The Plastic Magician (A Paper Magician Novel)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  “There will be a test.”

  “I hope so!” Clutching the book to her chest, Alvie hurried back down the stairs and flung open the door to her workroom. She set the anatomy book on the counter and flipped to the table of contents. She remained standing; her blood pumped too quickly for her to sit.

  She scanned, found what she wanted, and flipped pages. Adjusted her glasses.

  “Chapter four,” she read aloud. “‘Workings of the Inner Body: Musculature.’”

  As promised, she did pull a late night. It would be the first of many, surely.

  CHAPTER 6

  MG. PRAFF HAD BEEN all seriousness when he’d mentioned the morgue the evening before. He and Alvie left bright and early and drove into the city, just past a large cemetery to a very square building that looked like it was made of giant cubes of concrete. Mg. Praff must have mail-birded or telegrammed ahead, because the mortician was expecting them.

  “This is rather unorthodox, but we do have a body donated to science, and the medical students at Oxford didn’t seem much interested in the hands.” He led them down a staircase to a room lit with Pyre lights as opposed to Gaffer ones. Most Pyre lights were still encased in glass, but the glass didn’t have any magical properties. Alvie assumed the morgue used them to allay the chill. The basement was terribly cold.

  “If you’ll stay with me and answer my questions,” Mg. Praff said, “I don’t think I’ll do any damage.”

  The mortician gave Alvie and Mg. Praff each a pair of gloves and went to a sort of chest in the wall. He opened it and rolled out a pallet, upon which a body rested beneath a white sheet. Alvie’s stomach tightened a little. She’d seen dead bodies before, of course. She’d been to two funerals. But while it was tempting to take this opportunity to study anatomy unhindered, it felt a little . . . unnatural to her.

  And the smell wasn’t pleasant.

  She watched as the mortician uncovered only a pale left hand, explaining how the rigor mortis had subsided. He talked about the working of the joints in the fingers and wrist as Mg. Praff picked up the limb and worked it this way and that, pressing his hands into the knuckles in a way that looked painful. Thus the requirement for a deceased specimen.

  When he finished, he asked, “Do you want to see, Alvie?”

  To which she answered, “I think the skeleton back home will be sufficient for me, sir.”

  Gloves off, Mg. Praff wrote several notes and assaulted the mortician with a dozen questions. After that, they were ready to go.

  “Fred,” Mg. Praff said to the chauffeur once he and Alvie got inside the automobile, “would you stop by the warehouse? I need to pick up a few things before heading home.”

  Fred nodded and turned the automobile about.

  “Warehouse?” Alvie asked.

  “The West London Polymer Depository. It houses all the textiles a Polymaker should need for his, or her, experiments.” He chuckled. “I only half know what I’m doing, I admit. I want to make sure I have a wide range of plastics to work with to best imitate those knuckles. And it’s a good place for an apprentice to visit. At least two future lessons will be held there. They added a new wing a couple years ago, so the building has got quite large.”

  “Really? Are there many depositories for Polymakers?”

  “No, unfortunately. But West London will ship.”

  It was about thirty minutes to the depository. The place wasn’t as large as Alvie had imagined. It had a brick front with several windows—perhaps it had been a factory once—and from its back stretched a much-newer-looking wing with brick that didn’t quite match the original. There was even a small paved lot in front of the warehouse for automobile parking, though Fred pulled the automobile up to the doors to minimize their walk.

  The whole building was open on the inside, clear to the ceiling, where giant Smelted fans spun of their own volition to manage the temperature. There were enormous shelves stacked with boxes and pallets and drawers and bags. A simple desk sat just inside the door. Behind it, an overweight man with glasses not dissimilar from Alvie’s said, “Magician Praff! Come on in, you’re cleared. Want the paperwork for this one?” He nodded toward Alvie.

  “Not just yet. Thank you, Harry.”

  The man nodded to Alvie as she passed. To think, if she stayed in London, she might walk into a place like this and have the workers know her by name. As for the paperwork, she assumed she’d need it if she ever came here without a renowned escort.

  “The knuckles,” Mg. Praff said as they approached the first shelf, “will need to allow extension and flexibility.”

