The Plastic Magician (A Paper Magician Novel)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Alvie shook the equation from her head. It didn’t matter, did it?

  The conductor touched his hand to the mirror, and Alvie’s reflection swirled into a vortex of silver. Alvie handed him her ticket, which he marked with a pen before passing it back.

  “To Dover. Step quickly now.” The conductor gestured her forward.

  Alvie glanced back at her parents one more time, waved as best she could while holding two suitcases, and stepped through the mirror to her future.

  CHAPTER 2

  ALVIE HAD MIRROR-TRANSPORTED DOZENS of times in her life, but the coldness of the magic still shocked her. It was as though she passed through chilled mercury, and no part of her was safe from its icy bite. It seeped through her clothes and whispered through her hair, sending long lines of gooseflesh down her back and arms.

  New light hit her eyes; the pale-orange glow of glass-encased Pyre lights and the white blast of electric bulbs. The sounds of too many bodies and conversations rushed around her, mingled with the distant honking and roaring of automobiles and the bell of a trolley beyond the walls of the station. Alvie blinked, the gooseflesh slow to leave her skin. She’d never been to Dover before. Its mirror-transporting station was larger than the one in Columbus, and far busier.

  “Move along, make room,” called another conductor, this one much older, his hair and beard nearly white. He gestured impatiently. Gripping the handles of her two suitcases, Alvie picked up her feet and hurried from the mirror, trying to find an open bench to set her things down so she could orient herself. Every sitting place she saw was occupied: a couple with a baby, a group of men all speaking what sounded like French, a school class all dressed in plaid uniforms. A few eyes lingered on her as she walked past—or, more so, on her red apprentice’s apron. Perhaps her slacks, but she saw one other woman wearing something similar, so she wasn’t a complete anomaly in that sense.

  She nervously scoured the terminals—so many mirrors!—and did the math in her head. Point-zero-one percent of the women here wore slacks. Alvie usually wore a skirt when she needed to impress, but she hated traveling in them, and Mg. Praff had already agreed to the apprenticeship, hadn’t he? Besides, this was her nicest pair of slacks.

  Near the center of the station grew a large tree—the architects must have decided to build around the behemoth rather than tear it down. A hexagon of benches surrounded its trunk, and Alvie spotted a free space. She hurried over, set down her suitcases, and pulled out her envelope of papers to have a look at her ticket.

  She was set to depart from terminal 13B at 9:00 a.m. It was already eight thirty, so she needed to find her terminal quickly.

  Tucking her ticket and passport away, Alvie grabbed her suitcases and wove through the bustling crowds—spotting another red apron on her way—until she found the correct terminal. She stood in the long line and set down her luggage so she could wipe cold perspiration from her palms. She’d never traveled so far by herself before. Adventure, indeed.

  Someone came by to check her ticket and stamp her passport. “You’ll have six stops: Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, Greenland, Iceland, Norway, Germany. You’ve traveled cross-Atlantic before?”

  Alvie nodded. Even the largest mirrors enchanted by the most powerful Gaffers couldn’t transport someone across the ocean all in one go.

  The employee handed her a blue sash, which she slipped around her neck and shoulder. Everyone in line before her wore a matching sash, meaning they all shared her destination. It was a measure to ensure none of them ended up in Prague rather than Hamburg.

  The line moved forward. Alvie grabbed her luggage and, focusing hard on the blue-sashed traveler in front of her, passed through the cold embrace of an enchanted mirror, again and again and again.

  Though Alvie had slept a bit on the ferry, she was exhausted by the time she reached the shores of England. That fatigue made it hard to get excited about the place she would soon be calling home. She boarded a bus to the train station with several other passengers. Fortunately, the train arrived just minutes after she got on the platform, and she was soon within one of its long cars.

  She spied around for seats and found an empty one across from a man who was perhaps in his forties. He had dark hair and a strong receding hairline. A slender mustache sat atop his lip, not at all as impressive as the one Mg. Jefferson had grown. He was busy with a newspaper. Alvie hefted her luggage forward, sat across from him, and set the suitcases next to her, turning her knees so she wouldn’t bother the stranger.

