Mirror Magic

by Claire Fayers

  He’d hoped the square outside the Mirror Station would be quieter, but a queue snaked back and forth: people waiting to hand over goods for delivery through the mirrors first thing Monday morning. Smoke from the nearby chimneys of Waxing Gibbous mingled with the silver mist, occasionally forming shapes of flowers and leaves where magic pooled in the still air. The mist was always heaviest around the Station, and today it had the stink of gone-off eggs.

  Tucking his bag under his arm, Howell began to edge his way through.

  ‘Watch it,’ a man snapped. ‘I’ve got a hundred enchanted roses here. Special order for tomorrow.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Howell said, not sorry at all. The man had all day to deliver his boxes to the Station so why do it now?

  A boy in a red uniform was checking people’s papers at the Station doors and Howell paused to watch. I could do that job, he thought with a stab of jealousy; you didn’t need any special skill with magic to keep order here. No chance of that, though, when the station guards were all hand-picked by Mr Bones.

  Mr Bones, who owned the Mirror Station, and most of Unwyse with it. Everyone, on their eleventh birthday, began a year’s apprenticeship in Mr Bones’s factory, Waxing Gibbous, where most of the enchantments for the human world were created. It was a chance to be useful, but, more than that, a chance for people to explore their talents and find out what they were good at.

  Howell, it had turned out, wasn’t particularly good at anything. While other people pulled magic from the air to turn dead leaves into roses, or learned how to change their own appearance, Howell remained stubbornly Howell-like.

  During his apprenticeship, he’d ended up doing all the jobs that no one wanted. Eight-hour shifts of sweeping floors and cleaning machinery in suffocating, numbing boredom. He’d hoped someone might notice how hard he worked and give him a chance at a better job, but nobody did.

  When his year had finally ended three months ago, his parents found him a job where his lack of magical talent wouldn’t matter and, satisfied that he could take care of himself, they’d left Unwyse to go travelling. Howell hadn’t seen them since. He missed them sometimes, but mostly he was just annoyed that they’d left him behind.

  He tore his gaze away from the factory chimneys. Best not to think about Waxing Gibbous. He was out now and it was unlikely he’d go back.

  A lady in a startlingly large hat full of blue roses bumped into him. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, then she pushed back the brim of her hat and stared at him. ‘Excuse me, aren’t you . . .’

  ‘In a hurry,’ Howell said. He’d suddenly had enough of this crowd. The lady was still trying to talk to him, but he hurried away from her, pushing his way on through groups of people and ignoring their shouts as he trod on bags and boxes.

  Slipping around the statue of Mr Bones at the edge of the square, Howell stopped to catch his breath and then walked on. He avoided Euphorbia Lane where mad Madame Brille lived – last time he went that way the old lady had threatened to turn him into an earwig – and cut through the clothes market instead. He came out the other side on to an almost empty road.

  The mist was thinner here and smelled of grass with a hint of smoke, as if someone had been making summer bonfires. The few people strolling by seemed in less of a hurry. Howell took a pastry out of his bag and ate as he walked, licking the crumbs off his fingers.

  Halfway along the road, between an office and a shop selling cheese, he came to a building with a front made entirely of glass.

  Here it was: the one place in Unwyse where his lack of magical talent wasn’t a problem. Howell finished his pastry, glanced up at the sign over the door and sighed.

  Welcome to the House of Forgotten Mirrors.

  The mirror gallery was deserted, holding only a vast collection of old mirrors, gathered from all over the Unworld, none of them working. Wrapped in white sheets, they looked like a congregation of ghosts.

  Howell put the bag on the counter and shrugged his coat off.

  Before he could even hang it up, another boy came thumping down the stairs. His hair was a paler shade of green than Howell’s and lay greased flat to show off the tips of his ears.

  Howell groaned silently. Trust Will to be awake now, just in time to steal all the breakfast.

  ‘You’re late,’ Will said, snatching the bag and rummaging inside. ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘There was a queue at the baker’s. Where’s Master Tudur?’

  Will pulled a muffin out of the bag and stuffed half of it into his mouth. ‘Gone to visit his mother. You can clean the mirrors today. I’ve got work to do upstairs.’

