say it!”

  I look down. “Nothing.”

  He’s moving from angry to furious. “You think I’m mad about the labyrinth because I have to rely on incompetent mechanics, is that it?”

  I say nothing.

  “And I have to rely on incompetent mechanics because—why? Why do I have to rely on incompetent mechanics?”