Mr. Iago clears his throat and raises one finger to silence us. The classroom goes quiet and everyone stares ahead.
“Well, uh,” Mr. Iago says, “I think that’s enough for today, don’t you? For tomorrow the homework is to ask your families where they were during the riots, whether you’re Legacy or not. They’ll remember.”
I don’t need to ask. I know. Gia was in the middle of all of it, holding up posters and protesting to anyone who would listen. The Scar should remain the Scar until magic came back and it could take back its true name, Wonder. And in the meantime, after years of doing good and making wishes come true, its citizens deserved some support from the government that had used them and then discarded them.
“Hey, Peace Officer Heart, don’t you have to dip so you can go save the world or something?” Urs says.
I glance at my phone. She’s right. I do have to go.
“You going to be okay?”
“You know what?” Ursula looks around. “I’m not in the mood for toying with suckers. I’ve had about enough of this place. Got to go home and check in with Ma.” Ursula’s mom is always sick, always in bed, and Urs has a little sister she loves who stays home with their mom. The whole thing is not great, and Urs knows it. That’s why she says she needs to make a lot of money. She’s saving so she can help them and Morgana can go to school, so her mom can get the right health care.
“You have math this afternoon,” I remind her.
“Yeah, and?” She shows me her black notepad. “I know how to do math…all the math that matters.”
Sometimes Ursula worries me. Like now.
Outside the subway station, it’s 72.5 degrees and sunny, as always. Not quite hot enough for sunbathing, but still one of the things that draws people to the Scar and makes them willing to fight for a place in it. Not a cloud in the sky. The yolky orb of the sun cheerily sending light on our ten-block-by-ten-block square.
“Ugh.” Ursula pats her blond hair and looks upward. “Can I get a breeze? Falling leaves? Snow? Or even better, make it hot enough I can take a dip in Miracle Lake.”
“Ursula,” I admonish.
Miracle Lake is deadly. In the first days after the Fall, people didn’t know. Even though the water in Miracle Lake is so dark it appears black, and even though it had come to Wonder in the first days after the Fall, people thought maybe it was a blessing. It was only when half a dozen people went in and never resurfaced that the city council and the citizens realized Miracle Lake is a poison so deadly it can’t even be tested. Now there are signs posted all over.
As for the weather, it seems best not to think about it too much, and just to be glad that the fact that it hasn’t changed in eleven years hasn’t completely destroyed the ecosystem. Despite the scientific community’s consternation, plants thrive well enough and our water sources don’t dry up.
A flyer for an upcoming magic support group is at my feet, trampled several times over.
The first step is admitting you’re addicted to magic.
The second step is admitting magic is dead.
Join us! Freedom is nigh.
Amagicalist meeting: Merrypetal Church, Tuesdays at 7:00 p.m.
My aunt Gia hates the Amagicalists, makes the word sound like spit and venom when she speaks it. According to her, to deny magic is to deny life itself. The Naturalist leaders meet at my apartment once a month to discuss ways in which they might be able to raise the vibrations enough to bring magic out of hiding, then they each go to their own sectors and hold simultaneous meetings to try to make something more permanent happen. They believe if enough people set the same intention at the same time, we can bring magic back. They aren’t like the Magicalists, who would do anything to bring magic back, at any cost.
“Get your flower crowns,” a man calls from the sidewalk, ribbons blowing across his chest. “Be the princess you always dreamed you’d be.” He sounds so unenthusiastic he might as well be selling Q-tips. “Glass slippers, two dollars,” he says. “One-day sale only.”
We pass by a storefront that still reads ENTER TO MAKE A WISH COME TRUE. The letters are faded. Now this store carries milk and a few borderline-rotten fruits and vegetables. The elderly, bent couple that owns the place can always be seen through the window, sitting on stools, wearing sequined robes that were once grand and now seem cheap and garish. They wave to us as we pass.
Ursula bristles. “Someday I’m going to buy them a pony. It’s just not right.”
“Spare some change?” a man with a staff says. “I lost my house, lost my job, my wife. A few dollars? Anything would help.”
He staggers in our direction.
