The Masquerading Magician

by Gigi Pandian

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, though what I was really thinking was how murders followed Peter Silverman wherever he went.

  “We didn’t know him,” Penelope said, blowing smoke rings into the sky. She gave what appeared to be a heartfelt sigh, then extinguished the cigar. “But yes, it’s a tragedy nonetheless.”

  “I assumed you knew him, since he was a volunteer.”

  “Everyone thinks they know how a show works,” Peter said with a resigned smirk. “That’s cheating, my dear.”

  Penelope turned her sharp gaze to meet mine. “Don’t mind him. He’s upset that the police are wrecking all of our earthly possessions as we speak.”

  “Looking for the murder weapon?”

  “I don’t know what they’re doing,” Peter said, “but that’s certainly not what it looks like.”

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. “Excuse me,” I said, scowling at the phone.

  “Zoe, thank God you picked up,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “There’s an emergency. Listen—”

  “You can’t keep crying wolf, Brixton,” I snapped.

  “You don’t understand! It’s Ethan. I found out he took a photograph of a page in the alchemy book—”

  “That’s okay. It’s not like the existence of the book is a secret—”

  “You’re not listening to me, Zoe! He read it out loud. The Latin. He brought a stone garden gnome to life.”

  Eighteen

  france, 1855

  With trembling legs, the young doctor clutched Non Degenera Alchemia and walked to a nearby café, where he drank copious amounts of wine.

  He had once read about a sect of alchemists from the sixteenth century who met in the crypt below Notre Dame de Paris. He had dismissed the notion as rumor, for even when he asked fellow alchemists about it, they had dismissed this “backward alchemy” as myth. But what if it was true? It was only when he returned to Paris that the book gave off a strong scent. And it was only when he came upon the cathedral that the odor changed.

  Stumbling now, he made his way to the cathedral, unsure whether it was the wine or alchemy that made the book feel as light as a feather in his hands. He climbed the steps to the new Gallery of Chimeras and looked out over the city. So many great men had shaped Paris. He knew he would never be one of them. Unless this book could turn him into a true alchemist.

  From high atop Notre Dame de Paris, the drunk doctor read from the pages of the strange alchemy book, hoping against reason that here in this sacred historical site, the knowledge would seep into his veins and make him more than the simple man he knew himself to be.

  Directing his attention to the stone chimera in his path, he recited the Latin words. The stone began to shift. He must have been more intoxicated than he thought. He had only hallucinated once before, when given an incorrect dose of laudanum. The horned gargoyle stepped off of its pedestal and stood in front of him. What sorcery was this? He wasn’t able to answer his own question, because he promptly fainted.

  When he awoke, he was in a jail cell for drunkenness. He could no longer remember whether the events of the night before had been real or a dream. A sprained wrist was the only indication that something had taken place that night.

  Had the book truly made it possible for him to bring a stone creature to life? It wasn’t possible! Alchemical transformations could not be transferred in such a way. Yet he had seen it with his own eyes. He held his hands before him, half expecting his fingers to turn to stone.

  When he was released from his jail cell, the book was returned to him. Ignoring the pain in his hand and wrist, he ran to Notre Dame, earnestly hoping that the events that had transpired there had only been a nightmare. When he reached the gallery, he found an empty pedestal where the gargoyle had once stood. Was he mistaken? Had there been a figure there at all?

  For days, the doctor searched for the creature he was half convinced he’d imagined, but never found it. He read the newspapers each morning and evening, wondering if its presence would be reported. Nothing.

  If this was what alchemy had driven him to, he had no right to try to be more than the unassuming man he was. That day, when his wife was in the park with their son, he tossed the book into the hearth.

  It didn’t burn.

  He tossed more wood into the fire. Still, the book did not catch fire. He threw one of his most boring books into the flames. It popped and sizzled in the heat and was soon reduced to ash. Non Degenera Alchemia glowed in the fire, yet did not burn. Of this he was certain. Today he was completely sober. This was no hallucination.

  The young doctor screamed with confusion as he pulled the book from the fire with a poker. He wrapped the book in a blanket, fearful to touch it once more. He wrote a note for his wife, then took his leave.

  When he returned a week later, the young doctor no longer looked so young. But the book was safely hidden where he hoped nobody would find it ever again.

  Nineteen

  “What’s the matter with your hand?” I asked.

  “I took Ethan’s phone from him,” Brixton said, hiding his bloody knuckles. “He wasn’t happy.”

  “You hit him?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Anyway, he hasn’t posted it online.” Brixton swallowed hard. “Yet.”

  Dorian swore in French.

  “We’ll talk about your methods later,” I said. “Play the video.”

  Brixton, Dorian, and I were huddled in my attic after I’d rushed home at Brixton’s news.

  The video image was bumpy and unstable. Ethan wasn’t using a tripod. Someone was there with him, making the recording. It must have been Veronica.

  On the screen, Ethan stood in a large garden of immaculate stone walkways and expensive potted plants, all ornamental rather than edible. Stone cherubs and garden gnomes poked out from behind three of the waist-high pots. In the distance, a high wooden fence enclosed the yard. This must have been Ethan’s home.

