Magic Under Glass

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  He hesitated. I COULD BE WRONG. TIMES CHANGED.

  “Did fairies and humans get along better in the past?”

  THERE WAS PEACE ONCE. NO WALL. His faint exhalation sounded sad.

  “I suppose war always comes at some point when countries are neighbors. Especially if fairies and humans are so different.”

  “Mmm,” he agreed. I THINK GARVIN WAS KILLED TO PREVENT ALLIANCE.

  “Alliance with the fairies?”

  YES.

  “Who would do such a thing? Who are his rivals?”

  COUNCIL.

  “The Sorcerer’s Council?”

  “Mmm.”

  “But Garvin was the head of the council. Are you saying it was a conspiracy?”

  NOT SURE.

  “And Garvin died before he got a chance to free you?”

  “Mmm . . .” Regret infused his only sound.

  8

  That evening, I dined again with Mr. Parry in the tower room. I knew I must not think of Erris, must not ponder what I’d ask him when we next spoke, or what his answers would be. Mr. Parry must think he held all my attention, or everything would unravel.

  “Did you practice with the automaton this morning, Miss Nimira?”

  “Hmm? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “He hasn’t started howling and waving his arms around?” Mr. Parry smirked.

  “Oh, no, sir. He’s been very well behaved.” I gathered peas onto my spoon.

  “How stiff you sound. I thought we’d moved past that at the picnic. I’d like you to feel comfortable around me.”

  “Oh, Mr. Parry, I assure you I am quite comfortable.”

  “You can call me Hollin. Maybe that will help.”

  I doubted it.

  “I’ve sent for the dressmaker from Pelswater to make you a gown,” he said. “For your performances.”

  “A gown! How exciting; I’ve never owned a gown.” I tried to summon the appropriate enthusiasm. I might have been excited at any other time.

  “Unfortunately, I’m not sure we’ll have it before Mr. Smollings pays a visit. He’ll be coming sooner than I expected. He’s eager to see the automaton.” For all Hollin’s talk of my stiffness, he said this in a very scripted tone.

  “Oh?” I had a dreadful suspicion this could be more than idle curiosity. “And he is an old friend of yours?”

  “Not my old friend,” he corrected. “He was a friend of my father’s. Since he is head of the Sorcerer’s Council, an office to which I aspire . . . we must make him welcome, however unpleasant his company might be.”

  Unpleasant? Oh dear. Mention of the Sorcerer’s Council already struck dread within my heart.

  “What does the Sorcerer’s Council do?” I asked, hoping to gather insight.

  “They set the rules for magical usage in Lorinar, and handle diplomacy with the magical races. The fairies, particularly, since we have the most trouble with them.”

  “What sort of trouble is it, exactly? I thought you said they were driven back behind the wall during the war, before you were born.”

  “Well, yes, but they still control the western trade routes and the taxes they’ve imposed on us—” He stopped abruptly. “It’s all very dull and political, Nimira, I don’t suppose you really care to hear it. Besides, with a firm hand like Smollings in charge, we can be sure the fairies will think twice before they act upon us.”

  “I don’t understand. Didn’t you just say you found Smollings’s company unpleasant?”

  Hollin lifted his brows. “Well, so I do. Good politicians can be very unpleasant people. But something must be done. Garvin was in favor of a generous alliance with the fairies. One can only shudder at the thought.”

  I thought this made Garvin’s disappearance sound all the more suspicious, but I didn’t see how I could inquire further, or Hollin might wonder at my interest. With Mr. Smollings on the way, I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself, lest Erris be discovered.

  Hollin poured himself something to drink. “Goodness, Nimira, you are certainly interested in heavy matters.”

  I tried to look innocent, which is probably never a good idea. “I hate to sound ignorant on matters that may be important to you.”

  “When I’m with you, I want to forget all that.” A gentle smile quirked his lips. “If you are innocent of all this, you should remain so. Keep to your books and your gardens.”

  I thought of how Mother behaved in court—both feminine and unflappable, with compliments for everyone who counted. She was a different person when she came to tell me stories before I went to sleep, and another person with her dearest friends, when she complained about the same people she praised. I knew Mother would have found some other way to learn about the fairies and the Sorcerer’s Council.