“You can hold it right there, bub,” Ursula says, brandishing some pepper spray. “Don’t make another move.”
“He just wants money, Urs. He’s not going to hurt us.” I shove a dollar in his hand. Ursula points the pepper spray at him the whole time.
When we get to my apartment building, Gia buzzes us in. As soon as we’re in the safety of the courtyard her orange hair flashes like a siren above us, red muumuu flapping out like butterfly wings. “’Morning!” she yells down brightly.
Ursula smiles up at her. “Auntie G, it is not morning.”
“Morning to me!” She squints. “I’m just having my tea. Ursula, aren’t you supposed to be at school? You’re not in the half-day program, are you?”
“No,” Ursula admits, without any shame. “But if I don’t chase M.E. around I barely see her now that she’s interning.”
The window opens on the second floor, and my neighbor, Art, pokes his head out. He looks at us grumpily. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Hey, Art!” Ursula says. “Looking mighty dapper today.”
He checks himself out in his dirty white T-shirt and waves her off. “Compliments are for fools. Would you be quiet and let an old man take a nap?” Art used to be the best landscaper around. When he was young, he could plant a bed of flowers and magic an orchard with a touch of his hands: berries and burdocks, roses and hillocks, grand willow trees and shimmering aspen. Anything a person could dream up he could create, and better than they could have imagined it. Now he mostly sleeps, and sometimes complains, looking dolefully at his useless hands. There’s not much else to do.
Mayor Triton was the one who started giving Legacies stipends after the March. To keep the peace. To keep Legacies quiet. After all, the last thing she wanted was another riot. The money is barely enough to survive on, but for people like Art at least it’s something.
“Shh.” Aunt Gia presses a finger to her lips and motions for us to come up. “Stop being so loud. Art’s trying to nap!”
He waves us off and mutters as he disappears back into his apartment and slams the window shut.
We wedge ourselves into the brass-and-glass elevator that takes much longer than if you just walk up yourself. The elevator is as old as this building, which is creeping up on 150 years. No one knew when this place was built that it would one day become lakeside property. It was a four-story building housing Legacies, shielding them from the constant demands of their clients. Now we have a never-ending stream of people trying to get apartments here, talking about tearing this place down and rebuilding, and hanging out outside by the lake with their beach chairs.
Aunt Gia inherited our apartment from my grandparents, who died within days of each other before the Great Death. My mother lived here when she was a kid. It was here we would come for holidays, here we would come as a family to celebrate, here I witnessed the Fall. Here is where I came with my suitcase in hand when my parents and sister were murdered.
“Girl, please push that door open,” Ursula says. “I need a beverage.” She sniffs. “Oh heaven, Gia’s baking. Smells like spice cake to me.”
As we pass through the entryway into the apartment, I lay my hand across the picture of my dead family, of my mother with her dark, melty eyes and shock of orange hair like Aunt Gia, and my father with his dreamy smile and long lashes. I let my hand linger over my sister, Mirana, with
her delicate features, dark hair to match my father’s, glancing hopefully at the camera.
It keeps the dead safe to acknowledge them.
Gia emerges from our tiny kitchen with two cups of tea.
“Oooo, tea!” Ursula says, happily, swooping in to give Gia a kiss on the cheek and take the tea from her hands.
“Want some honey?” Gia asks, passing the other cup to me.
“I’ll get it,” Ursula says, disappearing into the small kitchen. “This is so good, G! Do I smell cake?”
“Ten minutes left to bake!” Gia says.
Ursula comes back in and flops onto the couch, taking an appreciative slurp of her tea.
“What are you doing today?” Gia says. “Guns? Bombs? Running ten miles?”
“No, G. That part’s over. Now we’re actually on cases. I mean, I just got assigned one, actually.”
“I knew they’d let you shine sooner or later,” Gia says, beaming.
The old red phone rings from the wall, and since I’m closest I answer.
“Hello.”
“Hello.” Cindy, Gia’s Naturalist friend. “May I speak with Gia?”
“Sure.”
Gia is already there to take the phone from me. She knows I don’t get calls on this line. “Yes,” she begins. “Yes, I have the crystals. Do you have the singing bowls? Great.”