  Rubbing her eyes under her glasses, Alvie took a deep breath. She looked out the window at the twilit landscape. There were a few lights on distant hills, but Alvie didn’t see much more before a tunnel swallowed the car. She frowned. Tomorrow would bring a better view of England, surely. She was tempted to lean her head back and snooze, but she feared missing her stop, and she had a tendency to drool, besides. When the train emerged from the tunnel, she stared out the window for a good while, though there wasn’t much to see without daylight.

  A short time later, she reached into her bag and retrieved her tickets to recheck her stop. She needed to be alert.

  “Apprentice?”

  She turned to see the man looking over the top of his paper at her red apron. She smiled. “Yes, but just barely. I haven’t even bonded yet.”

  “Is that so? And all the way from the United States.”

  She blinked in surprise.

  “Your accent, my dear.”

  “Oh yes. Left this morning.”

  “This morning?” he repeated, a thick eyebrow raised. “Oh yes, that ghastly mirror-transport.”

  “It’s much faster than a ship.”

  “Very dangerous. But then again, that’s what Americans are known for, isn’t it?”

  “We’re not the only ones who travel with—”

  “You’re in luck,” he interrupted, folding his paper and setting it on his lap. “I’m a magician myself.”

  She perked up. “Really? What sort?”

  “A Polymaker. Coming back from Paris from a rather important conference, actually.”

  “A Polymaker!” she repeated, and he seemed pleased with her enthusiasm. “Why, that’s my discipline as well! Or it’s going to be.”

  “Ah well, it’s a very difficult medium to work with.” He looked her up and down, his dark eyes scrutinizing. “Especially for a woman.”

  Alvie’s excitement fizzled out. “What do you mean, ‘especially for a woman’?” Goodness, she hadn’t gotten a remark like that one since her acceptance to Jefferson.

  He shook his head and waved his hand, brushing her question away. “Never mind, never mind. I don’t have an apprentice myself, too busy, too busy. There’s so much to do as an accomplished Polymaker. Do you read the news?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m Magician Ezzell.”

  She racked her brain, but the name rang unfamiliar. “I’m sorry, I haven’t.”

  He frowned. “Where in the States are you from?”

  “Ohio.”

  “That must be it.” He folded his arms and nodded to himself. “If it was New York, surely you’d have heard of me. But where are my manners? You’ve just arrived. Been to England before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And who are you studying under?”

  Her smile returned. “Magician Marion Praff.”

  Mg. Ezzell’s expression didn’t change except for his eyes. The skin around them tightened in a peculiar way, like he’d just eaten something bad but didn’t want to offend the cook. “Is that so?” His voice was a little tight, too. She wondered why. She didn’t smell anything foul . . .

  “I think he has a driver waiting for me at the station.” She glanced out the window. “Oh dear, I hope I didn’t miss my stop.” She hadn’t been listening to the announcer.

  “Here, let me see.” He leaned forward and plucked her ticket from her hand. Took a moment to read it. “Ah, you’re in luck. It’s the ne
xt stop.”

  “Oh, thank you!” she said, accepting the ticket back and stowing it in her bag. “I’m eager to get to the house and meet him.”

  The train began to slow. A few passengers rose from their seats and inched toward the door. Mg. Ezzell only said, “I fear you may be disappointed.”

  She blinked a few times. “Huh?”

  He tipped his head toward the exit. “Off you go.”

  “But—” she began, but the train came to a stop. No more time for chitchat. Alvie quickly thanked the man and grabbed her suitcases, funneling out of the train behind the other passengers. The chaos of it all pulled her question about being “disappointed” right out of her brain.

  The train had traveled with remarkable speed thanks to its Smelter-spelled rails. She would have loved to study the tracks, to see where the magic started and the technology ended, but her curiosity proved less powerful than the fear of finding her nose between the ties when another train sped in. At least finding a bench was much easier this time, and she checked her itinerary. Mg. Praff’s chauffeur was to pick her up, but where was she supposed to meet him?