  I felt a little sick, but pretending was a woman’s lot, more than ever on foreign soil. “Very well, sir, although some might say books are hardly innocent.” I tried to sound teasing.

  “You sound like my Anni,” he said. I didn’t like the way he said it, “my Anni,” so intimate, like they had just spoken.

  “How long has she been . . . gone, sir?” I asked.

  “Almost two years.”

  “I’m sorry. Miss Rashten told me she was quite young.”

  “Eighteen, yes. She would have turned twenty in March.”

  “And she . . . took an illness?”

  “Fever. Very sudden.”

  I heard guilt in his voice. “That isn’t your fault, you know.”

  I saw him tuck his pain back inside. “I want to begin again, you see,” he said. “I wanted such a simple thing. To see the world with my wife at my side. I would trade Vestenveld for a cottage if I could have that.” He straightened a little. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk of other things.”

  “I understand, sir.” I think I was just as relieved to change the subject.

  And so we talked of the opera, and he promised to take me someday.

  9

  “Erris, what happened to trap you here? How did you become an automaton?” I was full of curiosity.

  WE WERE AT WAR.

  “Does that mean you’ve been an automaton for thirty years? Hollin said the last conflict was thirty years ago.”

  He sighed. POSSIBLY.

  I could hardly grasp the idea of being imprisoned between life and death for thirty years. Everyone he knew would have aged. Many would have died.

  “So you were at war, and someone did this to you?”

  ENEMIES.

  “I gathered it wasn’t your friends. . . . Was that the Sorcerer’s Council’s doing as well?”

  YES. I WAS CAPTURED.

  “Why did they turn you into an automaton? Why didn’t they just kill you?”

  MAYBE THEY WANTED ME ALIVE BUT HELPLESS. NOT SURE. ONE MINUTE I WAS ME, AND THEN—

  “You woke in this form?”

  “Mmm.”

  “How awful.” I couldn’t imagine the horror of waking up in a different body, one that wasn’t even really a body at all . . . with movement and speech suddenly snatched from my grasp.

  “You’re very brave,” I murmured.

  NO, he replied. I’M SCARED. TRAPPED. CAN’T SHOW IT. NO POINT ANYWAY.

  When I started to respond, he made an anxious catch in his throat. Like he couldn’t stand my pity. I understood that, but the only proper response seemed to be pity or nothing. So I said nothing.

  I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU. WITH A VOICE.

  “I know.”

  I felt like I could have peeled back the stiff fingers and found living ones beneath. If I could only see the spark of life in him and draw it out. If I could only strike his back and make him breathe. I ached to see his eyes searching from within his frozen face.

  I sat on the edge of the piano bench beside him. There was hardly room. I angled out one foot to keep my perch. His arm bumped mine. I jumped.

  “Mm,” he said softly, like he was sorry for having scared me.

  I put my finger to his cheek. I
t was cold and hard. I trailed a line down to his chin. “When I touch you, do you feel it?”

  “Mmm.”

  Erris couldn’t even see much of me, when I sat beside him. His head couldn’t turn. He couldn’t move to touch me in return. I let my finger drift to his ear, so finely formed. I traced the outer curve, momentarily transfixed by the idea that my touch could travel through this magic and reach him, just like a living man.

  He started to spell. STOP.

  I sprung up from the bench, heart racing, like I had committed a crime. “I’m sorry.”

  He spelled something else, but I didn’t catch it at first. I had to ask him to begin again, although I hated to.

  He grunted with some frustration. SIT AGAIN. When I didn’t move, he added, PLEASE.

  I lowered myself back onto the bench. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I didn’t mean to to—I’m not sure what came over me.”

  N-O. I easily recognized those letters in a glance. ONLY . . . YOU MAKE ME MISS . . .

  The sentence remained unfinished. I twirled the pencil around and around, like the warriors of Tiansher twirled their scimitars in parades. Of course, I knew all the things he must miss. Movement. Freedom. Food. Speech. Life.

