The Plastic Magician (A Paper Magician Novel)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  There was no automobile. No sign of him. He’d already left.

  Alvie dropped to her knees. If only she hadn’t been so absorbed in her work. If only she’d paid attention to her clock. If only she could have escaped the confines of her own head long enough to hear Mr. Hemsley’s announcement!

  She grabbed the thick rim of her glasses and pulled them off, not wanting to smear the lenses with tears. She breathed deeply and gritted her teeth, but a few drops still squeezed out.

  Stupid, stupid girl. What must he think of her? He came all this way yesterday just to ask . . . and she had ignored him to make plastic straws. No wonder no one ever wanted to date her—she was impossible. Her chest hurt in a peculiar and awful way. She rubbed the edge of her sleeve over her eyes.

  What if Bennet told Ethel—and they were so close, Alvie was sure he would—and she didn’t want Alvie’s company anymore? She had finally started to make friends in this place halfway across the world, and she’d ruined it. Maybe even ruined something more. All to make some straws that easily could have been made tomorrow.

  Oh, how Alvie ached for her easy, familiar life in Columbus. How badly she wanted to fall through a mirror and appear in her own bed, far away from this ache. Any desire for creation and the lab had fled her entirely.

  She sat there on the edge of the drive for a long time, watching the sun set until clouds settled over the waning light and cold nipped at her nose and her fingers. Then she picked herself up off the bricks and turned back for the house.

  For the first time since arriving in London, Alvie went to bed early.

  CHAPTER 8

  SHE STILL WOKE EARLY. However, instead of heading out to the polymery, Alvie asked Fred to take her into town. She’d requested permission from Mrs. Praff since Mg. Praff was still working in the lab. An apology to her mentor would be in order when she got back, but there was another apology she owed first. She wrung her hands the entire way to the post office. It was a small comfort that she rode in the back of the automobile, where the chauffeur wouldn’t see her.

  She could go to the house, she was sure. The Bailey house, that was. Look him up the same way Bennet had looked up Mg. Praff’s residence. But the thought of trekking up, uninvited, to another giant mansion to seek an audience with a person who very rightly didn’t want to see her made Alvie’s skin burn. And Bennet had mentioned having a strict schedule. What if she interrupted? What if she made it worse? Besides, Alvie wasn’t the most eloquent person with words. She needed to think them out in order to get them right . . . which was precisely why this slightly more cowardly plan she’d developed would work. Hopefully.

  Alvie had decided to go to the post office and use her stipend to buy every single mail bird they had in stock. She would figure out the eloquent words, gush her sorrys, and send them all dancing into the sky. It would be a grand spectacle, and Bennet was a Folder, wasn’t he? He liked paper. With luck, he would be charmed into forgiving her.

  At least, that’s how it played out in her head.

  Fred pulled the automobile up to the post office, which was a bit larger than Alvie had anticipated, and quite a bit busier. She stepped inside and saw a short line at the front. The side wall boasted a large bulletin board covered in cards offering services, fliers for lost persons or pets, and advertisements for various wares. There were also cubbies along the wall for those who liked to pick up their mail, Alvie supposed, and a shelf that had paper, pens, boxes, and the like for sale. Alvie didn’t see any mail birds on it; they must have been special order.

  Wringing her hands, Alvie inched around the post office until she found a thick book to the left of the front desk. The word “Addresses” was typed across the front, and beneath those bold letters were the words “Sort: (By Name).” This was an enchanted book, then. Good, that would make things easier.

  Alvie touched the cover of the book and said, “Sort: Bailey.”

  The book popped open as though by invisible hands, the pages shuffling until parting on a page in the B section. Alvie frowned. There were a good deal of Baileys listed. What was Bennet’s mentor’s first name, again?

  Chewing on her lip, Alvie closed the book. Considered the conundrum. Said, “Sort: Folders.”

  There were much fewer of those.

  The book opened to a section closer to the back, labeled “Magicians.” The section for Folding took up one-third of a column. Mg. Pritwin Bailey’s name sat at the top.

