“Do you need to talk to Magician Praff?”
“Oh no.” She let him lead her through the exit, stopping only to lock the door behind her. “He’s still resting by orders of Mrs. Praff. He went crazy.”
Bennet paused. “Pardon?”
“Not real crazy. Temporary crazy. Oh! It’s wonderful, Bennet. We’ve made a remarkable discovery to help create Ethel’s prosthesis. You see, after I studied your carburetor—that is, Magician Bailey’s carburetor—I had this idea that if we could only pressurize the hand to give a natural movement to the fingers . . .”
CHAPTER 10
ALVIE STILL ITCHED TO drive the Benz herself, though she didn’t have much experience, but she sat in a ladylike manner in the passenger seat as Bennet pulled the beautiful automobile around the drive and into the city. He was a good driver and only ground the gears once, after he had to stop for a long line of school children crossing the street. A few of them pointed at the Benz as they passed. Alvie wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to wave or not, so she merely sat on her hands.
The city was busy at the lunch hour, the streets full of buggies and horses and a few other privately owned vehicles. Bennet parked the Benz on the side of a street near Parliament Square and again placed Alvie’s hand on the crook of his elbow. It made her forget the cold autumn breeze blowing about.
Big Ben gonged noon, startling Alvie. She eyed it, examining its architecture. “It’s not as big as I heard it was.”
Bennet glanced over to the clock. “I suppose in America, everything’s bigger.”
Alvie considered that and agreed. The roads were wider and the houses larger, as were the spaces between them.
He took her to a small restaurant on the square called St. Alban’s Salmon Bistro, hesitantly asking at the door if she liked fish.
“I like everything,” she said. And it was true.
The waiter sat them at a small table in the back corner, a cozy spot where Alvie could see the interior restaurant and still glance out the window at the bustling square. It was a very pretty square, sort of old looking, though she had no idea how old it actually was. Everything in Columbus had been made to be useful, not to be pretty. Alvie tended to prefer function to beauty.
She scanned the restaurant. It had electric lights, to her surprise, not magicked ones. It could fit about thirty people, and with some rearranging, she suspected it could fit fifty . . . but, no, she wasn’t going to let herself get carried away with the measurements, not while she was on a date. She did note, however, before turning back to Bennet, that a splotch of paint on the wall looked brighter and newer than its surroundings, as though something had somewhat recently taken out just a small chunk of it. Curious.
“Do you dance, Alvie?”
Her eyes darted to his. He was buttering bread. Oh, there was bread on the table. She took a slice. “No.”
For some reason, he appeared surprised by her answer. “No?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been good with it. I mean, it’s all patterns, and patterns are simple enough, but then I have to follow someone who knows the patterns that I don’t, and even if I learn the patterns, the other person is bound to put in a flourish or a spin of some sort that throws it off, and it’s all just nonsensical.” She shrugged, thinking of the only other date she’d ever been on—the dance in secondary school. “And then he gets mad when you step on his feet, like it’s your fault that he broke the pattern.”
Bennet grinned. “You’re different, Alvie.”
She buttered her bread. “I know.”
“It’s a good thing.”
She glanced at him and smiled.
A waitress came by and took their orders—Alvie asked for shrimp with tartar sauce, since she’d never had that. Setting her bread aside, she pulled out her wallet and started counting out coins.
“Oh, Alvie, you don’t need to do that.”
She glanced up. “Hm?”
He laughed. “That’s not how these things work. I’m paying for it.”
“Oh. But you don’t have to. I have a—”
“Alvie.”
She paused, then slid the coins into her wallet and dropped it into her purse. “Sorry. And thank you. I’ve just never really dated before.”
“Really?” He took a sip of water.
She shrugged again. “Just once, back in Columbus. I mean, I’m a little scatterbrained and not the prettiest . . . I’m fairly certain he only asked me because he liked how I looked from the neck down, and, well, it was a dance, so you’re supposed to stand close—”
Bennet choked and whipped his arm up over his mouth, protecting Alvie from any possible spew. She offered him her paper napkin, but he waved it away as he composed himself.
