Alvie still swam in thought when she returned to the house on a break enforced by Mg. Praff. It was nearing the dinner hour, and Alvie would be eating with the family tonight, which she did a few times a week, now, usually without consequence. As far as she knew, none of the Praff children would be joining them this evening.
As she began to ascend the stairs to her room, Mr. Hemsley coughed loudly behind her. She turned around.
“A letter for you.” The butler held up a silver tray that had an orange crane perched on it. It was large for a mail bird. Alvie’s heart instantly began to pitter-patter.
“Thank you.” She hurried back down the stairs and grabbed the crane by its neck. Holding the bird to her chest, she hurried up the flight of stairs and darted into the privacy of her bedroom.
Checking to make sure Emma wasn’t hanging laundry in the closet or the like, Alvie plopped down on her desk vanity chair and unfolded the bird. Her hands trembled just a bit as she did so. A smaller white songbird fell out first, blank, for a return message. The inside of the orange bird read:
Alvie,
I heard about the break-in at the polymery—Mg. Bailey subscribes to the local news telegrams. Are you all right? I heard the burglary was unsuccessful. I hope all is well.
Bennet
Alvie reread the letter. Not even twenty-four hours had passed, and people were already talking about it. Of course it would be news; Mg. Praff’s name carried weight.
She wished the letter were longer. In fact, she turned the unfolded crane over just to check. But he’d written her, and that made her happy. She read the note a third time, then carefully unfolded the songbird and wrote:
Nothing stolen, nothing important broken. We’re all okay.
She thought about adding her suspicions about Mg. Ezzell, but neither the police officer nor Mg. Praff had seemed pleased with her suggestion, so she decided against it . . . at least until she could find concrete evidence to support her theory. She thought for a long moment and, trying to match Bennet’s tone, wrote:
How are your studies?
She stared at it for a long moment before commanding the bird, “Refold,” and hurrying to her window. Alvie had never tried to open it, but it did open, with a little leverage. A burst of cold air coughed onto her. “Breathe,” she told the pre-enchanted spell, and the bird came alive. It must have already known where to go, for it hopped off her hand and into the cold night without hesitation.
Alvie looked up at the sky. She hoped it wasn’t going to rain. Given how poorly mail birds did in wet conditions, it was a wonder Londoners used them at all.
She shut the window and returned to Bennet’s letter, reading it a fourth time. Something squirmed inside her.
It wasn’t precisely the most romantic letter, was it? Very straightforward. Nothing poetic or flowery. Just a note from a friend. Or someone eager to make sure his sister’s arm hadn’t been lost.
Alvie set the letter in her lap and slouched over it. The squirming feeling turned sharp, and she knuckled the sore spot between her breasts. Rolled her lips together.
She really liked him, didn’t she? She rubbed the spot harder. Oh bother. She’d almost forgotten this uncomfortable feeling of liking someone. She’d liked boys before, of course, but none of them had ever looked her way twice.
But Bennet wasn’t like those other boys, was he? He had written her, after all. And he’d taken her out . . . but maybe he really had done it just to be nice. For all she knew, Ethel might have asked him to—at least the second time. Alvie wasn’t charming. She knew that.
Sighing, she tucked the letter into a drawer of the desk and crossed the room to the closet, where the tall mirror stood. She pushed up her glasses and looked in it. Retucked her shirt into her pants. She had a trim waist, didn’t she? Surely Bennet liked trim waists.
She combed her fingers through her hair—or tried to. They caught on several knots. There were almost always knots in her too-thick, too-wavy locks. Plain and brown, not bright and blond like Ethel’s or bold like those of the Folder she’d met at the post office. Brown hair, brown eyes. A face half eaten up by glasses.
She took them off and stepped closer to the mirror, so close her nose almost touched it. Fuzzy shapes comprised her face. She squinted, clearing them a bit, but she hardly looked right squinting. She put her glasses back on. She didn’t have any pimples or wrinkles. That was a point in her favor, wasn’t it?
