The Plastic Magician (A Paper Magician Novel)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Upon arriving for her volunteer hours, she had asked to be assigned to something other than rounds in the recovery room. She was grateful for the hard work, for in the days since sending off her army of paper birds, she had received no reply from Bennet, and Mr. Hemsley probably hated her even more for all the times she’d asked after the mail yesterday. But of course inundating a person with letters wouldn’t instantly guarantee their forgiveness. Or maybe the birds hadn’t made it. Or maybe she’d annoyed Bennet and/or his tutor into loathing her permanently.

  “Bah.” She dunked her brush in the bucket of soapy water. Better to stay away from men, anyway. She had to focus on her studies.

  Mg. Praff hadn’t been too disgruntled about her sudden departure. He was too absorbed in the work—one of the reasons Alvie had yet to tell him about her encounter with Mg. Ezzell. At least there was one person on this island who understood the draw of creation the way Alvie and her papa did. It was hard finding people who understood her. And if she understood Mg. Praff, it was better to wait for his genius to come to a stop on its own than to interrupt it with stories about his rival.

  Her thoughts shifted to Ethel, and she scrubbed with renewed vigor. She hadn’t so much as stepped into the recovery room today. She’d asked for a different task specifically to avoid the Coopers, for fear her gesture had failed and Bennet had remarked poorly on her character to his sister. She was withering inside, however, wondering how it’d gone off. Wondering what either of them thought of her. Surely she couldn’t leave without checking on Ethel. For all she knew, her friend was about to be discharged.

  She dipped her brush. The whole point of this invention was to help Ethel, wasn’t it? She had been the catalyst, the inspiration. What kind of an inventor—and friend—would Alvie be if she didn’t actually follow through on her promise? Maybe Ethel’s cheeriness would be dampened by the episode with Bennet . . . but there had been such hope in her eyes.

  “Blazes blasted this whole stupid bloody thing.” Alvie hardly understood the meaning of half the sour words she’d picked up since moving to England, but there was no one around to hear her. She finished the hallway, washed out the bucket, scrubbed her hands, and changed into a clean apron. She only remembered to let down the nest of her hair a few steps before entering the recovery room.

  The man in the first bed, a newcomer, spied her and asked for water. Alvie fetched a cup. Seeing him cared for, she tiptoed to Ethel’s bed. She had a visitor, but it wasn’t Bennet. This was an older man with a big round circle of baldness atop his head and long graying muttonchops. He had an open chest of arms next to him. Fake arms, of course. It wasn’t likely an Excisioner would sit around with a stolen limb or two on display. The thought gave Alvie chills. Excision was the one practice of magic illegal across all continents. Some debased person long ago had discovered a dark secret: since man-made things could be enchanted, so too could humans themselves. Man made man, after all. It was magic at its darkest.

  “Alvie? Did you hear me?”

  Alvie came back to herself, noticing Ethel sitting up and staring at her for the first time. The man with the chest of arms also cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Oh. Uh, no. Sorry. I was thinking about arms.”

  Ethel laughed. A dozen weights fell off Alvie’s shoulders at the sound of it, and it suddenly felt like she could float right up to the ceiling.

  “You’re a nurse?” the man asked.

  “Just a volunteer.”

  “Well, we’re about done here.” The man held a thick sleeve that looked to be made out of red rubber, with a joint at the end that Alvie assumed connected to the fixture of a false hand. He set it atop the arms made of wood in the chest and closed the chest. “Do you know where a lavatory is, m’dear?”

  “Oh, uh.” Alvie pointed out the way she’d come. “Go past the reception room to the end of the hall. It’s on the right.”

  He nodded his thanks and left, leaving the chest by the bed.

  Alvie eyed that chest.

  “I don’t think he’ll mind,” Ethel said.

  Grinning, Alvie got down on her sore knees and pulled back the lid, picking through the false arms. They were heavier than she’d thought they would be. Heavier than a true arm, certainly. Who wanted to go around with a false arm that felt like a club?

  She picked up a wooden one with some joints and studied it.

