Magic Under Glass

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  MAGIC

  UNDER

  GLASS

  MAGIC

  UNDER

  GLASS

  JACLYN DOLAMORE

  Copyright © 2010 by Jaclyn Dolamore

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  First published in the United States of America in January 2010

  by Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers

  E-book edition published in September 2010

  www.bloomsburyteens.com

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Bloomsbury BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Dolamore, Jaclyn.

  Magic under glass / by Jaclyn Dolamore.—1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: A wealthy sorcerer’s invitation to sing with his automaton leads seventeen-year-old Nimira, whose family’s disgrace brought her from a palace to poverty, into political intrigue, enchantments, and a friendship with a fairy prince who needs her help.

  ISBN 978-1-59990-430-6 (hardcover)

  [1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Robots—Fiction. 3. Singers—Fiction. 4. Wizards—Fiction. 5. Princes—Fiction. 6. Fantasy.] I. Title.

  PZ7.D6975Mag 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009020944

  ISBN 978-1-59990-580-8 (e-book)

  To Dade, who believed in me from the day we met

  MAGIC

  UNDER

  GLASS

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgments

  1

  The audience didn’t understand a word we sang. They came to see our legs. As the posters said,

  TROUSER GIRLS

  FROM THE

  EXOTIC LAND OF TASSIM!

  We were billed just under the acrobats and the trained dogs.

  Our voices joined in harmony while Saraki plucked the tei-tan and I pranced around the stage, my slippers whispering on the wooden floor. My hands curved and wove and paused, each gesture as familiar to me as the words I’d heard my mother sing while I was still in the cradle. I’d done six shows a week in this dank music hall since I’d stepped off the ship that carried me away from home three years ago.

  Even before I finished the last plaintive note, a few men began to whistle, and one shouted something I chose to ignore. Boys on the balcony shelled chestnuts, occasionally tossing one onto the people below. Clusters of boardinghouse girls in tatty straw hats giggled.

  Through it all, my gaze was drawn to a tall hat in the crowd and the pair of dark eyes beneath it. A gentleman.

  He stood in the back, his face still turned halfway to the door, like he had just slipped in for a glimpse and wouldn’t stay long. Among all the dim faces that watched me, I kept my focus on him alone.

  Saraki let the applause wane and then began to shake her pick across the tei-tan’s strings, bringing forth a tense melody.

  The program held no surprises. “The Dragon Maiden’s Revenge” had followed “Gathering Flowers for My Sister’s Wedding” in every show we’d done this year. Still, I hoped I looked very noble as I pantomimed taking up the sword of the fallen king of dragons. Was the gentleman in the back—my gentleman—watching?

  Yes. Looking right at me, in fact.

  Fifteen years ago a railroad baron had married the most famous of trouser girls, Little Sadi, back when our song and dance had been the fashion, before they even called us “trouser girls.” Saraki dreamed of following in her footsteps, charming some rich man into whisking her away. I scoffed when she spoke of it, but late at night I dreamed of things I scoffed at by the light of day.

  When I finished my song, my gentleman lingered. The raucous crowd around him whooped, but he kept still, his eyes roving over our crude set: a painted village house on a piece of wood shorter than Saraki, and some dried flowers in mismatched vases.

  Our last number, “The Fairest Blossom in a Maiden’s Heart,” had been my mother’s signature song. She had performed it at the king’s coronation, as a new bride of seventeen, just my age now. The song was an ode to a lover who had died, never to be forgotten. I could never help but remember Mother, her haunting voice pitched high, her delicate gestures transforming her into the very embodiment of sorrow. Her performance had always left the audience in tears, but this audience was far from the one she had known, both in temperament and location. If her spirit still watched over me, I knew it must be ashamed.

  As I took my bow, with Saraki’s hand in mine, I sought one last glimpse of my gentleman, but he had gone.

  We left the stage as Granden, master of ceremonies and owner of the troupe, announced the next act, “The Beautiful Eila and her Trained Dogs.” Sometimes I stayed to watch, but tonight I was tired and wanted out of my costume. Saraki lingered in the wings, begging a cigarette off of Granden.

  “Terrible habit for a lady,” he said, giving her a smoke and a sly wink.

  I retreated to the dressing room, where a dim lamp illuminated chairs strewn with costumes and floorboards warping beneath the leaking roof. Polly was tugging suspenders over her slender shoulders. I yanked pins from my hair and pulled down my pompadour. My hair tumbled down my back, glossy black and shining in the low light.

  “How’s the crowd tonight?” Polly asked.

  “Standard. There was a gentleman in a top hat, but he left already.”

  “Must have been Jon Albrook himself, if you found him worth noting,” Polly said, bringing up one of the most eligible young bachelors in all of Lorinar, or so the papers claimed.

  I made a face. “Hardly. I don’t care for Jon Albrook, with those huge eyebrows.”

  “No one’s ever good enough for you.” Polly laughed.

  “Just because I don’t flirt with stagehands! But this gentleman was handsome, I’ll give him that, and he’s got money, by the looks of him. He’d be worth a second glance.”