She stuck her tongue out at her reflection. What a bother. She didn’t need a distraction now, not with the Discovery Convention looming ahead of her. And she had to plan her trip home for Christmas, besides. It was a little more than a month away.
If only her heart would agree with her.
Emma knocked at the door and poked her head in. “Would you like help choosing a dress for dinner, Alvie?”
Alvie sighed and backed away from the mirror. “Might as well.”
Emma smiled and crossed the room. It was easier to let her pick something from the closet, though Alvie still insisted on dressing herself. She was twenty, after all.
Twenty, with two whole dates under her belt. Twenty, and never been kissed.
She wondered if Emma had been kissed. Surely she had. But that was probably an awkward question to ask, so she didn’t.
Emma pulled out a slim black dress with thick lace around the collar and sleeves. “I know Mrs. Praff is wearing blue tonight, so let’s go with this one. Best not to match.”
“Are we having guests?”
“Well, no . . .”
Alvie smiled. “Whatever you think is best.”
Emma nodded and set the dress—and matching shoes—at the foot of the bed.
“Emma?”
“Hm?”
Alvie glanced at her reflection. “Do you think you could do my hair tonight?”
Emma grinned. “I’d be happy to.”
CHAPTER 12
THE LEAVES WERE THOROUGHLY autumn colored at the end of November, and dripping with freezing rain the afternoon Alvie asked the chauffer to take her to see Ethel. Alvie had finally invested in a good English coat, and even an English hat to match. Though Fred assured her he knew where he was going, Alvie paid special attention to the route, occasionally glancing down at the address in her hand. If London would only allow public mirror-transport, she’d be there by now, and without the need of a coat or hat.
They wound up at a modest home toward the outskirts of the city, not too far afield to be in the country. Two stories, with russet brick and white trim. It had a small porch with a short fence, and two white pillars guarded either side of the door.
Hauling her large bag of supplies with her, Alvie stepped out of the automobile and waved for the chauffeur to go on his way; she would be an hour, at least. As the automobile drove off, however, a prickly sensation danced across Alvie’s neck. She turned around, scanning the street. She had the oddest feeling she was being watched, but the weather had driven everyone else inside, as far as she could see. It must have been the rain stirring her hair.
She hurried up the steps and knocked. A woman with pale blond hair, graying at the temples, opened the door. She wore a high-necked brown dress and had blue eyes—a stark contrast to Ethel’s and Bennet’s rich brown. Glancing at Alvie’s bag, she said, “Yes, she’s just through that hallway.”
“Um. Thank you.” Alvie slid by her, trying to be small, but her bag knocked the woman’s knees—a woman whom Alvie presumed to be Mrs. Cooper. Alvie’s glasses fogged instantly in the warmth of the house, and she struggled to wipe them clear with her sleeve while avoiding a collision with the blurry furniture.
“Alvie?” Ethel’s sweet voice eased the stress building in Alvie’s shoulders. Following the sound, Alvie stepped into a small sitting room of sorts. It had two cream-colored chairs and a cream-colored couch, two windows, and a very small oak writing desk. Faded-blue wallpaper with a fleur-de-lis design running through its middle coated all four walls.
Ethel sat on the co
uch, her knees up, holding open a book with her right hand. Alvie wondered if she and Mg. Praff would be able to create a prosthesis finely tuned enough to turn pages. Ethel’s hair was pinned up in a stylish pompadour, and she wore a floral-printed dress that seemed too cheery for the weather.
“Don’t mind Mum.” Ethel gestured to a chair, and Alvie sat, setting the heavy bag down in front of her. “She’s unsure about all of this.”
“Why?”
Ethel shrugged. “Because you and Magician Praff aren’t doctors.”
“Oh.” A valid point. “But Mg. Praff is communicating with one. I saw them chatting through the salon mirror earlier this week.”
Ethel smiled and put down the book. “It’s good to see you again. It’s stuffy inside this house. Not many people come to visit.”