  You’ve got sleeping to do upstairs, more like, Howell thought. Will outranked him, being two years older and with an irritating and quite useless magical talent for mimicking birdsong. But in Unwyse even useless was better than non-existent.

  Howell shrugged and hung his coat on the stand by the desk. ‘I cleaned all the mirrors last week and nothing’s happened to them since. I thought Master Tudur said I had to tidy upstairs today.’

  ‘I’m doing that instead.’ Will tucked the bag of pastries under his arm. ‘I’ll leave you one of these for later.’

  No he wouldn’t. Will would eat the lot, then fall asleep again, and when Master Tudur came back he’d blame Howell for not getting the work done.

  Will pushed him aside and went back up the stairs. Howell heard his feet thump overhead, and then the creak of the bed. He slumped into Master Tudur’s chair behind the counter. He might as well copy Will and have a rest. It wasn’t as if the mirrors needed cleaning again.

  For a while, Howell watched people passing in the street outside, but nobody stopped or even looked at the house. Master Tudur liked to pretend that this place was something like the museums in the human world – a reminder of Unworld history. Really, though, it was just a storehouse for things that were no longer needed or wanted. Howell let his gaze drift down the rows of mirrors, hundreds of them, all numbered and shrouded in white sheets. He and Will were supposed to keep them clean and check them once a month in case any of them suddenly became active again, but Will never bothered and Howell only did it when he got bored.

  The sound of snoring drifted down the stairs. Will was asleep already. Howell felt his own eyes closing.

  The door to the street rattled and opened. What was Master Tudur doing back this early? Howell sprang upright.

  ‘Will is . . .’ he began, and stopped.

  The man who stepped through the door was not Master Tudur. He was tall and thin, with a long, sharp nose and a face that seemed entirely made up of straight lines.

  Howell recognized him instantly. Of course he did. He’d walked past his statue less than an hour ago. He stifled a yell of fright.

  Mr Bones!

  He wore a crimson suit, so dark it was almost black. His trousers and jacket were closely tailored, as if he didn’t want to use any more cloth than was strictly necessary, and his tall hat followed the human fashion. Mist coiled through the door after him.

  People said Mr Bones could create skeletons out of the mist and if a skeleton came for you it didn’t matter where you ran it would find you, and no one would ever see you again. Howell was almost sure he didn’t believe a word of it, but anything was possible and he shivered and glanced about nervously.

  ‘Are you Master Fletcher?’ Mr Bones asked, removing his hat.

  Howell’s heart juddered. He managed to move his head enough to nod. ‘Howell Fletcher. I’m the apprentice – the assistant apprentice, I mean. I keep the mirrors clean and I mind the gallery when Master Tudur isn’t here. He’s visiting his mother today. I could run and fetch him.’ He was gabbling, his voice rising in pitch. He stopped and gulped in air. What could Mr Bones want? Master Tudur paid his taxes on time, even though he grumbled about it.

  Mr Bones’s gaze skimmed the room, resting on each shrouded mirror. ‘Tell me, Master Fletcher, do you enjoy working here?’

  Howell bit his tongue in surprise. The burst of pain a
nnoyed him, and annoyance, he found, made him less in awe of Mr Bones. He swallowed, freeing his voice. ‘I have somewhere to sleep, plenty of food and the work isn’t difficult.’ Why was Mr Bones asking this? Had Master Tudur complained about him? Howell reached for one of the nearby sheets. ‘The mirrors are all in fine condition. I can show you.’

  ‘No!’ Mr Bones knocked Howell’s hand from the sheet. His gloved hand sent a shock of cold up Howell’s arm. Howell jerked back, his skin tingling.

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ Mr Bones repeated smoothly. ‘I’m sure you do an excellent job.’ He adjusted the sheet back over the mirror. ‘I am considering appointing a new apprentice to the Mirror Station,’ he said. ‘Your name came recommended.’

  Howell was glad he was standing by the counter because now he had to lean on it for support. His body felt hot and cold at the same time. He’d been dreaming about working at the Mirror Station only minutes ago.

  ‘Who recommended me?’ he asked. His mouth felt so dry he could barely speak.