“Sorry,” she repeated.
He recovered and managed to laugh. “No, no, you just surprised me.” He wiped a knuckle under his eye. “I have a feeling I’ll never be bored with you.”
That might have been the nicest thing a man had ever said to her, and she beamed.
He cleared his throat. “I, uh, well, I think you’re pre—”
The waiter returned with their food just then, and Bennet swallowed whatever he had been about to say, and after the waiter left, the topic moved on from Alvie’s awkward once-date to plastics and France and guest speakers at Cambridge. Alvie was halfway through her shrimp when she remembered her earlier conversation with Ethel.
“Are you taking your test soon?” she asked.
Bennet slowed the twirl of his fork in his pasta. “My Folding test? Yes. Spring. Maybe.”
“Why maybe? Do you know the spells?”
He studied his pasta. “Well, it’s just that I think I do, and then something pops up that I don’t know as well as I should, and, well, I’d like to pass the first time.”
“Ethel said Magician Bailey is a bully. Well, she didn’t say that. I’m paraphrasing.”
Bennet sighed, set down his fork, and leaned back in his chair. “He’s honest, is all.”
“Just take the test. I’m sure you can do it.”
“But how can you be? You’ve never seen me Fold.”
She gestured to his napkin. “That’s paper.”
He picked it up, considering, then took another napkin and brought it down to his lap, out of Alvie’s line of sight. He worked quietly and, a minute later, presented her with a lovely, if napkin-limp, paper blossom. He whispered, “Breathe,” and the petals unfolded into a lily.
She grinned and accepted it. “This is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I pass you.”
He laughed. “If only it were so simple. But . . . spring. I’m sure I’ll set the test for spring. That gives me time to prepare.”
“The Discovery Convention is in the spring. Oh, Bennet, you should come if you can. It’s going to be wonderful. And you could come as a full-fledged magician!”
“Have you been before?”
“No, but I know it will be. I’ve read about it.” She skewered a piece of shrimp, but didn’t raise it to her mouth. “And once Magician Praff and I get everything assembled, we’re going to make a splash. We won’t only be helping Ethel; we’ll be changing an entire facet of medicine.”
His features softened. “I truly am thankful, Alvie.”
A flash of light caught Alvie’s attention—sun shining off the glass-inlaid door to the bistro as it opened. She almost ignored it, but a very familiar hairline appeared, and Alvie’s stomach dropped.
Mg. Ezzell.
She averted her eyes. Glanced back. Was he here by chance? He had to be. There was no point in pursuing her. Besides, he couldn’t possibly know she was here . . . unless he was watching the house. But that was preposterous.
Or was it? He’d found her outside the post office, hadn’t he? Had that been happenstance, or had he known she would be there? A shiver ran down her spine.
“Alvie?” Bennet’s soft voice penetrated the fog of her thoughts.
“Um,” sh
e said.
Bennet watched her a second before turning around in his seat. Mg. Ezzell glanced over, then quickly diverted his gaze to the headwaiter.
Alvie set down her fork.
“Do you know him?”
“His name is Magician Ezzell. He’s, uh, Magician Praff’s rival. I’m fairly certain he’s the reason I got off at the wrong station. Not that I mind, in the end.” She wouldn’t have met Bennet otherwise. Well, she would have at the hospital, but they might never have gotten to talking . . .
He nodded knowingly. “Magician Bailey has one of those.”
She rolled her lips together. Did every magician have to have an enemy?
Was Mg. Ezzell also going to be hers?
A waitress approached Mg. Ezzell and began leading him toward their table. Alvie glanced around—there were two empty tables near them.
“Oh bother,” she whispered.
Bennet eyed her, then Mg. Ezzell. He scooted out his chair and offered her his hand. Alvie glanced at him, wondering.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll pay up there and leave.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Do you want to go?”