  Erris played one note to snatch back my attention. DON’T BE SAD.

  My thoughts blurred. I didn’t want to feel this way. I had to gather my emotions. I had to stop. This wasn’t right.

  NEVER WANT TO UPSET YOU. YOU BRING ME HAPPINESS.

  I stared at the letters I’d written. He must have been aching inside, a hundred times worse than I ached for him, but he worried that he’d upset me. He didn’t ask for sympathy.

  “I am going to bring you more than happiness,” I said. “I’m going to help you. You’ll speak to me with a voice yet.”

  I wished I believed my own words.

  10

  The dressmaker came: a wispy, exhausted woman who spoke every word like a scolding. She stuck me with pins. I wondered if she treated her Lorinarian customers this way. Hollin ordered me things I hardly thought necessary, unless he meant for me to stay through winter at the least: a new coat, a walking outfit with a shorter skirt and black braiding at the sleeves, and, of course, the ball gown.

  It was to be made of pink silk, trimmed around the plunging neckline with velvet flowers in black and cream.

  “Miss Rashten thinks pink doesn’t suit my complexion,” I warned him.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “There is no color more feminine than pink; no woman it does not suit, and you especially, with your golden glow.”

  I gave him a demure smile; what else could one do?

  In truth, I didn’t have to feign excitement over the new clothes, especially the gown, seeing those yards of silk. I had never owned anything so grown-up and lovely, nor so expensive. When I dreamed of walking onstage in that gown, my imaginary audience forgot I was foreign, so dazzled were they by my majesty. I sang the best performance of my life. Why, every trouser girl in Lorinar found themselves work in the better halls, following the wake of my success!

  As I said, at night I dream of things I scoff at by day.

  The dressmaker worked her sewing machine from sunrise to sunset, while the servants stepped up their own efforts, preparing Vestenveld for Mr. Smollings’s arrival. The bedrooms were aired, the floors swept, and the furniture dusted. The maids even braved Hollin’s father’s study. I took to dressing my own hair in a simple coiled braid just to spare poor Linza this one task, and I gave her my jar of hand cream. “I believe you’ll need it more than I do.”

  He came in the night, after I had gone to bed. I heard faint voices from the main hall, and imagined Miss Rashten there with her lamp and clucking tongue, and Hollin giving dour greetings. I pulled the covers up to my nose. I had heard enough about Smollings that I wasn’t exactly looking forward to meeting him.

  When I woke, the men had already left to hunt. Linza brought my breakfast tray without a word or a smile.

  “Linza, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m worn out to the bone, miss, if you’ll pardon me saying so. And all this for—!” She huffed. “I’m sorry. I’m letting my mouth run on.”

  “For Mr. Smollings? What’s the trouble with him?”

  She glanced both ways, as if someone might pop up from behind the furniture, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “He scares me worse than that clockwork man.”

  I drew closer to her, lowering my own voice. “Mr. Parry said something similar. That he was unpleasant. Even before I came here, I heard rumors,” I lied, hoping to encourage her into telling me more.

  She nodded eagerly. “I’m sure I’ve heard the same!”

  “Have you?” I wondered if anyone else thought Garvin’s disappearance might not have been fairies after all.

  “They say he washes his face with ghost powder!”

  I suppressed a snort. Hardly the revelation I hoped for. “What on earth is ghost powder?”

  “They sell it at the apothecary,” Linza said. “I think it’s to strengthen one’s power in the dark arts.”

  “How do you get powder from a ghost?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Linza looked a little crestfallen that I had disparaged her story.

  “Well, whatever it is, it sounds very sinister.” I brushed off my skepticism. I hated to hurt Linza’s feelings.

  Linza smoothed back loose wisps of her hair and peered at me curiously. “What rumors did you hear?”

  “Oh . . .” I waved my hand. “Just similar things about dark magic. I should let you go. You need your rest.”

  I lingered over my eggs and toast, heaving a few dramatic sighs to myself. If one spends too many hours in solitude, one starts to emote for one’s own benefit.

