The Plastic Magician (A Paper Magician Novel)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  She had, however, made one special exception to her usual wardrobe.

  Grabbing her suitcases, Alvie stepped into the hallway. One of the footmen waited by the stairs and kindly took her luggage for her. Taking a deep breath, Alvie followed a few steps behind him, her maroon skirt swooshing about her black stockings on the way down.

  She did like the swooshing. One plus to forgoing slacks.

  She saw his sunshine hair first. He seemed to be studying the vase near the vestibule. The bright locks had been recently cut, which was a shame, for they reflected the light better when they were longer. He had on a long black coat, and when he turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, she saw his pressed gray slacks and cream-colored vest over a white shirt. He didn’t wear a tie or anything similar, and the first button of the shirt was undone. Though it was silly, that trace of unkemptness made Alvie think, Oh.

  His eyes found hers, and he smiled a bright smile that made Alvie feel like a magician already, or perhaps something even better. Alvie wasn’t a great blusher, but her cheeks certainly warmed in the radiance of that smile, more so once she reached the floor and was level with it.

  The footman addressed Bennet, who pointed out the front entrance. Alvie could see the fender of the Benz through the windows. The footman hurried on his way, letting in a snap of cold air when he opened the doors.

  Bennet’s gaze dropped down to Alvie’s skirt. “You look lovely.”

  She shrugged. “Today I like the swooshing.”

  He laughed. “The swooshing?”

  She nodded. “If you like, when I return, I’ll let you try one of them on, and you can see the swooshing for yourself. Your hips can’t be too different from mine.” She measured him with her eyes.

  Bennet chuckled, and Alvie beamed when she saw his cheeks redden. That was good, wasn’t it?

  “I might pass on that one. I’ll admit to trying on one of Ethel’s skirts in my boyhood, but I’ve sworn them off ever since.” He held out his elbow. “I’d hate to make you late.”

  “One request before we go. Since it’s Christmas and all.”

  His elbow lowered. “Hm?”

  “Um.” She dug her toe into the floor. “Can I touch your hair?”

  Bennet blinked for a second before laughing. “You want to touch my hair?”

  “Please?”

  Pursing his mouth around a smile, he bent his head slightly and made a showy gesture with his hand.

  Biting her lip, Alvie reached forward and combed her fingers through the sunshine. It was soft, lightly oiled. She wanted a blanket made out of it.

  She did not tell him that, of course.

  “Thank you,” she said, and he straightened. Reaching up, Alvie fixed a tuft she’d swept out of place.

  “You are one of a kind, Alvie. But this exchange must be reciprocal.”

  She blinked. “How so?”

  He folded his arms and tilted his head to one side, his cheeks tight like he was hiding a smile. “In exchange for touching my hair, I insist on trying on your glasses.”

  Alvie snorted. “You’re teasing.”

  Bennet waited.

  Rolling her eyes, Alvie took off her glasses, squinting against the blurry world they exposed. She handed them over. The blur of Bennet tried on her glasses, and she wished she had a second pair so she could see how silly he looked in them.

  “Whoa.” He took them off just as quickly. “Alvie, you’re blind.”

  “More or less.”

  He handed them back to her, and she slipped the arms over her ears. Everything snapped into focus. Bennet rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hand. Then he laughed. “No wonder you were so lost when I first met you. I’ve never met anyone with such bad vision.”

  Alvie smiled. “My papa said God gave me bad eyes so I wouldn’t be too perfect.” She laughed at the notion.

  Bennet proffered his elbow again. “Maybe he was on to something. Here, a storm is coming in.”

  Alvie might have blushed, but she distracted herself by glancing out the window. “Is it safe to drive in bad weather?”

  “I promise I’ll be attentive.”

  She took his arm, shivering at the warmth of it, if that even made sense, and let him lead her out to the Benz. It was a bit blustery. Bennet helped her into her seat—darn this skirt, making everything difficult—and climbed into the driver’s side. Alvie asked him about Christmas, and he talked a little about his family and Mg. Bailey as they made their way to the train station. Alvie watched his profile as he talked. He had such a nice profile. She hoped he would one day do a great feat so someone would make a copper bust of him, carving that profile for future generations to admire.