She hesitated. The waitress sat Mg. Ezzell right behind Bennet. She nodded.
He offered her a sympathetic smile, and she let him lead her to the front of the bistro just as the hateful Polymaker took a seat at the table across from theirs.
She refused to look back to see if Mg. Ezzell was watching.
Bennet bid farewell to Alvie outside Briar Hall. Alvie wasn’t entirely sure what was expected after a date—after that dance, the fellow had hugged her, walked off, and never contacted her again. But Bennet didn’t even touch her. He just sort of looked around and rubbed his neck, complimented her shoes, and then drove home. Alvie had thought the outing a relative success . . . could she have misinterpreted it?
Don’t think about it right now. She sighed as she slipped through the front doors, forgoing knocking or ringing the bell so as not to disturb Mr. Hemsley. Perhaps the lighting had been the problem. Even Alvie knew it was awkward to hug a person when the sun was unclouded in the sky, sitting there, watching with all its brightness. Stupid sun.
Scuffing through the main hall, she spied Emma dusting a pedestal.
“Emma? Is Magician Praff still in bed?”
“I believe he’s in the salon with a guest. Are you well?”
She nodded, though there was little energy to it. “Thank you.” She crossed the hall to the music room and entered the short hallway leading to the salon. The door was cracked open, and Mr. Hemsley stood guard outside it in a chair, a newspaper spread before his face.
Seeing her approach, he said, “Magician Praff is occupied,” to which Alvie merely nodded and found another chair. Mr. Hemsley watched her for a moment, then clicked his tongue and returned to his paper.
To her relief, she only had to wait about fifteen minutes before a man she didn’t recognize stepped out of the salon, Mg. Praff beside him. The two exchanged a few pleasantries, and Mr. Hemsley rose to attention and offered to escort the guest out.
When he was gone, Mg. Praff, who looked rested and much more groomed, asked, “What’s the trouble, Alvie?”
“Who was that?”
“Old friend. Grew up together, and he was in town.”
“He’s not in London?”
“Moved to Liverpool after he got married.”
She nodded once. “I saw Magician Ezzell at the bistro today. That is, Bennet and I just went to this place at Parliament Square.”
“Oh dear.” He folded his arms. “I hope he didn’t give you any trouble.”
“No. Not then. We left before he could.”
The fold of his arms loosened. “Not then?”
She told him about the post office—a story she’d neglected to mention earlier, what with all the work and study there was to do. When she’d finished, Mg. Praff wore a frown that made him look his age.
“I see. That’s rather . . . nefarious of him. Though . . . when did you say this was?”
Alvie counted in her head. “Two days ago.” She didn’t think Mg. Praff would care for the hours and approximate minutes.
“Ah, I see. Have you been reading the paper?”
The question made Alvie blink. “I, uh, not recently. Was I supposed to be reading it? If you have the old issues, I can catch up—”
Mg. Praff chuckled softly. “No need for that. But Magician Ezzell’s polymery was recently broken into.”
She sat up straighter. “Another one?” There had been two already—Mg. Praff and Mg. Aviosky had spoken of the burglaries the day Alvie bonded to plastic.
Mg. Praff frowned. “I’m afraid so. There weren’t many details, but plans and supplies were taken. Unfortunate.” He sighed. “Though I am not fond of Magician Ezzell, perhaps that was why he was in a foul mood when you met him. I’m sorry you have to be involved with him at all.” Mg. Praff tapped his chin. “He’s quite the gentleman when he wants to be.”
Alvie snorted. “A gentleman, indeed. Gentlemen speak kindly, sir. Magician Ezzell is a pistol, and his words are his ammunition.” He should have been a Smelter. They could do all sorts of things with bullets. “Though I am sorry to hear about his break-in.”
A small smile turned Mg. Praff’s mouth. “An accurate description. And I do thank you for your integrity.”
“My papa said that the world can take all it wants from a man, but he has to give up his integrity freely.”