  She searched for a clock, finding one on the far wall. Eight o’clock. Already? Goodness, her brain was set to afternoon. She’d eaten a little on the ferry, but certainly wouldn’t mind a bratwurst or the like.

  She observed the people around her as they chatted or filed onto the train. Everyone spoke so roundedly here, so proper, like their tongues were too low in their mouths. It sounded rather pretty and only slightly confusing.

  Taking her suitcases in hand, Alvie walked from the platform into the station, looking around for . . . she wasn’t sure. There were plenty of people waiting with signs for disembarking passengers, but none of those signs read “Alvie,” “Brechenmacher,” or “Lost Apprentice.”

  She walked back to the platform, her hair stirring as a train whizzed past without so much as slowing, bound for a different destination. People began to gather together, murmuring, idling, waiting for their ride. No one here appeared to be looking for her. Alvie checked her itinerary again, hoping to see something she’d missed. The information remained unchanged, of course—it said the chauffeur was to pick her up. Her pulse sped a bit, which made her palms sweat. She shuffled back into the station and found an employee, then another, to ask, but none of them had heard anything about a Brechenmacher from America or a Mg. Praff.

  Nine o’clock now. Trying not to let her arms shake with worry and from the weight of her bags, Alvie walked toward a map of greater London on the wall. It depicted three stations in London—at least on this rail. Was she at the wrong one? But the man on the train had seemed so certain. Would she have to buy a new ticket? She hadn’t exchanged any of her American money yet . . .

  Alvie stepped closer to the map. When did the trains stop running? They went late in the States, but the English were so backward with their transport . . . what if she had to spend the night in the station? What if Mg. Praff marked her as a no-show? What if—

  Something soft and sparkly collided into her left side, sending Alvie sprawling. Her suitcases flew from her hands, and she landed hard on her elbow. Pain cracked up her arm and into her collarbone. The force jerked her glasses from her face, and she looked up just in time to see a very large and very purple blur hustling past her in a race toward one of the platforms. The woman continued in her headlong rush, the sound of her clacking heels filling the air without pause. Alvie clenched her teeth to keep from crying. Was catching a train so important that the woman couldn’t even pause to apologize?

  Alvie reached for her glasses, but her fingers swept only dusty floor. She pushed herself up onto her knees and swept out the other hand. Still nothing. Her own hand was peachy fuzz against a muted background. She gritted her teeth even harder. Inching forward, she swept her hands out. Found the handle of one of her suitcases.

  Another set of footsteps reached her ears, these heavier and quieter, drawing near. “Are you all right?” asked a male voice. Alvie looked up to see a blur of a man. She could make out his dark slacks and white shirt, as well as hair bright as sunshine atop his head. The features of his face were lost to her poor vision.

  “Um.” Her tongue stuck to her teeth. She swallowed and blathered, “I lost my glasses. Can’t . . . see a thing without them.” She swept her hand out and, as though the universe wanted to punctuate that declaration, smacked her head on a bench.

  “Oh dear. What do they look like?” he asked, and the sunshine-topped blur dropped down to her level.

  “Um.” Her thoughts were all a jumble, clotting inside her head like old cream. “Black frames. Big, bug-eyed things, really. Should be hard to miss.”

  “I saw that woman crash into you,” he said as she pressed an ear to the floor to sweep her hand under the bench. She cringed when she felt something sticky. “Awfully rude of her. We’re not all like that.”

  Alvie lifted her head and squinted, trying to see the man better. She could make out the shadows of his eyes and mouth when she did that. “We?”

  “The English . . . by your accent, I take it you’re not from around here. Ah, I think I see them!” He stood and walked several feet away before bending over and scooping up something. Alvie stood and brushed off her knees. Blinked. It was so disorienting, staying in this blurry version of the world for this long.

  She sighed in relief when her savior placed the familiar weight of her glasses across her outstretched palm. Thank goodness the lenses were Gaffer glass and hadn’t broken. Ignoring the ache in her elbow, she turned the glasses about and pushed them onto her face. “Thank you—”

  Her throat constricted as she finally took in her companion. He was young, only a couple years older than herself, she guessed, and only a few inches taller. His eyes were dark brown, his bright hair straight and cropped. Despite the radiant paleness of his tresses, he somehow had darker eyelashes. And a perfect nose.

