The Plastic Magician (A Paper Magician Novel)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Mrs. Praff clucked her tongue but made no objection as Mg. Praff released her hand and led the way to the polymery.

  CHAPTER 15

  ALVIE DEDICATED HERSELF ANEW to the prosthesis project. She wanted so badly for Mg. Praff to succeed—if things went poorly with the press and the solicitor, surely he could silence his naysayers with pure success. And Alvie’s name was on that abstract, too. She wanted to ensure her first appearance at the Discovery Convention was a memorable one, and for the right reasons.

  A few days after her return to London, a mail bird arrived with an invitation for skating from a certain Mr. Cooper. Unfortunately, it came on the same afternoon Alvie was helping her mentor make wrist models by allowing him to vacuum-form her wrist in every position possible, even if they differed in angle by a mere millimeter. And so a smaller bird went back with an apology and the statement that Alvie was absolutely the worst at skating, which was putting it generously. She could not so much as stand on ice without falling over, let alone do it with bladed soles.

  She was surprised when Mr. Hemsley, looking irritated from his exercise to and from the polymery, returned with another mail bird. He stood, seething in irritation, while Mg. Praff draped Alvie’s forearm in soft plastic and suctioned it against her wrist. Her skin was growing sore, and she was fairly certain there wasn’t a single hair follicle left between her knuckles and elbow, but she didn’t complain. In fact, despite the excitement of the bird, she held very still so they wouldn’t have to repeat the process.

  When Mg. Praff finished, Alvie took the bird. It read simply, Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hand.

  And suddenly Alvie didn’t care if she broke a leg on that pond, so long as she could go.

  “Go on, Alvie,” Mg. Praff said as he adjusted and hardened the plastic casting. “You’ve been out here long enough.”

  “But the Discovery Convention—”

  He gave her a pointed look. “If you do not go, I will refuse to assign you any more homework.”

  She gaped. “That’s hardly fair, sir.”

  He smiled, and she found herself smiling back. She took the Folded butterfly Bennet had sent with his bird and wrote back her confirmation.

  The sun had set by the time Alvie returned from her first-ever second date, her ankles and legs sore but her heart light. She rubbed warmth back into her ears as she entered Briar Hall. Even her lips were chilly—Bennet had looked at them more than once, but he had not warmed them with his own.

  Mg. Praff was at the base of the great staircase, talking in a low voice to Mr. Hemsley.

  Alvie paused outside the vestibule, waiting for them to finish. It only took a moment. Mr. Hemsley nodded once; shot a quick, disapproving glance at Alvie’s clothing; and strode off in the direction of the gallery.

  Alvie watched him go before asking her mentor, “Everything all right?”

  Mg. Praff sighed. “I suppose that depends on how you look at it. I’ve just told Mr. Hemsley to let Brandon go.”

  Brandon. Brandon. She worked to place the name, then recalled it belonging to one of the servants. “The footman?”

  He nodded, the corners of his mouth drooping low, making him look much older than his years. “Emma came forward while you were away this evening. Near tears, the poor girl. Apparently she saw Brandon with a reporter just before that blasted article was published, but she’s rather fond of the lad and didn’t want to say anything. Seems the guilt finally got to her.”

  Alvie blanched. “Oh no, you’re not going to terminate Emma, too—”

  “Oh no, Alvie. She’s a good worker, and I think she’s tormented herself enough about the situation.” Another sigh. He squeezed the banister of the staircase. “But I fear Mrs. Praff gave her a stern scolding.”

  Alvie relaxed. She had just gotten used to having someone else about her room, asking to dress her and do her hair. And she liked Emma.

  “Why did he do it?”

  “Hm?”

  “Why would Brandon say such things about you?” Alvie clarified.

  Mg. Praff shrugged. “I’m not sure. He did ask about being made first footman a while back, but I hired a new man for the job. Perhaps that. How was skating?”

  She grinned. “It was wonderful. I mean, it hurt. I’m not very good at it. But Bennet was very patient with me, and it’s astounding the sort of angles some people can get on their jumps and still land near perpendicular to the ice . . .”