  When I left my room, the halls were as still and silent as catacombs. For days, more maids than I’d known existed at Vestenveld had rushed about, carrying linens or brandishing dusters, but now I might have been the only person in the house. I supposed they had all withdrawn to the servants’ quarters, or maybe the cook needed help in the kitchens. I went and wound Erris.

  He spelled my name in greeting. NIM.

  I looked out the window to the garden. I didn’t see the men, not that I expected to, but the gardener was pruning, and seeing another soul brought me comfort. Behind me, Erris began to play, a tune both lively and urgent. He stopped when I turned. I frowned at him. “You shouldn’t play songs that aren’t part of our repertoire! Someone might hear.”

  “Mmm?” His tone expressed concern.

  “I’m sorry if I snapped. It’s just—the house feels different since the visitors came.”

  YES.

  “Do you sense it, too? I haven’t even met them yet. They’re off hunting birds, I think.”

  FOR SPORT.

  Of course fairies wouldn’t hunt for sport. I hated to think of Hollin shooting down beautiful birds. “I don’t know that Hollin enjoys it much,” I said, trying to convince myself. “He even told me Mr. Smollings is a good politician, but unpleasant company.”

  TRULY.

  I was growing accustomed to counting out letters; I hardly needed to write them anymore, although I kept at it for my records. “I hardly blame him. You should see this house, Erris. His father turned real tigers to gold, and now they guard the gate, and he even has the head of a unicorn in his study and . . . worse.”

  “Mmm?” His voice was low.

  For a moment, I wished I had said nothing. I thought it might be better not to know. But then, it must be worse to be trapped in one room, without any idea where you were beyond those four walls. Like a devoted nurse at the bed of a paralyzed man, I brought a wisp of life to the stiff arms and the fairy shoes frozen fast to the ground. I described the hall ceiling that stretched so high that ghosts could have waltzed in the rafters, dear Linza and the sniping comments of Miss Rashten, even the horror of discovering the garden fairies frozen under glass in his father’s study.

  Erris’s hands quivered at this, but he did
n’t reply.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know if I should tell you.”

  YES. DO.

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  I MISS MY FATHER. HE’D KNOW WHAT TO DO.

  “Is he still alive?”

  NO . . .

  “I’m sorry. I understand. You must miss home terribly.”

  I DO. He made a sound in his throat rather like a sigh. I SHOULD BE MORE SAD. FEELS LIKE A DREAM.

  “I guess you never had a proper good-bye.” I recalled my own good-bye with Father. I’d been furious with him for long months, with good reason, yet when I said good-bye, I sobbed like anything. He said he was sorry and kissed my cheek. I said I would write. At the time, I’d meant it heartily, and consoled myself with my dream of a triumphant return with pockets full of gold, but I’d been a naïve young thing. “But, then again . . . perhaps saying good-bye doesn’t change anything.”

  His arms spread across the piano keys, and drew together again, wavering a moment before he began to spell. YOU LOOK SAD.

  I quickly shook my head.

  An unexpected chuckle carried down the hall. “Play!” I hissed, as I snatched the marking paper from the piano. Male conversation drew close. Erris began a melody.

  The door flung open. Hollin entered, followed by a man clad in a dark gray suit with pointed sorcerer’s cuffs on his jacket.

  “Ah,” he said. “So this is the automaton . . .”

  Hollin stepped beside me to make introductions. “And this is Nimira, the singer I’ve hired. Nimira, this is Mr. Soleran Smollings.”

  Smollings was handsome for an older man, dark and thin, with distinguished high cheekbones and a straight narrow nose. His eyes swept over me, appraising and unreadable.

  “Charming, but next time I should like to see her in trousers,” he said. “Quite odd to see a little girl from Tassim in one of our ladies’ fine dresses.”

  I forced myself to keep quiet. Nothing good could come of arguing, but his condescending words were almost more than I could bear.

  “Don’t insult her,” Hollin said, dark eyes flashing anger.

  “Oh, Parry,” Smollings said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you a little moon-eyed.” He smiled at me, as if a mere smile would soothe my shallow foreign feelings. I hated for Erris to hear them deride me. Cheerful tunes came from the piano as we spoke; of course Erris must play until his mechanism wound down.