“Why not?”
Another shrug. “Guess they don’t know what to say.”
“Well, your brain isn’t gone, is it?” Alvie opened her bag and pulled out a ledger, a pen, and a seamstress’s measuring tape. “And you could go outside.”
The rain picked up, pattering against the window.
Alvie frowned at it. “I suppose it’s not the best season for recovery.”
“It makes my arm hurt. The rain.” Ethel rubbed her stump. She no longer wore bandaging, just a painful-looking scar.
“My mama says that about her knee.”
“I always thought it was a joke, but it’s true. The weather has an effect on the body, even when you’re not standing in it.”
Alvie held up the measuring tape. “Do you mind?”
“Oh. No.” Ethel sat up and held out her half arm. Alvie began measuring it, jotting the numbers down in her book. She’d measure the right arm, too, for comparison.
“I heard about the burglary,” Ethel said.
“Oh yes. It wasn’t really a burglary. Nothing was taken, fortunately.”
“Still. Scary to think what might have happened.”
Alvie straightened, keeping her thumb on the measuring tape to remember the number. “The case is more or less closed. There’s no evidence to point toward who the intruder could be. But . . .”
“But?”
“Well”—Alvie glanced to the door—“you see, there’s a Magician Ezzell who doesn’t like Magician Praff at all. He’s rather unlikeable.”
“Oh, the one at the restaurant.”
“I—yes.” Had Bennet told her about that? What had he said? That Alvie was awkward? That he’d decided there was no spark between them after all?
“You think it was him?” Ethel guessed.
Alvie sighed and jotted down the measurement. “I think it’s him, yes. He certainly had the motivation, but there’s no evidence. Unfortunately, he has a sound alibi. He was at home, and his wife confirmed that he was in bed during the break-in, and his chauffeur never left the house. Or something like that. I didn’t get to hear the full report. But his own polymery was broken into a while back, so . . .” She got off the chair and knelt before Ethel so she could measure her right arm.
“And nothing else has happened since?” A pause. “Alvie?”
“Hold on. Math.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Alvie looked toward the ceiling, adding fractions in her head, and jotted their sum in the ledger.
“Nothing else has happened?” Ethel tried again.
“Oh no. We’ve been much more careful. Magician Praff changed the locks and put up some wards and the like, just in case. And he’s started locking up the prostheses at the end of every night. It’s a bother, but safe is better than sorry. Four polymeries have been broken into in the last year, and no one knows who is doing it or why.” She sighed. “What are you reading?”
Ethel picked up the book. “A Tale of Two Cities. Just started it this morning. Have you read it?”
“No. I don’t read a lot of fiction.”
“Never? You’re denying yourself, Alvie!”
Alvie took her ledger back to her chair. “I did read Heart of Darkness before prep school.”
Ethel laughed. “I wouldn’t have pinned you for a lover of gothic romance.”
“I suppose I’ll have to read at least one more in the genre to know if I am.”
Ethel leaned close, her eyes taking on a feline light. “Speaking of romance. How is my brother? He’s too private for my liking.”
“Uh . . .” Alvie glanced away and cleared her throat. “I don’t know. You must see him more than I do.”
Ethel’s face fell. “You haven’t seen him?”
“Not in the last couple of weeks, no. But he sends me mail birds every couple of days. He seems committed to his Folding test, at least.”
Ethel nodded. “At least. Don’t take it to heart, Alvie. That mentor of his keeps him on a tight leash, and he’s a little shy with women.”
“Take what to heart?” He was sending her notes, but they were still . . . unromantic. Not that Alvie knew a great deal about courting, but she could write something at least a little romantic. Even if Emma had to help her with it.
Needless to say, she hadn’t had the courage to send that bird.
Ethel studied Alvie’s face. For what, she wasn’t sure. Part of Alvie wanted to blurt out, Do you know if he cares for me that way? Would he ever? Does he talk about me? Do you think it would work? But she kept her lips firmly sealed. She’d rather not make a fool of herself today.