  Sighing in relief, Alvie pulled a pencil and her ledger from her bag, jotted down the address, and joined the line stemming from the front desk. She bounced on her toes, trying to think of sincere things to say. Or perhaps clever. People liked clever things. Alvie was terrible at jokes, though. Could she think of something clever that wasn’t a joke? Was there even space on a mail bird to write out a joke? The jokes she knew—the ones her papa told—were very long, and often didn’t seem like jokes until he got to the end—

  “Miss?”

  Alvie blinked and glanced up at the postal worker behind the desk. He resembled Mg. Jefferson, sans mustache.

  “Oh, sorry.” She closed the gap between herself and the desk. “I need to buy mail birds. A lot of mail birds. How many do you have?” And will you help me count out the money for them? For all her credits in math, she still hadn’t memorized the conversion rate of dollars to pounds.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” the worker said. “We’re fresh out of birds. But letters work just as well.”

  Alvie’s skeleton seemed to crinkle in on itself, making her feel a great deal shorter. “All out? You’re sure?” She couldn’t make a grand magical gesture with envelopes. And mail delivered in person took longer to arrive . . . she couldn’t let Bennet go days thinking she’d snubbed him!

  The worker tilted his head to the side and offered an apologetic smile beneath his mustache. “I’m afraid so . . . ah, wait! Looks like we’re in luck. Morning to you, Magician Thane.”

  Alvie spun around just in time to see a woman reply, “Good morning, Marcus.” She was a couple inches shorter than Alvie and had vivid orange hair pulled back into a French twist. She didn’t look like a magician, though Alvie supposed magicians didn’t have a particular look. She did, however, appear ready to burst at the middle. The woman had to be a full nine months pregnant.

  She held a sizeable parcel resting atop her round belly. Marcus, the postal worker, readied to come around the desk, so Alvie said, “Here, let me,” and took the parcel from her. It was astonishingly light. She set it on the desk, and Marcus pulled a small knife from his pocket to cut the strings.

  “Magician Thane here delivers our mail birds,” he explained. “So looks like I’ll have some after all.”

  Alvie’s skeleton straightened itself out. “Really? Can I buy all of them?”

  Marcus paused in his cutting and eyed her. Beside her, the small, round Mg. Thane laughed.

  “Here,” she said, taking Alvie’s elbow. “The line is getting long, and I can tell you’re not from around here. I’ve got paper in my bag; I’ll make you some for free.”

  Alvie’s glasses slid a millimeter down her nose, but she hesitated to correct them. “Are you sure? I can pay for—”

  “All one hundred I just brought? And then they’ll be out again!” She smiled. “I don’t mind. Come this way.”

  Alvie eyed the woman’s stomach but obliged, letting Mg. Thane pull her away from the line and over to a bench. The Folder settled down a little lopsidedly, then let out a long breath and rested a hand on her stomach. Looking at Alvie, she said, “Mind grabbing that table? I’ve run out of lap space for Folding.”

  Alvie looked across the way and saw a short table near the shelves of supplies for sale. She quickly crossed over to it and grabbed its sides. It was much heavier than it looked, and when Alvie dragged it, its feet scraped loudly against the stony tiles of the post office floor. But the Folder needed a table, and Alvie needed a grand gesture, so she kept tugging that screeching table across the room to the be
nch, trying to ignore the looks that followed her and the two children who covered their ears and wailed to their mother. Alvie couldn’t hear their exact complaints over the table’s screeching.

  Mg. Thane looked a little surprised when Alvie finally reached her—she wasn’t sure why—but the smile returned. “So you need a great number of mail birds. They don’t fare well across the ocean, unfortunately.”

  “Oh. No. I’m not writing home.” Alvie plopped down beside her. “I’m writing to someone in town. Well, close to town.” She pulled out the address and showed it to the Folder. “I got caught up in my own head, you see, and I may have missed, uh, well, a date, and I just feel horrible about it, and I thought, well, since he’s a Folder, maybe he’d appreciate . . . Folding?” Mg. Thane had an interesting look on her face, to say the least, so Alvie added, “Unless you think that’s a silly idea.”