  “Condyloid joints,” she said.

  He paused. “I . . . yes, that’s what the mortician said. You were listening closely.”

  “I did read that book, sir.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “All of it?”

  “The section on hands.”

  He nodded with a smile. “You’re proving to be more and more valuable, Alvie.”

  “It’s exciting, sir. To think we could be changing an entire facet of medicine—”

  Mg. Praff held his hand up to stop Alvie and said to the space behind her, “Hello, Roscoe. Always a pleasure.”

  Alvie spun around to see the man from the train approach, a scowl twisting his lip. He looked as though he’d been caught doing something. Eavesdropping?

  Alvie pressed her lips shut as if she could trap the words she’d already spoken behind them. This project would stun everyone at the Discovery Convention . . . if they managed to keep it secret. Had she said too much?

  Mg. Ezzell gave Alvie a dismissive glance before settling hard eyes on her mentor. “Setting your sights for something large, Marion?”

  “Just here to show my apprentice the ropes.”

  “Hmmph. Always coy.”

  “And you are very light on your feet, if I may say so.”

  Alvie’s gaze darted between the magicians. The room warmed a few degrees. She glanced up to make sure those magicked fans were still spinning.

  The magicians were silent as an employee in a blue smock walked by. The moment he stepped out of earshot, Mg. Ezzell jutted his pointer finger toward Mg. Praff and muttered, “Your reign is coming to an end. Thought I’d warn you now, so you can prepare. I’m going to turn that convention on its head and make the world forget about Marion Praff. Your uncle’s name will only carry you so far.”

  Mg. Praff straightened. “If it makes you feel more secure to believe my achievements are merely accolades for Tagis Praff, you are welcome to continue to think so.”

  Mg. Ezzell turned a bright shade of crimson, but his countenance remained stern. “We’ll see, Marion.”

  He turned on his heel and marched for the door, barking to an employee to bring his items out to the auto. Alvie watched him go.

  “What an ornery fellow,” she said. “I certainly hope I never have a rival.”

  Mg. Praff sighed. “As do I. Best to keep our voices down in public, just to be sure.” He glanced toward a warehouse worker leaning toward them who, upon being spotted, busied himself arranging boxes on a shelf.

  “But I can tell Ethel, yes?”

  He smiled. “Of course. We’ll need her cooperation.”

  Her shoulders sagged in relief. “Excellent.”

  “Now, on with our tour. Over here you’ll find vacuum-form-ready sheets . . .”

  “But you can’t tell anyone.” Alvie punctuated the warning with a stiff wag of her finger. She’d nearly burst with anticipation, waiting the four days until her next shift at the hospital. Mg. Praff had kept her so busy she couldn’t so much as steal away early for a visit.

  Ethel leaned on the elbow of her good arm, staring at Alvie with wide brown eyes—the same color as Bennet’s. “You really think it’s possible? A magic-fueled arm?”

  “I hope so. I don’t know all there is to know about Polymaking, of course, but I know a lot about mechanics and how things work. My papa used to let me tinker in his workshop. If nothing else, it will be a
n advancement on what’s available today.” Not that Alvie knew what sort of prosthetic arms were currently available. Mg. Praff had assigned himself the task of learning about the “competition.” Hopefully he’d bring back samples.

  Ethel rested back in her bed. Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry.

  Alvie’s throat tightened. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything. What if she couldn’t make the arm the way she wanted to make it? What if by telling Ethel her plans, she was getting her hopes up for nothing?

  “I think you can do it, Alvie,” the injured woman said. A smile touched her lips. “I really do. We don’t know each other terribly well, but I see your drive. People with drive do amazing things.”

  Alvie knotted her fingers together. “I hope you’re right, Ethel. For both of us. And Magician Praff, of course.”

  Ethel chuckled. “I’ll keep him in my prayers! All the help you can get, right?”

  Footsteps neared the bed, and Alvie turned to see Bennet approaching, this time with a carrier’s bag. “Good morning,” he said, his grin as bright as his hair. Alvie’s heartbeat picked up, and she pressed a hand to the side of her neck as though Bennet would be able to see the pumping of the artery there. “I’m running an errand for Magician Bailey and thought I’d swing by. Alvie, nice to see you.”