  “A book of ancient magic,” the boy said to the cell phone camera, “has recently come into my possession. I’m going to conduct my first experiment for the world to see. I’m told that these Latin words are known to have brought monsters to life—”

  Dorian huffed. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Today,” Ethan continued on the video, “I’m going to prove or disprove the ‘magic’ of this old book. I’m going to see if I can bring Harry here to life. He will be ‘Harry, the garden gnome who lived.’”

  He took a few steps down one of the well-tended stone paths. The screen went blurry for a moment as the person holding the cell phone camera zoomed in closer. It came to focus on both Ethan and a two-foot garden gnome wearing a pointed red hat and an evil grin. This was not good.

  Ethan picked up a weathered antique book. It wasn’t Non Degenera Alchemia.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked. “That’s not Dorian’s book.”

  “Look more closely,” Brixton pointed. “I watched it five times while I was waiting for you. You can see a piece of paper sticking out of that old book. He’s being dramatic, like he loves to do. He must’ve found that old book in his parents’ library and put a printout of the picture he took of Dorian’s book inside.”

  “To pretend he’s reading from a real magic book … ” I murmured as Ethan read the Latin words. He wasn’t half bad. I hadn’t expected his Latin to be good, but he was a smart kid. Brixton was friends with him, so it figured.

  “What the—” Ethan abruptly broke off. His expression changed from a confident, smug smile to wide-eyed horror. The camera zoomed in on his face. “No!” he shouted. “Don’t film me, Veronica. Get Harry!”

  The camera swirled around from the sky to the ground, its focus landing in the spot where the garden gnome, apparently named Harry, had stood. The figure was gone.

  The video went black.

  �
�Ethan called me,” Brixton said, his voice shaking. “He’s totally freaked out. What do we do?”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with this?” I asked.

  “Of course not! Ethan was making a joke about what I told him right after I met you guys, when I wanted him and V to believe me about Dorian. Only it didn’t turn out to be a joke. So, what do we do?”

  “We find Harry,” I said. My heart thumped in my throat, but I had to remain calm for Brixton’s sake. I turned to Dorian. I hadn’t known him to ever be at a loss for words, but the gargoyle stood dumbstruck. “Dorian, think. When you had been brought to life, what did you do? Where did you go?”

  He ruffled his wings and blinked at me, as if coming out of a trance. “Where did I go? It was a confusing time, at first. Since the words that brought me to life were Latin, I was born speaking and understanding Latin. But no other languages. Not until Father taught me French.”

  “The library?” Brixton suggested. “That’s where Latin books would be.”

  “Or a Latin professor at a university,” I said.

  Dorian waved his hand to dismiss both ideas. “This garden gnome will not know any of these things. He is a child right now. He needs guidance and tutelage. He will not have gone far.”

  “Maybe you could lure it here to Zoe’s house with your cooking,” Brixton said.

  “I wish I shared your enthusiasm for this idea, my young friend. It would provide an excuse to ask Zoe to buy the expensive ingredients she does not think are important for my gourmet cook—”

  “Hey!” I cut in. “We need to focus.”

  Brixton paced back and forth, his thumb rhythmically flicking his phone screen like it was a security blanket. “Yeah, there’s a little baby monster—”

  “I am not a monster!”

  The phone dropped from Brixton’s hand and clattered to the attic floor. None of us made a sound. The only one moving at all was Dorian, whose chest was heaving. His snout flared and his black eyes narrowed. If I had any doubts about Dorian, I would have feared for Brixton’s safety. As it was, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with how quickly his moods changed these days.

  After a few seconds, Brixton scooped his phone from the floor. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he mumbled.

  “There’s power in words,” I said softly. “Always remember that. Brix, why don’t you take your bike and see if you see anything weird out there. Start at Ethan’s house, and circle the streets.”

  “What are you two going to do?”

  “I’ll do the same thing, but in my truck. Since we can’t ask anyone else for help, we need to split up—”

  “What about the alchemist?” Brixton asked.

  “You’re staying away from that man, Brix. I mean it.”

  “Whatever.”

  “What are Ethan and Veronica doing?”

  Brixton rolled his eyes. “I think Ethan is ‘comforting’ Veronica. He said she was totally freaked out.”

  “You didn’t see her?”

  “Only for a second. She wouldn’t look at me. I thought this was urgent. That’s why I took his phone … ”

  “Good work, my young friend,” Dorian said.

  Now was not the time to explain that punching a friend was anything but good work, especially for a kid who had a juvenile record. “Call me if you see Harry,” I said. “Don’t approach the gnome on your own.”

  Brixton blinked at me. “He’s a little tiny garden gnome.”

  “Still.”

  “When we find him,” Dorian said, his earlier anger apparently forgotten, “I could tutor him. He could become my apprentice.”

  “A garden gnome junior chef,” Brixton mumbled. “My life is so weird.”

  “Once the sun sets,” Dorian said, “I will begin the search. For now, I will remain here. I shall compose a list of ideas of where he might go.”