  “It will move if I turn my . . . stump . . . certain ways,” Ethel said, frowning. “But it will only respond to really jarring movements.”

  Ethel looked toward the ceiling and took in a deep breath, blinking rapidly. Oh. Of course this would be hard for her. If the prosthesis salesman was here, Ethel was likely being discharged soon.

  Alvie dropped the fake arm and shut the chest lid. “I’m sorry, Ethel. But Magician Praff and I are still working on the project. I think it’s coming along rather well, though I’ve nothing to show, yet.”

  A small smile worked its way to Ethel’s mouth. “I’m so glad to hear it, Alvie. If not for me, then for the next poor soul who occupies this bed.”

  “Of course it will be for you. I’m not that slow. That is . . . if we can work out the spells.” It had to have magic to mimic the functionality of a real arm, unless Alvie could somehow advance science a couple of centuries.

  “I’d love to see it sometime.”

  “You should!” Alvie leaned forward in the chair. “When do you leave?”

  Ethel’s face fell again. She touched her stump as if uncomfortable. “Tomorrow.”

  Alvie frowned to match her. “But you’ll get to go home, and sleep where strange men can’t sit up and watch you. That’s a perk, right?”

  Ethel laughed. “Yes, I suppose so.” She sighed and lifted her stump. “But here, this is normal. At home, with my friends . . . it isn’t.” She stared at the space where her arm used to be. “It still feels like it’s there. I have dreams where it’s there. If I didn’t dream about it, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

  A chilled, unpleasant tingling ran up the side of Alvie’s neck. She held back a frown. “I don’t know how to stop your dreams.”

  “No one does. I suppose I’ll just have to make a lot of new memories so I can dream about those instead. There’s not much excitement inside this place. Nothing worth dreaming about.”

  “Oh. I suppose I could, uh . . . cause some excitement . . .” Maybe knock over the trash receptacle or start singing a Bob Cole song, though she had a terrible voice. Such a thing might only encourage Ethel’s nightmares.

  Ethel smiled. “No need. Tomorrow’s excitement will be enough for me. Maybe too much.”

  Alvie nodded, and silence fell like snow between them, bit by bit, magnified by the chatter of other patients.

  Ethel began to say something, but Alvie blurted out, “I snubbed Bennet, and I’m really sorry about it.”

  Ethel’s mouth snapped shut with a click of her teeth. Her delicate brow furrowed just slightly. “Snubbed Bennet?” Her eyes sparkled. “Did he seek you out?”

  Alvie’s chest felt too hot in her blouse. “Uh, well, he did come over.”

  Ethel slapped her hand against the bed frame. “He did? He didn’t tell me!” Her dark eyes darted back and forth, reading Alvie’s face. “Oh no. Not good?”

  “I’m such a dunce, Ethel.” Alvie slouched in the chair. “We were going to go on a picnic, but I lost track of time. My head was stuck in the polymery. I mean, the rest of me was, too. That is, I could have left. I’m metaphorically stuck, or was.”

  Ethel nodded. “I figured as much.”

  “I sent him a letter”—Alvie decided not to disclose how many letters she’d sent—“but I haven’t heard back.”

  With her good arm, Ethel reached over the bed and grabbed Alvie’s hand. “Bennet isn’t one to hold a grudge. If you’d like, I’ll put a good word in for you.”

  “Really?”

  Footsteps announced the return of the salesman. He smiled at them and hefted the chest. “I’ll leav
e an order sheet and brochure with the front desk that you can take home.”

  Ethel nodded, and the salesman excused himself.

  Alvie cleared her throat. “Really?”

  “Really. I like you, Alvie. And Bennet doesn’t get out as much as he should.” She wrinkled her nose. “That mentor of his is a real stickler, which hasn’t helped. I bet he’d be livid if he thought Bennet was dating.”

  Alvie’s whole body became a shiver. “But I sent the birds to Magician Bailey’s house.”

  Ethel chuckled. “Oh, I’m being dramatic. But I hope Bennet puts his foot down and actually tests out of his apprenticeship soon. He’s thinking in the spring. Used to say winter, but he’s pushed it back again. That boy needs to build up his confidence.”