  She nodded. “I didn’t even get lost.”

  He chuckled. “Glad to hear it.”

  “Bennet, you won’t believe what Alvie told me,” said Ethel.

  Alvie dropped her hand and whirled on the patient. “I said not anyone!”

  “Bennet is part of this! We can’t keep him in the dark.” Ethel moved to push herself up in bed, only to teeter to the left. She gripped the mattress with her right hand and lifted up what remained of her left arm. Her countenance fell. “I forget sometimes.”

  Alvie felt like a puddle on the floor. “I’m sorry. Of course you can tell him. Your family should know.”

  “Tell me what?” he asked.

  Ethel’s features brightened just a bit as she told Bennet Alvie and Mg. Praff’s plans for the prosthesis in hushed tones. Bennet’s lips parted as he listened, and every so often, his eyes darted over to Alvie. He really did have pretty eyelashes. Was it strange to think a man’s eyelashes pretty? Best not to say anything about them.

  “Really, Alvie?” He focused on her. “You think you could?”

  “We’re going to try. I’ve calloused my eyes reading up on anatomy and plastics animations.” Mg. Praff was teaching her the basics of animating plastic creations today, something that hadn’t been on her original study schedule for another eight months. Bennet kept staring at her, so she added, “I, uh, could probably change its color, too. If you want a green arm. Or pink. Or . . . what’s your favorite color, Ethel?”

  Ethel laughed, and Bennet broke his gaze. Alvie, unsure what to do, took off her glasses and cleaned them on her blouse.

  “Blue, actually.” Ethel pushed a lock of hair out of her face. At least, that’s what Alvie thought her blur was doing. “Though I don’t think I’d like a blue arm.”

  Alvie pushed her spectacles back over her ears. “Might be fun for, uh, a party?”

  “Are those different?”

  Alvie shifted her focus to Bennet. “Huh?”

  “Your glasses,” he said, then chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Are they different from before? I remember at the train station their being . . . well, having a much stronger prescription.”

  Alvie laughed. “Magician Praff gave me plastic lenses that make me look a little less muscid. Or, uh, bug-eyed. They’re much lighter, too.”

  “Miss?” called a patient from across the aisle. “Miss, could I get some water?”

  “Yes! Coming.” She stood and brushed off her slacks. These were new ones—deep maroon that gathered about the ankle, so that if Alvie stood with her feet together it almost appeared as though she were wearing a skirt. Her mama had sent them through mirror-delivery after Alvie tried and failed to find women’s slacks locally. “I’ll keep you updated,” she said to Ethel and, turning to Bennet, added, “And I warmed up that chair for you.”

  Bennet laughed, and Alvie silently excused herself to wait on the other patients.

  A couple of weeks later, Alvie found herself amid ruler-shaped strips of foggy plastic littering the island in the lab. Mg. Praff held one between his fingers and said, “Soften . . . Cease.”

  The plastic dropped in his hand.

  “Now, if this were a Folding spell, so long as the creation is anthropomorphic, a simple Breathe command would be enough to make it come to life.” Alvie nodded, but didn’t write it down. She wasn’t a Folder, after all. “But you can’t just create a frog or a fish with plastic and expect it to move. Plastic is too hard, and softening it would ruin the shape of the creature. The creature has to move in parts, and the parts construct the whole.” He grabbed the tip of the droopy plastic—Alvie noted that he’d only softened the center—and moved it back and forth. “Memory,” he said, then, releasing the end, added, “Breathe.”

  The plastic moved on its own, exactly the way Mg. Praff had directed it.

  “Fascinating.” Alvie reached forward, and Mg. Praff handed her the bobbing plastic.

  “This works best for joints. I’ll instruct you on how to form a ball joint tomorrow, but I want you to practice this first. We’re jumping around a bit, and I don’t want to risk your education for the sake of innovation. Questions?”

  Alvie glanced at her notes. “I think I’ve got it.” Focusing on the bending plastic in her hand, she said, “Cease,” and it stilled, returning to its solemn, droopy form.