  “Good,” I said. “We’ll meet back at the house at sunset.”

  Brixton and I left Dorian in the attic. I took a last look at his gray face. It now bore a wistful, almost happy, expression.

  I drove to rose gardens, cemeteries, and parks looking for any evidence of a rogue gnome. I stopped frequently to check the news on my phone, hoping I wouldn’t see news reports of a living garden gnome.

  My heart sank along with the sun. This was hopeless. I checked my phone for the hundredth time for sightings in the news or a message from Brixton. Nothing.

  Brixton was already in the attic with Dorian when I returned. His knuckles were still bloody and his hand had swelled up in the intervening hours. I admonished myself for not tending to it right away. I retrieved a healing salve, applied it, and wrapped his hand in a clean bandage.

  “Ethan called me,” Brixton said. “He’s pissed off. He wants me to come over and give his phone back. Should we do it? I already downloaded the video and then deleted it from his phone.”

  “We’re going to have to tell him something … ”

  Not knowing what else to do, I drove us to Ethan’s house in silence. Even though people believe only what they’re ready to believe, seeing an inanimate object come to life would be difficult to explain away.

  Ethan opened the door with a stoic expression. His cheek was red, as was half his nose.

  “Look,” Brixton said, “I’m really sorry—”

  “For what? I fell off my bike while doing a trick. No way did I let anyone sucker punch me.”

  “About why I had to—”

  “My parents are out at some fundraiser tonight, so we can talk inside.” Ethan invited us into an opulent living room with high ceilings, a grand piano, and ultramodern black-and-white furniture that looked like it belonged in a cosmetic surgeon’s waiting room, not a home.

  Brixton handed the phone back to him.

  “Took you long enough. What have you been doing all afternoon?”

  “Looking for Harry, of course!”

  Ethan gaped at us. “You guys took me seriously?”

  Brixton gaped right back at him. “The video—”

  “It was a joke! God, you really believed it?” Ethan laughed so hard his injured nose started bleeding again. He dabbed it with a tissue from a porcelain container next to the couch I didn’t dare sit on.

  “You got Veronica to go along with it?” Brixton said, his face red with fury and embarrassment.

  “Yeah, that was tough,” Ethan said in between fits of laughter. “I’m not sure if she’s more pissed off at you for hitting me, or at me for making her play a joke on you.”

  “It wasn’t funny,” Brixton said. His face flushed bright purple with either anger or embarrassment. Probably both.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Ethan said with a straight face before again bursting into laughter. “It’s not funny. It’s hilarious! Can’t you take a joke, Brix?”

  “You’re quite a moviemaker, Ethan,” I said. I didn’t dare speak too much. My own emotions were far from under control. A combination of relief, anger, and confusion swept through me.

  “I didn’t think it would work,” Ethan said. “No offense, Zoe, but I thought you’d set Brix straight.”

  Brixton flung open the front door and stormed out.

  “Hang on!” Ethan ran to the open doorway. “You guys should stay for dinner! I’m going to order takeout from that Vietnamese place you like but say is too fancy. My parents are at a stupid charity event all night. I’ve got my dad’s credit card. Anything on the menu you want. Come on, Brix. Brix?”

  Ethan’s shoulders slumped. I walked over to stand with him in the entryway. From where we stood, I could see Brixton standing at my truck with his arms crossed, looking into the distance.

  “We’d better go,” I said. “But thanks for the invitation.”

  When Ethan turned toward me, nodding half heartedly, there was no mistaking the loneliness on h
is face. “Tell him it was just a joke, okay?”

  “He’ll get over it, Ethan,” I said. I hoped I was right. In spite of his shortcomings, Ethan was a good kid. He thought of himself as a rebel, but in his world that meant buying designer clothes to mimic the style of James Dean and refusing to participate in the numerous extracurricular school activities his parents pressured him to join. Brixton and Veronica had been best friends since childhood, and Ethan found his first true friends in the two of them.

  I walked through the excessively pruned front yard that could have been featured in a modern landscape magazine, and glanced back at the house as I unlocked my truck. The oversized front door was closed, but I thought I saw someone peeking out from behind the heavy white curtains.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Brixton said, slamming the door of my old truck.

  “You know,” I said, sitting still for a moment before starting the engine, “his joke tells us something important.”

  “That Ethan is the biggest jerk—and Veronica too. She’s why I never doubted it was true!” He sank down into the seat.

  “Brixton, he read the words. He read the real Latin that Dorian knows brought him to life.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “It didn’t work.”

  “You mean that’s not how Dorian came to life?”

  “There must be something else that has to trigger the Latin words,” I said. “There’s more going on.” The book, I now realized, was far more dangerous and enigmatic than I’d suspected.

  Twenty

  “The answer,” Dorian said, pacing across the creaking attic floor, “must be that the boy was not reading directly from my book.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe it’s because the gnome was made of plaster, not stone.” I thought back on the backward alchemy illustration Ivan had shown me, with the angel turning to stone. But even as I spoke the words, I wasn’t convinced.