I leave Gia to discuss Naturalist plans, and find Ursula is in a heavy sleep on the sofa, her phone dropped on the floor next to her, her teacup emptied beside it. People are afraid of her because she’s big and loud and unapologetic about everything she does, and also because she stomps around in black lace-up boots that look like they could do some serious damage, but if they could see her like this, curled up and snoring lightly, I’m sure they’d realize she’s just a person. The truth is she’s exhausted, working herself to the bone to keep her mother and sister afloat.
I sling a light blanket over her as Gia comes around the corner.
“Bless her heart,” she says, then pats me on the back. “You go on.”
I clip my temporary badge into place. “You sure?”
“I’ll give her some spice cake when she wakes up. We’ll be fine.” Gia is a kind soul. While I know I’ve given her plenty to worry about over the years with the boyfriend I have and the people I hang out with, and the many, many calls she’s gotten from the school when I’ve lost my temper, I never forget that when my family was killed she never hesitated. She took me right in, marched down to the police station, and didn’t let me spend one night without a home. She has been there ever since, and in a way she does the same for Ursula, for James, and even sometimes begrudgingly for Smee.
Gia gives me a soft squeeze. “You’re going to be late, kid.” She points to the clock on the wall.
“I’m going I’m going.” I shove my foot into my second boot, stuff my phone and public transportation card into my back pocket, and dash out the door.
I run to the station feeling divided clean in half. Half Scar, half Midcity; half cop, half underbelly; half-hopeful, and half-sure we’re all heading for certain doom.
TRANSCRIPT FROM INTERVIEW TAKEN AT MONARCH HIGH SCHOOL
by Officer Isabella Loyola (Legacy)
Interviewees: Flora (Legacy), Fauna (Legacy), Merryweather (Legacy)
Merryweather: Is this about the demon? Her disappearance?
Officer Loyola: Uh, if you’re referring to Mally Saint…
Flora: Yeah, like M said…the demon.
Officer Loyola: I would prefer to refer to her by her name for the purposes of this interview.
Fauna: Would you settle for Mally Saint Demon?
Officer Loyola (clearing throat): When is the last time you saw Mally?
Flora: She was at Wonderland on Monday after school.
Officer Loyola: And you were there as well?
Flora: Yeah, that’s where everyone goes after school, like every day. Nothing else to do in the Scar unless you’re really into vintage shopping or trolling for vinyl on the strip.
Officer Loyola: And did any of you interact with her at Wonderland?
Merryweather: Oh my ghosts, no. Why would we ever do that?
Officer Loyola: But you were once friends, were you not?
Fauna: I guess you could call it that, but it was like super tox.
Flora: She was so controlling. “Do this, don’t do that.”
Merryweather: “Change your makeup. Your hair is embarrassing.”
Flora: Well, you curl your bangs, M.
Merryweather: It’s IN STYLE. Read the mags.
Fauna: It was just like we couldn’t do anything right. So even though we’ve known her for like ever, we had enough. Cut her off. Snippety-snip.
Flora: And now we don’t have to listen to her go on and on about how her mommy was the fairy queen and our moms are just wannabe losers and we don’t have the right look for fairy Legacy. Like, it’s not a competition.
Officer Loyola (sighing): So none of you spoke to her on Monday or had any contact with her whatsoever?
Merryweather: Nope. Strict no-hag policy in our crew. And anyway, once someone bleaches your lawn, you kind of keep your distance.
Flora: Yeah, and an actual dead squirrel on your doorstep. That’s major trauma. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone took her out. Everyone hates her and her stupid bird, too.
Officer Loyola: Well, okay. I hope you’ll make yourselves available if I have any further questions.
Merryweather: We still have a half hour of PE. Can we maybe hang out in here?
Flora: Yeah, you don’t want to mess up those bangs!
(sound of snorting laughter)
Officer Loyola: This is Officer Isabella Loyola, and this concludes this interview.