  Someone knocked on the door. Polly went to open it. I knew it wasn’t Granden. He never knocked; he’d just shout at us to open up.

  Polly flung the door open wide. “Is this your handsome gentleman, Nim?”

  Heat prickled my cheeks as my “handsome gentleman” saw me gaping like a fool, my hair undone and sash spilled around my feet, and a girl in suspenders giving me a tactless introduction, at that! I shot a venomous look at Polly.

  He took off his hat—I hoped he meant to be polite, but then I realized it wouldn’t have passed through the doorway. “I beg pardon,” he said, his accent as crisp as his appearance. Now I could see the whole of him, the traveler’s cape, the silk necktie, the dove-gray spats, and most striking of all, the pointed cuffs of his jacket that marked him as not just a gentleman, but a sorcerer. His smooth cheeks and forehead
suggested a younger man than I had first assumed, no more than twenty—but his eyes seemed as old as the onyx they resembled, and all the more striking for the pale face that framed them.

  I quickly gathered my wits. “What is it you want, sir?”

  “May I speak with you a moment?”

  “Of course.” I snatched up a few of the pins I had dropped, twisting my hair into a loose bun.

  “It’s a simple matter, really,” he continued, stepping into the room. Polly lingered by the door, obviously torn between curiosity and manners. “I’m looking for a singer.”

  “What sort of singer?” I mustn’t trust him just because he was handsome. I knew how the men of Lorinar thought, what they wanted. To him, I was dark and foreign and crude.

  His eyelids lowered slightly, and I felt he was carefully appraising me. “I’m looking for someone to accompany a musical automaton.”

  “An . . . an automaton, sir?”

  He nodded. “A life-size automaton. It plays the piano, and I’d like to hire a singer as accompaniment. I think the contrast between living girl and lifelike machine would be striking.”

  “And you want Nimira?” Polly asked, voicing my own disbelief, although I would’ve much rather voiced it myself. In more delicate tones.

  Granden stormed in just then, striking the door with his walking stick. “What’s going on here? Who are you, sir? Bothering my girls? Polly, what the devil are you doing back here, you’re almost up!”

  “I am here on business,” the man said. “Are you her employer?”

  “I am indeed, sir!” Granden straightened himself and twisted the end of his mustache between two fingers. “Arnad Granden, at your service.”

  “My name is Hollin Parry. I’m inquiring after your singer.”

  Granden paused. He stepped toward me, putting a possessive arm around my shoulders. “Inquiring . . . after my Nimira? On what terms?”

  “On terms the lady and I shall discuss, if she is willing.” Mr. Parry reached inside an inner pocket of his jacket and handed me a card. “I am staying at the Royale, just across the river. You know it, I’m sure?”

  Only as one of the finest hotels in the city of New Sweeling! I nodded, taking the card in a numb hand.

  “I’ll be there through tomorrow. Good evening to you.” He bowed his head to me, stepped through the doorway, and replaced his hat.

  “Good lord!” Granden shrieked, his voice a note higher than usual, and I prayed Mr. Parry couldn’t hear him as he retreated. “Good lord! Hollin Parry, in the flesh—skulking around my girls!”

  “You know him?”

  “Well, you’re not going with the likes of him,” Granden continued. “Ridiculous.”

  “And why not? Who is he?” I tucked his calling card inside my corset.

  “Don’t you know what they say about him?”

  I wished I did, so I wouldn’t have to ask, but alas. “No.”

  “His wife died within a year of their wedding. They say her ghost now haunts his place. Makes you wonder what happened to her, eh?” Granden leaned close to me, his hot breath falling on my ear. When I tried to move away, he slammed his palm into the wall, blocking me. “You’re not thinking of taking him up on his offer, are you?”

  “I—I don’t know. That’s my business, not yours.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Get away from me. I want to change out of this stuff.” I gave him a push to the door. You had to be firm with Granden. His eyes lingered on me as he left the room without a word.

  I pulled out the calling card again. A. Hollin Parry the Third, it read, in fancy script. Of all the girls in the world, he’d chosen me. But to sing with an automaton? I’d seen a clockwork woman displayed at the fair, who’d moved her hands and face and eyes and even said “Hello,” in a squeaky voice that gave me chills.

  Of course the best singers in Lorinar wouldn’t do. Mr. Parry likely thought to pair novelty with novelty. An automaton, a trouser girl: we were two of a kind to him—one a machine and the other somewhat less than human. I shouldn’t think too much of it.

  Still, he had called me “the lady,” and he had sounded quite serious. I paid no mind to Granden’s silly tales of ghosts. He wanted only to frighten me. Maybe with Mr. Parry, I’d have a better wage and something to eat besides brown bread and vegetables with the flavor boiled out. It might not be the glory of Tiansher’s royal stage, but it had to be a step up from this place.

  2

  That night, back in the bedroom I shared with Saraki, I took out my good dress, a drab plaid with small, sharply puffed sleeves and a draped skirt. It had never been very pretty, but it was also out of fashion. I cringed to think of wearing it to the Royale, but I hadn’t the money for something better.