  The following week, after Alvie’s multitude of bruises were mostly healed, she invited Ethel to come to the polymery. She gave her a tour of every single room, ending with the lab, where Mg. Praff awaited them.

  “This is all very exciting,” Ethel murmured, looking at the shelves of hands and arms. The footmen had set up the new shelves three days ago, since Mg. Praff was running out of storage space for his experiments.

  “Indeed, it is,” Mg. Praff said. He offered her a shallow bow. “It’s good to have you here, Miss Cooper. Your cooperation has been critical to these experiments.”

  Ethel smiled. She wore the false arm Bennet had mentioned in his Mimic spell. The hand looked too large for her slim frame, the material too heavy. Alvie didn’t like it one bit.

  Ethel seemed nervous about taking it off, for whatever reason, but neither Alvie nor Mg. Praff looked at her stump with anything short of calculated study and a bit of fascination, so she relaxed quickly enough. Alvie handed Mg. Praff different models and sculpting tools as he fitted Ethel—apparently the stump could shrink and swell, so not all of Alvie’s previous measurements were accurate. Once fitted, they tested the various amenities of the arm. At one point Ethel shifted, and the thumb and forefinger of the model hand she was testing closed.

  “Oh my!” she exclaimed, lifting the prosthesis to her face. Tears filled her eyes.

  Alvie hurried forward and grabbed the false arm. “Oh no, Ethel. Did it hurt?”

  Ethel shook her head, her blond hair bobbing. “No, not at all. It’s just . . . I know you’re not done, but that’s already so much more than I could do with the other prosthesis.” She moved her arm one way, then another, until she managed to repeat the movement that had closed the pressurized thumb and finger. She laughed, tears running down her cheeks.

  Mg. Praff leaned against the lab island and sighed. “Even without the convention, I think this moment has been worth every second of work, and every pence on top of that.”

  Ethel wiped her eyes with her flesh-and-blood hand. “Thank you. And I promise not to tell a soul until after the convention. Oh, thank you.”

  A few weeks later, after passing a test on the animation of plastic joints, Alvie found herself experimenting.

  Not on a prosthetic arm, but on what she called “quick cuffs”—a plastic strip that could snap around a man’s wrists to debilitate him. The fact of the matter was that Alvie had studied as much as even her brain could handle for one day, and her thoughts were stuck on the two incidents from the fall—the crooks outside the hospital and the failed polymery break-in.

  She was not fond of feeling helpless, and a long, blurry mirror-communication with her papa back in Ohio had given her an idea of what to do about it. Why not create a protection device that could fit in a woman’s purse or pocket and change shape on command to apprehend, say, a groper? No one liked gropers. The idea of such an invention excited her, and so she had set to work with equipment, spells, and her own hands. The difficulties of determining how to get the plastic cuffs to lock, let alone how to convince a nefarious person to put his hands together for cuffing, would come later.

  Alvie picked up the piece she’d been working on. It looked like an overlarge tongue depressor and was slightly translucent. Beige. Stiff, but its body was full of unseen hinges locked into place. She slapped the thing on the corner of the island in the lab and watched the two ends curl up on themselves, forming a sort of simplified binocular. She hmm-ed to herself and straightened it out again.

  The turn of a key in the polymery door drew her a
ttention away from the project, and she glanced up and across the foyer to see Mr. Hemsley’s frowning face as he opened the door and let Bennet in. Alvie’s heart doubled the timing of its beats, making her a bit light-headed.

  “Bennet!” she called.

  Bennet caught her eye and crossed the foyer to the lab, which was the cleanest it had been in six weeks. He smiled. “Are you ready?”

  She blinked. “For what?”

  He sighed, though the smile stayed. “Dinner?”

  She watched his face for a moment more before her heart froze in her chest like a stuck gear. “Oh! Uh, yes. I just need to change.” Bennet had arranged the dinner a week ago when he’d convinced Mg. Bailey to give him time off for Valentine’s Day. She looked down at her almost invention. She’d have to come back to it later.