  “Excellent.” Mg. Praff stood and tucked his stool close to the island. “Now, come this way, and I’ll explain how this portion of the lab works.” He moved to the counter that boasted a great deal of chemistry equipment. “This is for the creation and purification of plastic—it’s easier to buy the plastic premade, of course, but oftentimes a Polymaker needs certain specifications in his—or her—materials, and it’s quicker to do it yourself than to special order it and hope someone else gets it right. Now, this”—he gestured to a tall beaker—“is called a—”

  A knock on the open lab door directed their attention away from the equipment. Mr. Hemsley, the butler, stood erect and proper with his hands clasped behind his back and his nose turned slightly up.

  “Beg your pardon for the interruption, Magician Praff, but there’s a visitor here for Miss Brechenmacher.”

  “Me?” Alvie asked. Who on earth would be visiting her?

  A chill coursed up her spine as her brain whirled through the possibilities. Had she unknowingly snubbed a buggy driver? Or worse, could it be Mg. Aviosky? Perhaps she’d erred in sharing her studies with the Coopers and someone had overheard her at the hospital and reported her . . .

  “Alvie?” Mg. Praff tapped her shoulder.

  “Uh.” Alvie looked from her mentor to the butler. “Who is it, exactly?”

  “Young man, said his name was Bennet Cooper.”

  Alvie dropped her notepad. She stooped down to snatch it up and bumped her hip into Mg. Praff, who, in turn, hit a flask with his elbow, knocking it over. Alvie blurted a string of apologies as she retreated, tucking her notes under her arm.

  Bennet Cooper? Here? To see her? Whatever for? Was he upset about her getting his sister’s hopes up? Did he wish to see the work for himself? She didn’t have anything to show him, not yet . . .

  “M-May I go? I’m sure it will be quick,” she said, trying to smooth her hair.

  Mg. Praff nodded. “Yes, go ahead. There’s something I wish to examine, besides. Hemsley, you’ll escort her?”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Hemsley departed without so much as a glance at Alvie. She hurried after him, pausing only to set her notes in her own workroom. The butler waited at the exit and, with a sniff in the general direction of her wardrobe, opened the door for Alvie.

  Alvie had the distinct impressio
n that Mr. Hemsley did not like her, though she couldn’t fathom why. Perhaps because she took so many meals out in the polymery and that made him go out of his way. Or perhaps it was simply because she wore slacks. That seemed like such a silly reason to dislike a person, but no one looked at her legs as much as Mr. Hemsley did, so it was a viable option. All the same, with the weather starting to cool, she preferred slacks to skirts more than ever.

  Alvie’s mind couldn’t stay on Mr. Hemsley, however, nor on the magicked path shifting about her feet as she followed the butler to the house. Her thoughts bounced between Bennet Cooper and his reason for being here. Bennet Cooper and his poor sister in the hospital. Bennet Cooper and his sunshine hair and smiling eyes.

  She adjusted her glasses as Mr. Hemsley led her to a set of stairs.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “The sitting room. That is where we receive guests.”

  “Oh.” She vaguely recalled where it was. A room just for sitting seemed excessive. Then again, Briar Hall was excessive.

  The butler stopped at a door and opened it, then kept it open with the heel of his foot. Alvie started to follow after him, only to have herself announced. “Miss Brechenmacher.” Mr. Hemsley gave her a hard glance. Was she supposed to wait to be announced before coming in?

  She tripped over the toe of Mr. Hemsley’s well-polished shoes. Quickly straightened. Pushed up her glasses.

  The sitting room had been on Alvie’s tour, of course, but she hadn’t returned to it since. Its walls were made of polished wood carved into squares like some cherry checkerboard, except at the very top, where there was some enormous ivory-colored wainscoting, so elaborately carved Alvie couldn’t tell what the designs were supposed to be. There were two fireplaces—two!—and Indian-looking carpets beneath an array of furniture made for sitting. Thus the name of the room.

  Bennet was indeed within the sitting room and had selected a forest-green chair to sit in, though he stood when Alvie entered. Had he seen her trip? Probably.