  Mr Bones ignored the question. ‘A job in the Mirror Station is a great responsibility. That is why I choose all my workers myself. I need to know that you will work hard and be trustworthy . . .’

  ‘I will,’ Howell promised. ‘Master Tudur can tell you.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him in due course,’ Mr Bones said. He frowned and tapped his fingers on the counter, right next to Howell’s outspread hands. ‘I must admit you are younger than I’d expected.’

  A few moments ago, Howell had been petrified to be in the same space as Mr Bones. Now he felt a flood of hot panic that Mr Bones would leave and forget all about him.

  ‘I work hard,’ he said, ‘and I’m trustworthy. If you tell me to do something, I’ll do it – I promise.’

  Mr Bones shook his head slightly and put his hat back on. ‘Good day, Master Fletcher.’

  Howell’s heart sank. But then Mr Bones paused at the door. ‘Maybe there is something,’ he said, turning back. ‘I’m sure you heard of an incident at the Mirror Station last week.’

  ‘The anti-humanist league.’ Everyone in Wyse had heard about it. The anti-humanist league had tried to break into the Station – yet another attempt to smash the last few working mirrors, and with them the covenant with the human world.

  Mr Bones nodded. ‘One of their members is giving us particular trouble at the moment. A young lady with pink hair and a large hat. Maybe you’ve seen her?’

  A lady with a large hat had bumped into him outside the Mirror Station today. What colour had her hair been? Howell couldn’t remember – his brain refused to work.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. If he made a mistake and Mr Bones wasted his time chasing the wrong person, he could say farewell to any chance of working in the Mirror Station.

  Mr Bones stared at him a moment longer. ‘If you do see this woman, if she tries to speak to you – especially if she tries to speak to you – report it to me at the Mirror Station right away. Can I trust you to do that?’

  A chance to prove himself trustworthy.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Howell said.

  ‘Good. Then I shall bid you good day for now. Naturally, it would be best if you didn’t mention this conversation to anyone. If your master finds out you’re considering leaving before the end of your apprenticeship, he may not pleased. He may even refuse to release you.’

  He went out, letting go of the door too soon, so it slammed shut behind him. Howell jumped at the sound, then sagged back against the counter, his legs trembling, heart pounding.

  That had really happened. Mr Bones – the Mr Bones – was considering him for a job at the Mirror Station. He’d have to start at the bottom, no doubt, but he could work his way up, maybe even become a guard or a mirror operator. He’d outrank Will – Will wouldn’t be happy about that. Howell grinned, thinking about the look on his fellow apprentice’s face when he told him.

  Then his grin faded and he sat back down and pushed up his sleeve to rub the round mark on his left arm. It didn’t usually bother him, but all of a sudden it was itching.

  Mr Bones had just walked in here and offered him the very thing he wanted. For once, everything had gone right, so why did Howell feel that something was wrong?

  CHAPTER 4

  Wyse, 1852. Population: 8,300. Number of visitors: 800–1,000 per week. Number of magic mirrors: 6. Those are the official numbers. The actual numbers may vary. You have been warned.

  The Book

  The church in Wyse seemed to be one of the few buildings in town that wasn’t covered with fairy enchantments. As Ava and Matthew slipped into a wooden pew the next morning, Ava enjoyed the feeling of solidity from the old stone walls. Almost everyone turned to stare at them. Quite a few people shimmered with fairy enchantments, Ava noticed. Lord Skinner sat at the front with a whole pew to himself. He gave Matthew a friendly nod.

  A fine gentle— Ava thought, and stopped herself.

  The sermon was something to do with welcoming strangers and the reverend threw frequent glances at Ava and Matthew, which didn’t help Ava feel any more welcome at all.

  At the end of the service, people streamed out past them.

  ‘Welcome to Wyse,’ the reverend said, shaking hands with Matthew at the church doors. ‘My condolences for your loss.’

  Ava wondered how long it would be before people stopped saying that. One year? Two? . . . Fifty? Maybe one day she’d be an old lady and people would still greet her with a sad smile, a slight shake of the head and a ‘condolences for your loss’.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘We enjoyed your sermon.’