  “What is it?” Bennet asked.

  She grinned. “Can I test it on you?”

  He eyed her, wary. “That depends on what it does.”

  She stood quickly enough to knock over her stool, but Bennet’s quick reflexes caught and righted it. “It apprehends wrongdoers! Or it will. Here.” She grabbed both of his upper arms, quietly enjoying the feel of them, as she moved him away from the island. She drew her hands down his arms and set his wrists together, almost touching.

  “I’m intrigued,” he said, watching her face. The expression radiated warm swirls through her chest. For a moment she almost forgot what she was doing.

  Oh yes. That.

  She picked up the quick cuffs and stood about four feet from Bennet. “Hold still,” she instructed. Aiming the plastic carefully, she threw it at him.

  It bounced off his forearm and landed on the ground.

  He stooped to get it, but she said, “No, no, I can—” and smacked her skull against his. She winced and righted herself, hand rushing up to the injured spot just behind her hairline. Bennet rubbed the side of his forehead.

  “I’m so sorry!” she said.

  “My fault.” He pulled his hand back, revealing a pink circle on his skin. “I didn’t hold still.”

  “Oh bother.” She scooped down and grabbed the quick cuffs. “I don’t think it’s ready for testing. I can go change. I’m sorry.”

  Bennet’s lips formed a small smile. He took her hand. “We’ll just have matching bruises. Sort of like . . . a friendship bracelet.”

  “Except you can’t see mine.”

  “I know it’s there.”

  Their eyes met, and for a moment the lab was very quiet, enough so that Alvie could hear her pulse moving through the bruise on her head. She bit her lip, and found herself looking at Bennet’s lips. Wondering if he would finally kiss her. Even though she’d gone and whacked him on the head.

  It was quiet a little too long. Alvie inwardly groaned. She was so terrible at . . . this.

  “Um,” he broke the silence first. “I took a Polymaking class at Tagis Praff . . . maybe it would help if you made the plastic, I don’t know, extend or something? It could thin out and extend before it hit the target, and then shrink back and stiffen . . .”

  Alvie grinned. “That is a most excellent idea. I’ll ask Magician Praff about it . . . I’m not entirely sure how to do it yet. You would have made a great Polymaker, Bennet—not that you’re not an amazing Folder. Um.”

  Silence began to settle again, and Alvie broke it by clearing her throat. “I have something for you.” She hurried to her workroom and set the quick cuffs on the desk—she wouldn’t have much time to test Bennet’s theory until after the convention—then opened a drawer to reveal the four different valentines she’d handcrafted over the last week. She hadn’t yet settled on which one to give him. She picked the rectangular one made of dark-maroon paper, with a ribbon woven through holes punched around the border. There was an inked message down the center that she’d practiced writing on three separate sheets of paper, front and back, before putting the pen to this.

  With separate “I” and “thou” free love has done,

  For one is both and both are one in love:

  Rich love knows nought of “thine that is not mine”;

  Both have the strength and both the length thereof,

  Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

  The words were not original; they were copied from the poet Christina Rossetti. Alvie wasn’t good with . . . poems and fancy words. She’d tried—heaven knew she’d tried—but it always sounded wrong or foolish or too revealing. If she quoted someone else, she could sound elegant and assured; she could even be so daring as to use the word love. If Bennet thought it strange, she could merely claim it was a nice-sounding poem and this was Valentine’s Day, after all—don’t take it so seriously.

  She sighed. Pinched the card between her fingers. There went her pulse again.

  Swallowing, she hurried from the room and thrust the card at Bennet as if it were on fire.

  Bennet took the card, his eyes softening at the ribbon. At least, Alvie thought that was what he was looking at. Then his eyes shifted to read the message, and only a few seconds passed before he began to laugh.

  He was laughing.

  Alvie felt the halves of her heart pulling apart as if stretching stitches held them together. She balled her hands into fists behind her back and weakly asked, “Wh-What?”

