Spell and Spindle

by Michelle Schusterman

  The puppeteer’s voice was empty. Chance could think of no other word. It wasn’t particularly high or low, nor was it more smooth than scratchy. It was just vocal cords vibrating, teeth and lips coming together and breaking apart, a tongue moving between them. No anger, no fear, no emotion whatsoever. Fortunately, the puppeteer did not speak out loud very often.

  “Ah, yes, I remember these tools,” the new voice said. Chance could hear doors and drawers opening and closing, the rattle of carving knives and the skittering of nails and screws.

  “They’re quite powerful,” the puppeteer replied, and if wood could break out in goose bumps, Chance’s marionette arms and legs would have been covered in them. “But then, you already knew that.”

  There was a pause, the heavy kind during which words are being carefully weighed before spoken.

  “They are indeed good tools,” the new voice replied at last. “But the real magic comes from the hands that wield them. That’s what Papa always said.”

  Chance tried to imagine what this person looked like based on his voice. His because he sounded like a man, and a somewhat older one at that. He would have kind eyes and more than a few wrinkles, and though he would be smiling, it would be a smile born of nerves, not happiness. Chance’s imagination began to sketch in the details. Silver hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, eyes like coal beneath bushy gray brows, and…wait. Had he said Papa?

  In his mind, Chance frowned. He was not painting a new picture. He was digging up an old photograph. An image of someone he once knew very well.

  When his cabinet door opened, Chance found himself gazing into familiar charcoal eyes. The name drifted up in his mind as if from the bottom of a deep well.

  Fortunato!

  The former museum owner sighed and tilted his head, caterpillar brows furrowed. More memories rushed to the surface now, so clear that Chance was seized with alarm that the fog had obscured them so quickly. Help me! he cried, willing his friend to hear his thoughts. I’m not Penny, we swapped bodies, you have to take me with you, please—

  “The real magic,” the puppeteer said, and now his tone was mocking. Fortunato did not turn to look at him, but his eyes flashed with an emotion Chance couldn’t place. Fear? Anger? It could have been either, or both. “Your precious papa did love to say that, didn’t he? He couldn’t stand the thought of people finding out that anyone could work his magic with wood. That it wasn’t his skills but his tools.”

  A muscle twitched in Fortunato’s cheek, but still he did not turn away from Chance. “I suspect this is a topic on which we will never agree.”

  “Indeed.” The puppeteer smiled coldly. “As we learned from my many fruitless visits to your little museum. Well,” he added thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on Chance, “not entirely fruitless, as it turned out.”

  Fortunato faced the puppeteer. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said abruptly. “I never should have agreed to this. Even if you do have Nicolette, even if you’re telling the truth about the chambers, I can’t…”

  He trailed off when the puppeteer withdrew something from the deep pocket of his cloak. A ribbon, pale pink and faded with age. The sight of it caused the blood to drain from Fortunato’s face. His lips trembled when he spoke.

  “Is that…is it…”

  “Nicolette’s, of course,” the puppeteer murmured. “I have not lied to you. The chambers were not destroyed in the great fire, nor was she.”

  Fortunato squeezed his eyes closed, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks.

  “She will be yours, as will the chambers,” the puppeteer continued. “Once you have helped me see this through. The plan is already in motion, Fortunato. It’s too late to back out now.”

  “I’ll make the sacrifice instead,” Fortunato choked out. “Please, let me. You can’t ask the boy to…”

  He stopped because the puppeteer was laughing again. “How very noble. Sadly, I am not interested in what you have to give, Fortunato.” He slipped the ribbon back into his pocket and strode over to the cabinet that held the spinning wheel. He pulled open the door, then stepped inside and lifted something off the floor. The cabinet was dark, the outline of the spinning wheel barely visible, but Chance was hit with the sudden impression that the lack of light concealed the true size of the interior.

  The puppeteer emerged with another marionette in his arms, and all thoughts of the cabinet’s size flew from Chance’s mind. This marionette was dressed as a knight, complete with silver helmet and sword.

  “Nearly finished,” the puppeteer said. “It takes time for the wood to settle.” His lips curled as if he had told a joke. Fortunato did not laugh. In fact, he recoiled at the sight of the puppet.

  The puppeteer chuckled. “Oh, come now. You’re a grown man, are you not?”

  Without waiting for a response, the puppeteer flipped up the silver visor to reveal the top half of the marionette’s face, and Chance stared in awe. This was how he’d felt the first time he saw Penny. A pair of brown eyes gazed back at him, obviously glass, yet so real that Chance could swear the puppet was just as curious about him as he was about it. The knight had been made from a darker type of wood than Penny, and the eyelashes were a bit thicker.

  Turning, the puppeteer held the knight up next to Chance. His gaze moved to the shelf below them, then back again. “Marvelous,” he whispered. “All of them.”

  All of them.

  This took a moment to sink in. There were more marionettes below Chance, as well as the knight now at his side. His mind whirled. If Penny could think and talk, maybe these puppets could too.

  Suddenly, Chance felt a little less lonely.

  “I’ll admit, after so many failed attempts, I was beginning to lose hope,” the puppeteer told Fortunato softly. “But your apprentice is a much better match than any of these would have been. His coloring, in particular.”

  Chance puzzled over this. Fortunato’s apprentice…was the puppeteer talking about him? What was he a match for?

  “Nicolette,” Fortunato replied, his voice breaking slightly. He kept his gaze averted from the marionettes, as if the sight of them pained or frightened him. “Where is Nicolette?”

  The puppeteer’s thin brow quirked up. “I’ll return her when your apprentice”—here his eyes flickered over to Chance—“does as you promised he would.”