  They arrived at the station, which was much busier than when Alvie had been there in September. Bennet insisted on carrying her suitcases, and she held on to his elbow, letting him guide her through the monstrous place. She bumped her knees into the suitcase on the right a few times and hoped Bennet didn’t mind.

  They found the platform and a dozen other people waiting for the same train. Alvie checked to make sure she had her ticket and all her documentation.

  “I . . . well, I made you something,” Bennet said.

  She perked up. He’d set her luggage down, and he had a thin, rectangular package in his hands. It must have been tucked away in that coat of his. It was wrapped in brown paper and blue ribbon, and her heart managed to soften and pitter-patter at the same time.

  She grabbed the tiny package out of her bag. It was wrapped with the shimmering silver paper Mrs. Praff had purchased for the season and was small enough to fit in her palm. “I made you something, too.”

  Bennet smiled. They both hesitated, then awkwardly exchanged gifts.

  “You first,” he said.

  Taking a seat on the empty bench near them, Alvie slid her pinky under the ribbon, then carefully picked apart the paper. No tape or glue held it together, which surprised her only for a moment. It must have all been done via some sort of adhering spell.

  Bennet chuckled. “You’re supposed to tear it.”

  She shook her head. “I want to save it.”

  Inside she found a book—a neat little book with a dark leather cover. Inside was a newly sharpened pencil and pages of clean lined paper.

  “For your notes,” Bennet explained. “I’ve noticed you take a lot of them, in the polymery, and . . . in the back”—Alvie flipped to the back, where there were several sheets of unlined paper with rough edges—“those are Mimic spells. I have the other half. If, that is . . . if you wanted to stay in communication while you were gone.”

  The grin that spread across Alvie’s face was so wide she didn’t think her face could contain it. The notebook was very nice, especially if he’d assembled it himself . . . but the Mimic spell meant he wanted to keep talking to her while she was across the ocean. A happy giggle stirred like a giant butterfly inside her chest.

  “I absolutely love it.” She closed the book and jumped to her feet, then threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Bennet, thank you.”

  His arms, hesitant at first, encircled her waist. It was a blissful, wonderful feeling, even better than the spell and the book. Alvie pulled back and looked at his face.

  His eyes dropped to her lips, and his face reddened.

  Thinking she’d embarrassed him, she let go and took a step back. “Now you.”

  Bennet cleared his throat and turned his attention to the tiny gift in his hand. It weighed almost nothing. He picked apart the wrapping. Inside was a hexagon-shaped piece of translucent plastic. He turned it over, confused.

  “I saw your telescope in your room,” she said, and his eyes shot up to hers. She rushed to explain. “Ethel showed me, and I was very proper about all of it, so don’t think me strange.”

  He smiled.

  She took his hand, the one palming the hexagon, in hers. Pressing her thumbs to the plastic, she said, “Image Memory: Orion.”

  The plastic darkened to a deep blue, and w
hite dots depicting stars appeared on it. The constellation of Orion—Alvie’s personal favorite.

  “Look at that,” he said, the words airy. He held the hexagon up to his face, studying it.

  “You can’t turn it off . . . I don’t know how to transfer the spell. So it’ll stay starry like that.”

  His gaze moved from the hexagon to her. “Why would I ever want to turn it off?”

  Alvie smiled and pressed a hand to the light, balloonlike feeling in her stomach. The whistle of the train sounded, and the people around them collected on the center of the platform.

  “I’ll write to you, on the spell,” she promised. “And I’ll write very small so I can write a lot. And I’ll draw a picture of something, too, if you want.”

  “I would like that. Very much. And I’ll write to you, of course.”

  “And Ethel?”

  He raised a brow. “I’m afraid I won’t grant Ethel any space on those pages. She’ll have to wait until you get back to chat.”