  He stopped laughing, only smiled. Reached into his jacket to hand Alvie a card of his own. It was so beautifully made that Alvie could almost forget the throbbing beneath her breast. She took it delicately between her fingers. Red paper had been cut and trimmed around the edges to look like lace, folded like a heart without the slightest wrinkle or flaw. But, of course, what else could one expect from a Folder?

  She turned it over, and there, written in less than perfect script, was the very poem she had quoted on the valentine she’d given to him.

  Her heart sighed in relief as its halves sucked back together.

  She smiled. “I suppose we have similar taste.”

  “I suppose we do.”

  She looked up at him, and the teasing glint that lit his eyes. Trying to match it, she said, “No flowers?”

  His grin split his face. “Oh, Alvie, you would never be happy with flowers. I have something better. I’m going to let you drive the Benz.”

  Alvie almost dropped the valentine. “Really? Really?”

  Bennet took a deep breath. “Yes. Just . . . don’t tell Magician Bailey.”

  CHAPTER 16

  LONDON WARMED UP SLOWLY, but the promise of spring only brought more rain. Alvie was no outdoorsman, but even she had begun to ache for some sun.

  Fortunately, two weeks before the Discovery Convention, sunshine came to her.

  She was studying a new homework assignment on the properties of glue in her workroom when Mr. Hemsley arrived. He stood outside her open door, his nose slightly pointed upward, and announced, “Mr. Cooper to see you. Again.”

  He departed without further ado. Alvie sat up straighter as Bennet slipped into the room.

  He grabbed the back of the other chair and pulled it over to her desk. When he sat, his knees touched hers, and a tingle traveled up her thighs and clear into her jaw. He held up a piece of paper.

  She read, #1. Something to open a door, before Bennet lowered the paper again.

  “It’s for my test.” He grinned.

  Alvie jumped in her chair. “You’re doing it, then? Officially?”

  He nodded. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I decided to go for it. April sixteenth is the day.” He let out a shaky breath. “I’m nervous. But I think I can do it. There’s a whole list of things I need to Fold and then present to my mentor and the other magicians who will be on my board. I might make two for each one. There’s no rule that says I can’t.”

  She grabbed his hands, careful not to wrinkle the test. His hands had become incredibly familiar to her over the last few months. He wasn’t shy about holding her hand, touching her shoulder . . . but Alvie still dreamed about the eventual kiss . . . and hoped it
was indeed eventual and not impossible. “Oh, Bennet, I’m so happy for you. You’ll pass, I know it.”

  He smiled and ran his thumbs over her knuckles. She released him so he could fold the paper and tuck it inside his jacket. “I hope so. This means I’ll be busy, though. Again.” He sighed. “I brought you this.”

  He pulled a little booklet out of the same jacket pocket. Alvie instantly recognized it as a collection of Mimic spells. She and Bennet had filled the pages of the last one to every edge and corner.

  “Since I won’t be able to come by—”

  “Perfect!” Alvie seized the book and flipped through its torn blank pages. “I’ll write in it every day.”

  Bennet seemed relieved. Fiddling with a button on his jacket, he said, “You leave for the conference on the nineteenth?”

  “Eighteenth, so we have time to travel and set up. Magician Praff said he wants to head out by noon.”

  “Do you need any help? Loading anything?”

  An idea sparked in Alvie’s head, one that made her smile, though she tried to hide the expression, as if Bennet might see the secret spelled out on her teeth. “Yes, I think that would be wonderful, if you can get away.”

  “I’ll make sure.” His expression softened. He took her hand again, which only made her grin expand. It seemed too good to be true—not only to know a man as kind and wonderful as Bennet, but to have him treat her this way . . . like she was important to him.

  She found her gaze traveling up his arm to his mouth. Despite her disposition not to, Alvie flushed. Ethel had said Bennet was shy with girls, but one would think he’d have developed the courage to kiss her by now. Then again, the prospect made her insides squirm as though readying for a race.