  Hard to believe, times like this, I had once had my pick of clothes: embroidered silk tunics the colors of saffron and jade, red sashes, dainty dancing slippers and sturdy walking shoes. I had bangles, beads, and headdresses for feasts and festivals; ribbons for my braids at school; and a quilted coat for cold days. That was before my family lost favor, before Mother’s death, before Father became the subject of every wagging tongue with his debts and affairs. He sold the bangles and embroidery and slippers, and we moved north, to Uncle Sancham’s farm. The quilted coat frayed at the elbows, and my feet had grown right out of the walking shoes. When I left Tiansher—the true name of my country, not Tassim—I had saved just one ensemble: Mother’s sky blue bird dancing costume and her embroidered wedding shoes. I had hidden them from Father when he sold our things. I still kept them, packed away in the valise at the foot of my bed.

  Now I threw the plaid dress over a chair and slipped into my ratty nightgown. My bed creaked under my weight. A dozen painted birds looked down on me from the wall, plates torn from a book, while Saraki had arrayed her side of the room with calendars of comely girls and a yellowing poster for Only a Maid, starring Ethine May, Saraki’s favorite.

  Saraki did not come to the room. This was not unusual. She often spent the night with Granden. I shuddered to think of her lying with him, but she cooed over him like he was a wet puppy: “Poor thing, poor little thing.” Granden attracted a certain sort of woman, for reasons I never quite understood.

  One of Eila’s dogs started barking, rousing all the others to join in, and Polly shouted for them to shut up. I closed my eyes. I yearned to break free of this place, so distant from the serene rooms and lush gardens of my childhood.

  Yet, a part of me wished the decision was harder, that the troupe meant more to me—or perhaps, most of all, that I meant more to them. No one was sitting up with me, helping me decide, telling me not to go because they’d miss me. I had tried to make friends, I had tried—I’d just never been good at it.

  To entrust my fate to a gentleman brought risk. If a trouser girl went missing, no one would care. If a trouser girl cried for help from inside a gentleman’s carriage, no one would listen.

  No, no—I mustn’t think this way. Granden would try to scare me into staying. Before Jane left the troupe to marry, he’d told her no man would marry a girl with a baby, a dancing girl from a show. Jane believed in love, and I only had to believe in business. If Mr. Parry paid even half again what I made with Granden, I could start putting some away and send a token home to prove I’d done well after all.

  In the morning, I woke early and packed a few treasured books and the remainder of my scant wardrobe into my valise on top of Mother’s clothes and wedding slippers. I prayed, all the while, that I would safely unpack them in a new place. I left my stage costumes, assuming Mr. Parry would have his own ideas for my wardrobe in his show.

  As the stairs creaked under my button-up shoes, Granden’s door opened. He rushed to the top of the stairs and clutched the rail. “Nimira!”

  Foiled. Well, perhaps if I didn’t make a fuss, I could still slip out without incident.

  “Good morning, Granden.” I nodded back at him and kept walking.

  Granden had gone drinkin
g after the show, as usual. He staggered down after me, clutching his head. His mustache drooped. Gray chest hairs popped out of the collar of his nightshirt. “Look at you! All prettied up. Are you going to meet Parry?” He sneered the name.

  “Yes.” I tried to keep my voice calm, even as he veered close.

  He made a grab for my hand. “I gave you those gloves.”

  “You did not.” I yanked back. “I bought them myself.”

  He seized my shoulders. He wasn’t tall, and dancing kept me strong and lithe, but he still had a man’s strength, and I had a woman’s clothes to hinder me. Hardly a fair contest.

  His thin hands slipped to my arms. He tugged me close to him. His breath was rank—I hated few smells so much as last night’s alcohol on a man’s breath. “Haven’t I been good to you, Nimira? I’ve never demanded anything.”

  “I sing and dance. You pay me. Of course you haven’t demanded anything. There’s nothing to demand.” I had trouble sounding forceful with him breathing on me.

  He pressed me against the door. “Damned if I’ll let you go running off now.”

  “Let go of me!”

  Saraki and Polly stood at the top of the stairs now, Polly in a man’s nightshirt and Saraki in her corset and stockings. “What’s going on?” Saraki rubbed her eyes.

  Granden turned, and I took the moment to shove him off me. I clambered for the doorknob. Granden grabbed my sleeve and yanked. The seam tore with a terrific rip.

  “Lay off her!” Polly shouted, coming down the stairs. Polly was thin as a lamppost but a hair taller than him and tough when she felt like it.

  I threw open the door and ran, past the postman with his bag of letters and the ragman making his rounds. Morning fog shrouded the way ahead. I narrowly missed being run down by a horse crossing Broad Street.

  Only when my lungs strained against my stays and my head spun did I stop at the square, gasping. Granden hadn’t put up a chase. I inspected my torn sleeve for the first time, trying to tug it back into place. I couldn’t disguise the gap, bridged only by a few feeble threads.

  Not only must I go to the Royale in an old dress and hat, but they’d think I didn’t even know how to keep my wardrobe tidy. Granden had this parting shot, but I’d have the last laugh when I worked for a gentleman!