  Nurse Padson walked by, and Ethel released Alvie’s hand. “Ah, Alvie,” the nurse said. “There you are. Could you help us organize some supplies?”

  Alvie stood. “Of course.”

  Ethel said, “I’ll leave my home address with the front desk for you, Alvie. Come visit when you can, with or without the . . . project.”

  Alvie beamed. “Thank you. I will.”

  Nurse Padson cleared her throat, and Alvie scuttled away from Ethel’s bedside, offering a wave good-bye as she went.

  Alvie was crossing the yard to the polymery, Ethel’s address in her back pocket, when she heard a great booming voice that seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth.

  “Eureka!”

  A few birds flitted out of a nearby ash tree, sending several of its orange leaves spiraling to the ground.

  Alvie paused for only a moment before running the rest of the way to the polymery. She nearly stumbled over a tube of plastic as she entered the foyer. It was narrower on one end than the other. Ah, a forearm. And there was another, and another. Several of them had spilled out of the lab, and the floor inside was swimming with them. She picked her way around them, making a path to Mg. Praff at the island.

  “Magician Praff?” His hair was a wild mess, and a few smears of oil marked his lab coat and chin, which had a good two days’ worth of beard growth on it. He looked up at her, a loony smile splitting his face. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, eyelids baggy.

  “Alvie! Alvie! I’ve done it! I’ve found it! Come, come!” He ran at her like a madman, plastic bits and pieces parting around his footsteps like unraked leaves, and Alvie was a little cowed before he grabbed both her wrists and hauled her into the lab. This time she did trip over a forearm, but Mg. Praff’s surprisingly strong grip kept her upright.

  He released her and swept his arm over the island, knocking more debris to the floor.

  Alvie pushed up her glasses. “Did it?” She perked up. “Did it?”

  “Yes, yes!” The Polymaker grabbed a forearm-shaped tube with plastic straws half melted along its length. With shaky, sleep-deprived movements, he filled each of the three straws with liquid plastic, then pinched off their ends with the side of his hand.

  He looked at her, wild-eyed, then at the straws. “Compress,” he commanded.

  Alvie leaned forward as the plastic swirled and bubbled inside the straws. The forearm began to quake like a rodeo bull under Mg. Praff’s hands. He moved his hand, and the liquid shot out from the tubes and splattered against the wall, beside a few other, older splats.

  Alvie’s jaw fell. Her gaze darted from the wall to the forearm to Mg. Praff’s hand.

  “You discovered a spell to pressurize it.”

  “Yes! Yes! ” He raised both fists in triumph. “It’s not done, no . . . but we have something to work around. That spell alone will blow away the convention . . . we need to make paths for the pressure, and learn to harness it so the hand doesn’t explode—”

  “Explode?” Alvie pictured Ethel walking down the street, her prosthetic arm suddenly combusting. Yet she smiled. “We have it. You have it. The beginning.”

  “This is the middle, Alvie.” Mg. Praff grabbed her shoulders. “This is the middle. We have the middle! Compress!”

  He began laughing manically, grabbing the partial prosthesis and holding it over his head like he had just won the pie contest at the fair. He even twirled, once.

  “Enough to start the paper.” He set the experiment down. “How are you with papers? This is yours, too. You could write the paper.”

  Alvie blinked. “Uh . . . I’m functional, as a writer. I’m better with my hands.”

  “Hands. Yes, good. I need you to replicate a few parts for me. I’ll start on the paper—”

  “Magician Praff.”

  The Polymaker had begun rooting through a drawer, but he looked up. The short hair at his crown was mussed.

  Alvie took a deep breath and grinned. “This is a marvelous moment. But I think it would be best if you get some sleep before you try to write academically. And, perhaps, bathe.”

  Mg. Praff blinked several times. He straightened, looking around the polymery, which appeared as if a tornado had touched down and decided to stay the night. “You are right. A few hours would do me good. I’ll . . . send for Hemsley.”

  “I’ll get started on the cleanup.”

  Mg. Praff nodded, smoothed his hair back, and started for the door.

  “And, sir?”