  The reverend’s mouth twitched and Ava wondered if he’d noticed she’d been half asleep. He met her gaze properly, which she liked.

  ‘I’m Reverend Stowe. I’m new in Wyse myself – six years last Easter. How are you settling in?’

  ‘Fine,’ Matthew said. ‘Everyone is, um . . .’

  ‘You’ll find that people are very welcoming once you get to know them,’ Reverend Stowe said. ‘Give it a week or two and I’m sure you’ll feel properly at home here.’

  Ava doubted that. Looking around, she caught sight of Charles Brunel from the bakery. He was with two grown-ups who must have been his parents, and two older girls – sisters, probably. They had the same brown hair and round features.

  ‘The Brunel family,’ Reverend Stowe said. ‘Charles is about your age, I believe. They do some good work in Wyse.’

  ‘Freedom for Fair Folk, I know.’ Ava turned back to address the reverend. ‘What do you think about magic?’

  ‘Ava,’ Matthew murmured, but Reverend Stowe smiled.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I belong to Freedom for Fair Folk with the Brunels. The Fair Folk are people too and they deserve fair treatment. I hear you’re going to be working for Lord Skinner, Mr Harcourt. You’re lucky – he’s a fine gentleman.’

  Those words again. ‘How long has Lord Skinner lived in Wyse?’ Ava asked innocently.

  Reverend Stowe’s smile took on a slightly bemused air. ‘You know, I can’t really say – longer than me, that’s for sure. A fine gentleman, as I said. He even helps our little protest movement, though his hands are tied for the most part. A man in his position can’t be seen to show favouritism.’ He sighed. ‘At least today is a day of rest. No orders going through the mirrors, so the Fair Folk will have their chance to rest too.’

  ‘Have you ever seen a fairy, Reverend Stowe?’ Ava asked, but Matthew was already pushing her on.

  They emerged from the church under an overcast sky. The gravestones in the grounds around the church cast pale shadows.

  ‘I was going to ask him about the Footers,’ Ava said.

  ‘I think you asked enough questions for one conversation.’

  ‘And I don’t think I asked nearly enough.’ Ava stopped in the middle of the path. ‘Why don’t you want to talk about fairy magic? If it’s just a bit of fun, what’s the problem?’

  Matthew avoided her gaze. ‘There is no pro
blem. Look, there are the Footers.’ He drew Ava in the direction of an old woman and a much younger man coming out of the church. ‘Aunt Lily. Edmund. Good morning. It’s been a long time. This is Ava.’

  So these were the relatives who’d bought Father’s magic mirror. Ava couldn’t see any family resemblance at all. Father had been a quiet, small man. Edmund Footer was much taller, and Mrs Footer, though small, looked fierce with her dark eyes and tight bun of grey hair.

  ‘We know who the girl is,’ Lily Footer snapped. She stared hard at Ava and sniffed. ‘She looks normal enough, I suppose.’

  What had they thought she’d look like? Ava pushed back the brim of her bonnet and put on her hardest, brightest smile. ‘Good morning. I’m looking forward to working for you.’

  ‘We don’t discuss work on a Sunday,’ her aunt said quickly. ‘We will see you tomorrow morning. Don’t be late. Come along, Edmund.’

  Edmund Footer shrugged apologetically as he followed his mother away.

  Ava kicked the path. ‘What’s their problem?’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Matthew said. ‘Aunt Lily and Father never really got on. It’s probably because she’s so much older. And she was widowed and had to raise Edmund by herself.’

  That didn’t mean she had to be horrible. Ava suddenly hated this place. She hated the fake-looking enchantments and the unwelcoming people. She hated that her parents were gone and, like it or not, that this was her home now.

  Matthew heaved a sigh, but then he offered Ava his arm. ‘I was thinking we could take a look at those trees in the garden this afternoon. Can you remember how to climb one?’

  A ray of sun broke through the clouds overhead. Ava tucked her hand through Matthew’s arm and walked on. Maybe not everything had changed.

  Of course, the neighbours on both sides of them would decide to pay a visit exactly when Ava was halfway up a tree.

  They stood in a group, frowning at her: two men, two ladies and a gaggle of children of various ages, all looking slightly horrified. One of the children started to giggle.