  The train stopped behind her. Doors opened, and people came out and went in. Alvie got her ticket in hand and grabbed her suitcases.

  “If you insist.” Then, in a burst of courage, she leaned forward and kissed Bennet’s cheek. Though she was the instigator, her pulse raced, and she felt like her blood was carbonated, the bubbles pushing out against her skin. She smudged her glasses and hoped he didn’t notice.

  “Thank you, and good-bye,” she said.

  Touching his cheek, Bennet nodded. “Happy Christmas, Alvie.”

  Alvie greatly enjoyed the holidays at home with her parents, though for a few days, the house got snowed in, leaving her trapped in her room with no polymery and only a single textbook to occupy her mind. And yet she wasn’t bored at all—she spent the hours chatting with her parents, playing games with friends, and writing in very small penmanship on her portions of Bennet’s Mimic spell to conserve space. Bennet was often quick to reply to her comments and inquiries, much to her delight. He wrote that Ethel was doing a little better every day, though she still didn’t like to travel out of doors. His mother had knit a sock for her arm, and she was getting fitted for a temporary prosthesis that looked almost like a real hand but, of course, one that had no functionality. Hearing that, Alvie wanted more than ever to return to the polymery and finely tune the creation she and Mg. Praff were building.

  Their messages weren’t all business, of course. Bennet talked of his Christmas and his upcoming exam, of his family and the weather. At one point they were discussing English dog breeds when a few drops of water from Alvie’s hair pattered against the page. They must have shown up on Bennet’s end, since he asked, Alvie, are you crying?

  Oh no, she’d replied. Just got out of the bath.

  To which he was silent for several minutes until Alvie asked, Isn’t there a town called Bath over there? And he went on to describe it.

  Her papa invited some family friends over for the New Year, and they stayed up late eating Wiener schnitzel and bratwursts, springerle cookies, and fruitcake. Alvie went shopping with her mama on New Year’s Day. Then, on the second of January, wearing a new pair of slacks she’d gotten for Christmas, Alvie made the long journey across the States and the Atlantic, back to the land of puddings and pounds and Polymaking.

  Alvie had sent word ahead to Mg. Praff that she would not need his chauffeur, and when she stepped off at the correct train station, a young man with sunshine hair and his mentor’s Benz was waiting to escort her to her second home.

  Alvie beamed when she saw him. “Good evening!” And awkwardly dropped her suitcases to embrace him. This time, she noticed, he didn’t hesitate to hug her back.

  Bennet picked up her suitcases. “Dear Alvie, you sound more American than I remember.”

  “Do I really?”

  He offered his elbow despite the suitcases in his hands, which made Alvie think he must not mind her knees bumping into them after all.

  It was raining in London, as it often was. Bennet ran out to the Benz with her luggage first before opening the door for her. She hurried inside, listening to the cold drops pelt the retractable roof. When Bennet got into the driver’s seat, she brushed raindrops off his hair and said, “At least it’s not snow. Terrible to drive in the snow.”

  “Agreed.” He hesitated, his hands not reaching for the steering wheel. “Alvie, I think you should read something before we head out.”

  She studied his suddenly serious expression and frowned. “What?”

  He pulled out a newspaper shoved between their seats. “This is from three days ago. I didn’t want to ruin your holiday, and I don’t know how Magician Praff will feel about telling you.”

  Alvie blanched. What could it be? The prosthesis stolen? The Discovery Convention canceled? Or had Mg. Ezzell discovered the Compress spell?

  He handed her the paper, pointing to a story on the front page. The headline of the second largest article read: “Scandal Storms Briar Hall When Servant Confesses Adultery.”

  Her mouth parted as she read the article. She was no great writer, but it seemed to be rather roundabout. They never named either the servant or the mistress, but “Marion Praff” was plastered in nearly every paragraph.

  “This is libel,” she said, reading the last sentences. “Magician Praff would never have an affair. He loves his wife. And he hardly has time to pick a mistress, let alone spend time with one!”