  Alvie felt herself blush, and she was not a woman prone to blushing. “I, uh, thank you for finding them.” She knew she looked silly with the things on, magnifying her eyes like they were wont to do, but it was better to be capable than pretty, even when standing in the scrutiny of a handsome man.

  “I’m Bennet, by the way,” he said, extending a hand. Alvie tried to sneakily wipe her own hand off on the back of her slacks before shaking it. “Bennet Cooper.” He released her hand and glanced to the map. “Are you lost?”

  All the air rushed out of her at once. “Desperately.”

  He smiled. His teeth were particularly straight. She resisted the strange urge to count them. “All right. Where are you supposed to be?”

  She shuffled through her pockets and handed him her ticket. “London . . .”

  “Well, you made it that far.” He looked over the ticket.

  “I-I’m Alvie,” she said dumbly. “Alvie Brechenmacher.”

  Bennet looked up from the ticket. “An American German in London. No wonder you’re lost.”

  She managed a nervous smile.

  “Ah,” Bennet said, handing the ticket back to her. “You want Fenchurch Street—this is the Euston station.”

  Alvie stared at her ticket. “But I thought . . .” Had the magician purposefully lied to her? No, certainly not. He must have made a mistake.

  “It’s easy.” He offered her a bright smile, which melted the worry from her bones. “Just head back onto that platform”—he pointed—“and wait for the next eastbound train. Here.” He bent and picked up one of the toppled suitcases, then reached for the one by her legs.

  “Um. I can carry it,” she assured him, scooping up the luggage. “But thank you. So much. You must think it’s absurd that I got the stations switched.”

  “We’ve all done it.” He started for the platform, and Alvie followed. “What discipline are you going to study?”

  “Hm?”

  He gestured to her red apprentice’s apron.

  “Oh. Uh, Polymaking.”

  “Really?” He t
urned about, nearly smacking the suitcase he was carrying into the one Alvie was lugging. His face brightened, and Alvie couldn’t help but think it pretty—in a boyish sort of way. Bennet continued. “I wanted to go into Polymaking. Fascinating stuff.”

  “You wanted to be a Polymaker?” she asked as they stepped on the platform. She looked him up and down. “Are you a magician?”

  “Hopefully soon,” he said, setting her luggage down beside a bench. He gestured for her to sit, so she did, awkwardly hitting her suitcase against her knees. She gritted her teeth to hide the pain that shot up her leg. “Still need to take the test. Folding.”

  “Were you forced into it?” Alvie asked, then clamped a hand over her mouth. She dropped it. “I’m sorry, that was an awkward thing to say.”

  Bennet shrugged and sat beside her. “Don’t worry about it. I was, actually. But I’m glad, in the end. I quite like it now.”

  “In the US, there’s a law that says a student can’t be forced to study a discipline against his or her will.”

  He offered a slight smile. “I’m glad you’ve got where you want to be.”

  Alvie frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m being impolite. Again.”

  “Not at all.”

  She eyed him, his sunshine hair and brown eyes. A train rumbled into the station, so Alvie stood, but Bennet halted her. “That’s the west train. You want the east.”

  “Oh.” She sat back down. “Thank you.” She let out a breath of relief that Bennet was willing to wait with her. She glanced to him. “You don’t have any bags. Are you from here?”

  “I live just outside London with my tutor. Just visiting my sister.”

  “Is she a magician, too?”

  “Ah, no. She’s in the local hospital.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Alvie rubbed her hands together. Pushed her glasses up. “Is she ill?”

  “Something like that.”

  Alvie reserved herself to smaller, more polite topics of conversation until the train arrived. Bennet helped her up into the car, chatting a little bit about his tutor, a Mg. Bailey. He seemed impressed when Alvie mentioned Mg. Praff, which was a relief after Mg. Ezzell’s strange response. When they stepped off the train, she found a rather weary-looking man holding a sign with her name on it. Relief filled her like the cool touch of an enchanted mirror.