  “Oh no, not at all. It’s just, well, I know this residence. I wouldn’t have thought Magician Bailey the dating type, is all! You must have really—”

  “Oh. Oh no. It’s for his apprentice. His name is Bennet Cooper. I’ll be sure to address them all to him.” Alvie paled at the thought of her grand gesture going to the wrong person. Oh, hello, Bennet. Not only did I forget about your dinner, but I’m apparently crazy for your mentor. La-di-da, something British.

  A strange knowing smile spread on Mg. Thane’s face. “That makes more sense. Let’s see.” She pulled a short stack of square papers from her bag. Half were white, the rest multicolored—orange, yellow, pink, green. “I can do four types of birds, as well as a butterfly. Those are the standards, at least.”

  “All of it, if you can. I was thinking . . . twenty?”

  Mg. Thane nodded and reached into her bag.

  “I can pay you—”

  “Oh, hush, I don’t need it. I’m all for the furthering of romance.” She smiled and handed a stack of roughly twenty papers to Alvie. “Start writing, and I’ll Fold them after.”

  Alvie nodded. “Thank you. Really.” She took out her pencil and wrote the first thing that came to her head. Bennet, I’m so sorry I missed you yesterday. I had truly looked forward to the evening. My head got caught up in the polymery, and I missed the hour. Please forgive me.

  She took up another sheet. I’m so very, very sorry!

  And another. I will swear off magic until Christmas if you’ll forgive me. Oh, this is Alvie, by the way.

  Alvie glanced up to Mg. Thane. Her hands worked deftly, carefully lining up the sides of the paper and creasing the edges, forming wings and a tail. Alvie marveled as she formed a songbird, then a crane, then a butterfly. How different this magic was from her own!

  Folding was one of the oldest forms of magic. How many spells did it have, while Polymaking was still so new, so untried?

  Alvie grabbed another paper, and another, scrawling apologies across them all. On one she drew a picture of herself looking sad. Was that silly? But she didn’t want to waste Mg. Thane’s paper or her generosity, so she handed it over. Mg. Thane chuckled when she Folded that one.

  “All right,” the orange-haired woman said once she’d finished. Folded creations filled the table and the stretch of bench between them. “I’ve included the spells already, so all you have to do is say, ‘Breathe,’ and then recite the address. Write Bennet’s name on the wings first, though.”

  Alvie nodded. “I will. Oh, thank you, so very much. I really—”

  A man’s voice interrupted her. “‘Just a moment,’ she said. ‘I’m only dropping it off,’ she said.”

  Alvie glanced up to see a man standing a few feet in from the entrance, his arms folded across his chest. He looked to be in his thirties, with wavy black hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be short or long. He wore an unusual indigo coat.

  “I stumbled upon a friend of Bennet’s,” Mg. Thane said, grabbing the edge of the bench and hauling herself to her feet. “She needed mail birds.”

  The man smiled, though the expression enlivened his eyes more than it did his mouth. “Is that not what was in the box?” He eyed the mess on the bench.

  Alvie said, “It’s for a grand gesture.”

  The man nodded and let his arms fall to his sides. “Ah. I am not one to stand in the way of a grand gesture.” He offered his elbow to Mg. Thane. “If you’re ready, love.”

  Mg. Thane smiled and took the man’s arm. Turning back to Alvie, she said, “Good luck!” and departed out the door.

  Alvie watched the couple go, then turned back to the spells scattered around her. How incredibly fortunate she had been to run into a Folder at the post office! Since the table was already here, Alvie went ahead and scrawled Bennet’s name on all the mail birds’ and butterflies’ wings, then scooped them into her bag, careful not to crush them. She then got back in line and took out a few pence from her wallet.

  When she reached Marcus, he said, “Anything else, miss?”

  “Just one of the mail birds, if you don’t mind.”

  He fished behind his counter and offered her three styles of bird. She selected the crane and handed him nine coins; he returned one.

  Thanking him, Alvie sidestepped to the address book and again looked up Folders. She found two listings under Thane, but both resided at the same address. “Unfold,” she told the pre-enchanted spell, and the spell opened to a heavily creased square. Upon it, Alvie wrote, Thank you for your help at the post office. —Alvie Brechenmacher.

  She commanded the bird, “Refold,” and watched its edges and creases crinkle and warp until its body was restored. Alvie hurried outside, not wanting to make Fred wait too long. Finding a spot down the street where there were fewer people, she dumped all of Bennet’s mail things on the ground and said, “Breathe.”