SINCE WE HAVE TO WAIT FOR THE CAMERA footage from Wonderland to get pulled and processed, and Bella’s interview with Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather turned up nothing except a rant from Bella about how happy she is to be out of that school and away from teenagers (no offense, Mary Elizabeth), Bella and I climb the stairs to Mally’s apartment in silence.
Even though Mally isn’t here, the building feels cavernous and haunted, silent in a way that’s unusual for the Scar. It’s in the warehouse district and used to provide all the magical clothes: wizard hats and cloaks, magic wands, and those beautiful dresses fairy godmothers gave out when making wishes come true, among so many other things. Now it’s pretty much abandoned. I don’t even want to know what’s inside those empty warehouses. A couple of them make T-shirts now that say things like I SURVIVED THE SCAR and RIP MAGIC. It’s also Ursula’s block, so I know it pretty well. I’ve spent plenty of time sitting on Ursula’s stoop staring up at the building with the giant iron raven on its roof and sometimes as many as twenty live ravens flying in and out of its top windows.
We’re buzzed in immediately by a German-sounding woman who tells us to come to the top floor. We glide up the stairs along the gilded banisters and wordlessly exchange comments about all the bird décor. Every sound echoes, so we don’t dare to speak in case the lady is waiting for us at the top and can hear every word we say. Ravens are everywhere, etched into everything, from the chandeliers that fly overhead to the ironwork bars on the windows looking out onto the street. The skylight brightens the stairwell so even the ribbons of dust seem to be dancing with an awareness that this is a house of mourning, one that’s missing its daughter. I knew Mally’s dad was rich, but this is different. This is glamorous. I don’t know anyone else from the Scar born into this kind of opulence. Her mother was the most powerful fairy in Wonder, and the gifts people brought her in exchange for her attention are all over this place. No wonder Mally acts like she’s superior. If I’d been raised with all this I would probably think I was superior, too.
I’m so busy trying to make the world bend into sense that Bella has to pull me back when we reach the top-floor landing.
“Holy toasters,” she says. “What is that?”
I’m still trying to figure
it out myself. I think before I speak, looking at the man splayed out across the bulk of the entrée. I’m lost for words so I say, “Holy toasters is right. That’s the biggest man I’ve ever seen.”
I take a step forward but Bella stops me. “Wait! Isn’t there some saying about never waking a sleeping giant?”
“You’re going to yank me to my death. Also, I think that’s about babies.”
She releases me. “Oh, right.”
“Come on!” I nudge her up the last two marble stairs.
A small, well-cared-for tree sits in a pot on the landing. There’s also a green, wordless welcome mat. More impressive than the sweet little entry to the penthouse apartment is the man who sits crumpled into an enormous chair outside the door. He’s not exactly a giant the way you would think of it in a story, but he is massive compared to, say, me. He’s got to be seven feet, with hands the size of pork roasts. My guess is he’s not supposed to be napping right now, because he has a walkie-talkie in his pocket and a phone in his hand. Under his jacket I see the bulk of a holster. He must be some kind of bodyguard.
Bella clears her throat and the man only snores a touch and twitches.
The door to the apartment swings open and a woman with white hair tied in a severe bun pokes her head out.
“Anton!” the woman says.
The man opens his eyes and rubs at them, then straightens. “Magda! Oh golly, Magda, I am sorry.” He looks at us. “Are you here with the caviar?”
“Caviar?” Magda scans us up and down. “You said you were with the Monarch Police. Detectives?” She places a hand on either hip and grimaces fiercely. “I’ll have a look at your badges, please.” She swats Anton on the shoulder. “And you! You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“What? He kept me up all night, Magda. All night!”
She nods, face softening. “It’s true he hasn’t slept much the last few days without Miss Mally home. Troubling, troubling times.” We move forward so we’re within reach as she looks at both our badges. “Apologies. You look young for police.”
“I suppose I’ve lost track of time,” Anton says to no one in particular. Then he seems to remember something and he massages a temple. “I keep forgetting about our Mally girl. I go to sleep and it gets wiped clean, but this is the third morning I’ve woken up and she’s not here. It’s awful. Just awful. And who would dare? Who would do anything to that poor, sweet girl?”
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