A mischievous grin lifted Ethel’s countenance. “Would you like to see his room?”
“H-His room?”
“He’s not there, of course. He lives with Magician Bailey. But his room is still here . . .”
Ethel looked ready to jump off the couch.
Alvie nodded.
Grabbing Alvie’s hand, Ethel tore back through the hallway to the stairs. Halfway up them, her mother called, “You need rest!” Advice that Ethel did not heed. She took Alvie to the second room on the left and opened the door.
“Voilà!” She lifted her good arm up in show, and tucked her stump behind her.
It wasn’t anything remarkable. A simple room, small, equipped with the basic necessities. Clean, as it was currently unoccupied. Bennet’s bed had plaid covers on it, and it tucked right under the window. On the sill rested a small telescope—did he like the stars? He had a very tall dresser, atop which sat an assortment of paper creations he must have left there during visits home—a fan, a frog, a flower similar to the one he’d Folded for Alvie at the restaurant. She’d kept it on a shelf in her workroom, but the burglar had knocked it off, and the delicate paper had unfolded itself.
There was a ship in a bottle on his nightstand—did he like the sea?—and a very old model of a Gaffer lamp. His closet doors were shut. Alvie wondered what lay behind them. Had he always had such a modest and pristine taste in fashion, or was that something he’d acquired recently?
“What are you doing up there?” Mrs. Cooper called from the bottom of the stairs.
“Coming down!” Ethel grinned. She took Alvie’s hand again and led her back to the sitting room, much slower than they had left it.
When the two were once again settled, Alvie forced her mind back to Polymaking and pulled out a few cups of plastic, which she had shaped yesterday. She softened the plastic and formed it over Ethel’s stump, then used a Heed: Pattern spell and asked Ethel to move her arm in different directions. If the stump created any pressure points in the plastic, they could use those to activate movements in the prosthesis. She repeated this exercise several times. A wider range of samples led to a better product, or so Mg. Praff had told her when he helped her pack her bag. Lastly, Alvie vacuum-formed Ethel’s right wrist and hand, creating several copies in different positions. Mg. Praff would use these to create a finely tuned model to work with.
“You didn’t say what you thought,” Ethel said as Alvie packed up.
“I think it will fit well, when we’re done with it.”
Ethel lightly smacked Alvie’s arm. “About Bennet’s room.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
Her face heated. “Ethel.”
Ethel laughed, and Alvie found she didn’t mind the teasing quite so much. It was good to hear her friend laugh.
Alvie sighed. “I do like him, of course. I really like him.”
Ethel bounced on the sofa. She almost clapped, then remembered, and stopped herself. Her smile faded.
“But,” Alvie amended, “I don’t think it will go anywhere. I don’t think . . . Bennet is going to pursue me.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“I’ve had lots of time to think about it. Compile evidence, sort the possible outcomes. The current hypothesis is—”
“Alvie.”
Alvie closed her mouth.
Ethel leaned her stump and elbow on her thighs. “You can’t science up love like that. Men don’t ask women on dates and send them letters just for nanty narking.”
“For what?”
“For fun.”
Alvie shrugged. “My chauffeur is probably waiting outside.”
Ethel frowned. “I haven’t pressed too hard, have I?”
“Oh no. Not at all. I don’t mind, really.”
Ethel took her hand. “You’re a good friend, Alvie. Even without all the magic.”
Alvie squeezed her hand. “You are, too, Ethel. Even without the arm.”
The older woman’s eyes watered just a bit. “I think that, today, that’s something I needed to hear.”
Ethel saw Alvie to the door, and, sure enough, Fred was parked in front of the house. As he came around to open the passenger door, however, Alvie again got that prickling sensation—and the rain had stopped, for the time being.
She looked around, peering into the old green trees lining the street to the west. Searched the neighboring homes. She didn’t see anyone.
Yet as she slid into the auto, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been watching her.
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