  To her delight, every single creature animated, coming to life as though they were flesh and blood. Birds hopped over the cobblestones, and butterflies fluttered around her crown.

  Alvie recited the address, and the small army of spells took to the sky, heading west in unison. Grinning, Alvie shielded her eyes and watched them go. She pulled out the purchased bird and was about to send it off to Mg. Thane when a man said, “Miss Brechenmacher, just who I wanted to see.”

  Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she turned quickly enough that her glasses slid down her nose. She shoved them back up and took in Mg. Ezzell walking toward her on the pavement. He was well dressed, expensively so, and had a tailored coat buttoned around his waist. He hid his hands in its pockets.

  Her stomach squirmed. She glanced behind him, spotting a man and woman walking arm in arm on the pavement, but they were moving away, not toward. A boy rode past on horseback, eyes glued to the road. “I was just leaving.” She tucked the mail bird under her arm and turned away from the Polymaker, heading back toward the post office and Fred.

  “Wait, wait, no need for rudeness.” Mg. Ezzell picked up his pace and circled around her, blocking her path. “Has your mentor painted me so foully that you won’t even say hello?”

  “Magician Praff doesn’t talk about you.”

  It happened again—the tightness around his eyes, just like on the train. She was very certain now that he had knowingly sent her to the wrong stop, and he had no doubt taken pleasure in it.

  He smiled. It looked almost feral. Forced. “Oh, I’m glad to hear it. Tell me, what does Praff say?”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off. “Nothing of consequence. My driver is waiting for me.” An automobile engine sounded in the distance, then faded.

  “Listen, dear.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “What would you like, hm? Just for a few whispers of what goes on in that polymery. Money? Name your price.” He pulled out a wallet stuffed with bills and began counting them.

  Alvie made a noise of disgust—a noise her mama hated—and stepped around him, charging up the street. Someone crossed the road ahead of her, glanced her way, and disappeared into the post office. Maybe she should have called out to him. But what would she say? Hel
p! This man is trying to have a conversation with me, and I don’t like it!

  Mg. Ezzell caught up and walked beside her. She contemplated shoving him into the ornamental bushes lining the walk, but she didn’t exactly excel in upper-body strength. “Not money? How about a copy of the Polymaker’s test?”

  She stopped. He continued half a step before halting.

  Gritting her teeth, she said, “I’m not telling you anything. I’m not going to associate with you. Please leave.” Her heart was beating faster now, and her hands were cool and moist. She gripped the strap of her bag until her knuckles whitened. Part of her wanted to swing it into the side of the Polymaker’s head. Another part of her wanted to run away and hide behind the shrubbery.

  A scowl devoured the false smile. “Listen, you little—”

  “I will scream.”

  He said nothing more, only raised both hands as if in surrender. A young man was coming down the walk behind him, and an automobile had just passed them on the road. Alvie wondered if Mg. Ezzell felt the eyes of passersby. The last thing a prestigious magician would want was a record.

  He nodded. “Good day.” And with that, he pushed past her, bumping his shoulder into hers. She turned and watched him go, waiting until he was a safe distance before running up the street and around the corner to where Fred waited. She opened the door and jumped into the automobile before he could even stir from his seat. “Let’s go,” she said. “Please.”

  He nodded and started the engine.

  Reaching her hand out the window, Alvie set the mail bird for Mg. Thane free, watching it spiral skyward until the driver pulled away.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE HARDWOOD FLOOR PROMISED bruises as it dug into Alvie’s knees, but she scrubbed vigorously anyway, making sure the brush’s bristles flicked through every crevice and cranny. Today she was thankful for the apron the hospital gave its volunteers, and she’d piled her thick hair in a bun atop her head—a style her mother often likened to a bird’s nest. Even with the lighter lenses, the motion of scrubbing made her glasses slip off her nose, and more than once she’d gotten suds on her face trying to push them back up. When she returned to Briar Hall, she’d assemble some sort of band to wrap from one arm to the other, fastening the spectacles to the back of her head. No more slipping. She knew enough Polymaking to do that on her own.