“Your father is a wise man.” He sighed. “As for Magician Ezzell . . . obviously it would be beneficial for us to share our project and aspirations with the medical community, at least, but the rivalry in Polymaking is fierce, and it’s easy to be undermined. Better to wait until we have a usable prototype, and the Discovery Convention is the best way to expose the technology and garner interest.” He strode toward the music room. “But if you don’t mind cutting your free time short, there are a few spells I’d like to teach you. All this pushing for the convention and Ethel’s prosthesis has made your education . . . well, not exactly linear. There are still rudimentary things you need to learn.” He rubbed his eyes. “I shouldn’t be weighing you down with all this convention nonsense.”
“Oh, please do. I love the weight.”
He chuckled. “Good. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. To the polymery.”
Alvie studied in her bedroom that night, wanting something more comfortable and lazy, and it was also getting dreadfully cold outside, especially after sunset. It was a short walk between the polymery and the house, but a chilly one.
She sat on her too-big bed with a pair of her half boots in front of her. She’d affixed plastic aglets to the laces, little more than narrow tubes. Practicing the spell Mg. Praff had taught her, she said, “Heed: Pattern,” to one of the shoes, then went on to tie the laces, this time in a double knot. When she had finished, she said, “Cease.”
She untied the shoe and set it before her. “Heed: Direction.”
To her delight, the shoe tied itself. This was the seventh time she’d done the spell with shoelaces, but it still fascinated her. Why, she wouldn’t need to bend over to tie her laces ever again! Perhaps that would lead to less tripping in her future. And corsets! Perhaps Alvie could invest some magic into that industry . . .
After enchanting the second half boot, Alvie slid off her bed and sat on the floor. She’d collected a few plastic things—a wheel she’d made earlier, a hanger from the closet, a boat of Mg. Praff’s making, and a simple sheet of plastic. She lined them up, making sure her hands touched each one, and said, “Propel.”
All the items moved forward at once, as though racing against one another. The wheel went the fastest, rolling across the carpet until it hit the wall beneath the window. Then the boat, then the hanger. The piece of unformed plastic dawdled behind. She called out, “Cease,” and all four items stopped at once, lifeless. It made sense that the wheel and the boat, which had propeller
s, had gone the farthest with the forward-projection spell. Minimal friction. The hanger had less surface area against the floor than the piece of unformed plastic, which was undoubtedly why it had moved more swiftly.
A knock sounded at the door. Alvie stood and began gathering her collection. “Come in.”
Mg. Praff opened the door. “What have we here? It’s nine thirty, and Alvie is actually in the house?”
“Might occur more often once it starts snowing.” Though she’d heard Ohio got a great deal more snow than London did.
“I won’t interrupt too long, but I thought you’d like to know that the abstract was accepted at the Discovery Convention.” He held up two paper-clipped sheets.
“Really? That’s excellent!” Not that Alvie had ever doubted they’d be accepted. She went to the door and took the papers from her mentor. At the front was a short telegraph announcing the acceptance. The abstract was only a page long, but it was all the convention required to judge whether a project would be accepted; the full paper would be written later. She studied the cover page and its delicate typeface. “The Use of a Newfound Pressurizing Spell in the Movement of Prosthetic Limbs,” it read. Beneath the title, in smaller type, was, “By Magician Marion Praff and Alvie Brechenmacher.”
Alvie stared at her name. And stared. And stared.
“Well?” he asked.
She glanced up at him. Pushed up her glasses. In a voice weak as a mouse’s, she said, “Y-You put my name on it.”
“Of course I did. It was your idea, after all. I’ve only helped bring it to fruition.”
Her mouth went dry. “But . . . the Compress spell was all your doing.”
“Well.” He made a show of straightening his vest. “That’s why my name is on it, too.”
Alvie grinned hard enough to hurt. Her heart felt like a spinning ball bearing, and her eyes moistened. “This means . . . a lot to me, sir. I’m . . . thank you, so much.”
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