  He glanced back.

  Alvie gave him a short round of applause. “Congratulations.”

  With the polymery cleaned up, Alvie was able to settle in and truly absorb the excitement of her mentor’s discovery. Not only had Marion Praff discovered a new Polymaking spell; he had also found the key to making a prosthesis that would operate more like a real hand than anything on the market. She got to work molding the parts Mg. Praff would need to continue testing the spell and its functionality within a prosthesis, namely, controlling the pressure at a very small level. To think what such a spell could do on a larger scale . . . but that was a question to be answered later. A question that would be asked by all Polymakers, after the presentation at the Discovery Convention.

  Alvie grinned as she measured and cut patterns out of a long sheet of opaque white plastic. A first-year apprentice, and she’d stand beside a renowned magician at the Discovery Convention. Her! Not only would she get to bask in the creativity and intellect of creators from all over the world, but her résumé would sparkle.

  She’d begun shaping the tip of a ring finger when a knock sounded at the entrance to the polymery. She looked up from her stool at the lab island. As she moved to stand, however, the door opened, and none other than Bennet Cooper stood there.

  “Bennet!” Alvie exclaimed, leaping from her stool. Unfortunately, her toe caught on the foot ring, and she tripped before even finding the floor. With her feet, anyway. She found it quite thoroughly with her left knee.

  She muttered a curse—a very American one—as Bennet hurried across the polymery to her side.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Alvie grabbed the seat of her stool and pulled herself up, wincing as she straightened her leg. What was Bennet Cooper doing here? And her desk was a mess. There were plastic beads all over the floor, and half the cabinets were ajar! Not to mention he wasn’t allowed in the polymery . . . then again, he wouldn’t have known where to find her unless the butler or Mg. Praff had shown him . . . that meant the visit was sanctioned, yes?

  “Um.” She stumbled. “Just a bruise.” She sat in her chair to prevent further tumbling. “I’ve got lots of them, and from clumsier things than that.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded, perhaps a little too quickly. “Why are you here? Did you get my letters?”

  A lopsided smile crossed his lips, and he reached forward to straighten Alvie’s glasses. She hadn’t realized they’d tilted. Jitters like electricity shot down the arms and into her neck. “Yes. I’ve never received so much mail in my life. And I got the message from Ethel, as well.”

  Alvie almost asked what Ethel had said, but perhaps she didn’t want to know.

  “I’m sorry for the interruption
,” he continued, “but when I rang the bell, the butler seemed perturbed at me and told me to go around to the polymery myself. So I did.” He stepped back and looked around, taking in the lab. “This is very different from Folding.”

  “I suspect it is. Um.” She smoothed out her blouse, not that it needed smoothing, then did the same for her slacks. And her hair, which likely did need smoothing. “So. You got my letters . . .”

  “They were quite extravagant, yes.”

  “I really am sor—”

  Bennet chuckled. “Goodness, Alvie. If you apologize one more time, my ears will start ringing. I thought it might be a good idea for us to try again.”

  Alvie straightened, then winced at the protest of her knee. “Again? Picnic?”

  “Well, it might be a little cold for a—”

  “Let’s go right now.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the lab, her whining knee be damned.

  “Right now?” Bennet repeated.

  She let go of him and spun around. “Yes! I can’t miss it if we go right now!” She paused. “Unless you want me to wear a skirt, in which case I’ll need a few minutes. I was planning to wear a skirt the first time, you know. Picnicking in them is horrid, but I wanted to look ladylike. Have you ever picnicked in a skirt?”

  He smiled. “I can’t say I have.”

  “Doing anything in one of them is a pain in the a—ahem. But if you don’t mind, let’s go right now. I’ll even walk. Wherever you want to go.”

  “No need for that. I brought the Benz—”

  “Did you really?” Alvie jumped. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  He laughed. “All right. But at least let me escort you.” He took her hand and looped it through the crook of his elbow. The touch of his warm skin through his shirtsleeve ignited giddiness inside Alvie, like her belly was filled with popcorn kernels and Bennet was the fire beneath them. He reached over and picked a small plastic bead from her hair.