  “I thought it sounded suspicious,” Bennet agreed. “But it’s even reached the telegrammed news, and two other papers.”

  She lowered the paper. “Who wrote the story? They usually list an author, don’t they?”

  Bennet frowned and took the paper, scanning the article. “Hmm. You’re right, but I don’t see anyone.”

  “Because no one wants to be held accountable when it’s proved false.” She folded her arms, then blanched. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  “The Discovery Convention is known for high academics and standards. Only the best of the best. This attack on Magician Praff’s reputation might hurt his opportunity to present there.”

  Bennet paled, too. “I see.”

  She took a deep breath, trying to unwind all the gears inside of her that were rusting up. Her eyes felt hot, but they didn’t threaten tears. The muscles in her back were taut as stretched leather. “Would you take me there, please?”

  He nodded, shoved the paper between their seats, and drove the Benz onto the road. Alvie had a hard time thinking of anything else to say on the way to the manor, which meant poor conversation for Bennet. Which servant had gone to the press? Surely they were lying, for Alvie knew Mg. Praff, and she knew his wife, and it was simply nonsensical that an affair could happen. Even if their marriage were going poorly, the man simply didn’t have time to keep up another relationship. For heaven’s sake, Alvie had once needed to remind him to bathe!

  Could a report like this, even an unfounded one, really hurt Mg. Praff’s career?

  Could it hurt hers?

  No. No, stop it. She forced her thoughts to order themselves and march into a sturdy box for later examination. She was getting ahead of herself.

  Bennet didn’t seem put out by her mulling, at least. When they arrived at the estate, he even carried her luggage inside until Emma ran for a footman, who took the suitcases from him and carried them to Alvie’s room.

  Alvie grasped Bennet’s hand. “Thank you. I’ll . . . let you know what happens.”

  Bennet nodded and bid her good-bye.

  “Yes, it’s been quite the mess.” Mg. Praff pressed one hand into his eyes, as if to alleviate the pressure in his head, while he held Mrs. Praff’s hand with the other. They sat in the salon on a couch printed with clusters of flowers; Alvie sat on a cushioned chair across from them. Mrs. Praff seemed only sympathetic, which was a relief—both because Alvie cared about the Praffs and because she couldn’t imagine living in the midst of marital discord. If things got bad, she might be reassigned to a different Polymaker, and that
would break her heart.

  She tried to imagine being schooled under Mg. Ezzell and shuddered.

  Mrs. Praff leaned forward. “You needn’t worry about it, dear. We’re taking whatever action we can.”

  “But of course I’ll worry about it!” Alvie bunched the fabric of her slacks in her fists. “It’s not right, publishing nonsense like that.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Mg. Praff lowered his hand. “We cannot find the source, of course. There have been no journalists on house grounds since the polymery break-in, and the newspaper that first published the report won’t give up the author’s name, nor the man who gave them the story. We’ve interviewed all the servants, and they all swear innocence. I’m inclined to believe them. Needless to say, we are pressing charges. A solicitor was here just yesterday.” He sighed. “And I should mention that I received word from Magician Hughes while you were away. Those blasted muggers by the hospital were never found.”

  Alvie frowned. One piece of bad news after another. Was the universe so against them?

  Maybe not the universe, but a jealous Polymaker. If only she could trace it back to him . . .

  “Best thing to do now is to keep our heads low,” he continued. “Let the solicitors do their business, and finish our work. We have lots of work, Alvie. Lots of testing to get done before the convention, if we want to make our mark.”

  “But what if the convention—”

  “I only hope that my past reputation and this legal action are enough to prevent any action from being taken against me,” he said.

  She stood up. “I’m ready and willing to work, sir. Where should I start?”

  Mrs. Praff chuckled. “Surely you want to rest first.”

  Alvie frowned.

  A small smile pulled at Mg. Praff’s lips. “Now, Lottie, surely you know Alvie well enough by now to know that rest waits when there’s work to do.” He stood. “Come, let me show you the patterns I compiled over the holidays.”