  Fortunato swallowed. Nodded.

  “He will.”

  “He must,” the puppeteer whispered.

  Chance stared hard at Fortunato, as if he could find the meaning of this bizarre conversation written in his wrinkles. He remembered the hesitant look on the old man’s face when he’d offered Penny to Chance, as if he’d wanted Chance to say no. As if he’d known what the puppeteer was planning. As if he were a villain’s accomplice.

  But that was impossible. Fortunato would never put Chance in such danger.

  The puppeteer took the knight marionette and carried it back into the spinning-wheel cabinet. Fortunato hesitated, eyeing the door. Then he hurried over to Chance’s cupboard and leaned close, so close that their noses nearly touched. And he whispered:

  “I’m so sorry. I swear, I will fix this, Chance.”

  He closed the cupboard door, and Chance was swallowed in darkness once more.

  The train whistle screamed, jerking Penny from her sleep. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, and saw through the window that they were pulling into another stop. In the seat next to her, Constance smiled and held a finger to her lips.

  “Don’t wake the Goldsteins,” she whispered, pointing. Mrs. Goldstein’s head leaned against the window, her eyes closed. Next to her, Mr. Goldstein was snoring lightly, his mouth open wide enough that Penny could see his tonsils. She rubbed her eyes.

  “Are we close?”

  “Less than fifteen minutes, according to the schedule,” Constance replied after glanci
ng at her watch. Her cheeks flushed a bit when she noticed Penny staring at the book open in her lap: The Cabinetmaker’s Apprentice.

  “Is that really your favorite book?” Penny asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “It’s just…” Penny shrugged. “I would’ve thought you’d like fairy tales more. Fortunato has a massive book filled with them. Stories about princesses and knights, witches and wizards, that sort of thing.”

  Constance wrinkled her nose. “Princesses and knights are fine, but they’re a bit predictable, aren’t they? All that swooning and unnecessary bravado.”

  “I suppose,” Penny agreed.

  “And witches and wizards are even worse,” Constance went on. “The witches are always up to evil doings, and the wizards are always wise and benevolent. I’ve never liked those stories.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t think it’s fair,” Constance said, “that boys with magic are written as exceptionally smart, but girls with magic are written as exceptionally mean.” She patted the book in her lap. “Demon puppets, though, now that’s an exciting story.”

  “I’m not a demon, you know,” Penny told her. Her stomach felt twisted and tight.

  Constance’s response was a bit too quick. “Of course you’re not. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  Brows knit, Constance closed her book. “I know what you aren’t,” she whispered. “I want to know what you are.”

  “I’m a marionette.” Penny had thought this much was clear. But Constance shook her head.

  “You are, yes. But there are lots of marionettes in the world,” Constance said gently. “And lots of people who pick them up and touch their strings, just like Chance did with you. If all those marionettes talked to all those people, everyone in the whole world would know about them.”

  Penny had to admit she had a point. “Well,” she thought out loud, “maybe there are lots of marionettes in the world, but not all of them are lifelike.”

  Constance laughed. “Lifelike? You’re more than that. You don’t just look alive. You are alive.”

  The whistle screamed again. Mrs. Goldstein’s eyelashes fluttered, and she yawned hugely. Her gaze moved from the darkness outside the window to Constance and Penny, and she smiled.

  “Is someone picking you two up at the station?” she asked. “It’s awfully late for anyone your age to be wandering around the city.”

  “Oh, yes,” Constance said immediately. “Our parents will be there. Don’t worry about us.”

  Penny noticed Mrs. Goldstein’s brow arch skeptically, as if she found Constance’s response less than reassuring. Constance must have seen it too, because her voice got slightly higher and her words tumbled out faster.

  “Besides, we’re used to this. We grew up in the city, you know. I took the train by myself for the first time when I was eight! It was only four stops, but still. And my brother knows the tracks inside and out—he’s got maps of the whole city in his brain, honestly. I remember one time we were on a train heading downtown, but the conductor switched routes, and we ended up getting off at a stop in the historical district, and…”

  She went on and on like this for the short remainder of the trip, hands clutching the book in her lap. Watching Constance with great interest, Penny was beginning to grasp another emotion.

  Anxiety, tightening of your gutstrings, heightening your pitch, changing your tune.

  Apparently, this emotion was contagious. Sometimes on Storm at Dawn, the background music would swell, the chords becoming more dissonant, indicating to the listener that something bad was about to happen that the characters were unaware of. Penny felt that way now. Particularly when the train pulled up to the station and she spotted a few security guards on the platform.

  After retrieving their bags, Constance and Penny followed the Goldsteins off the train. Constance squeezed Penny’s hand tightly, and Penny felt an unspoken message in the gesture: Stay close and do as I do. Her heart—Chance’s heart—responded with another thump-thump.

  “It was very nice to meet you both,” Constance said. “I hope you move to Daystar. I really think you’ll love it there.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Goldstein glanced around the platform. “Where are your parents?”

  “We’re meeting them near the flower shop just outside of the main concourse,” Constance replied immediately. “Have a lovely evening!” She tugged Penny’s hand, but as soon as they started walking, Mrs. Goldstein fell into step beside them.

  “We’re heading that way as well,” she said with a smile, then glanced over her shoulder at her husband. “Aren’t we, dear?”

  Mr. Goldstein grumbled something that sounded like “Apparently, we are now,” then adopted a look of innocence when his wife narrowed her eyes.

  Constance’s smile remained fixed, but her grip on Penny’s hand began to hurt. When they entered the main concourse, Penny did a quick scan of the few people milling about. She was hoping to spot an adult near the flower shop; maybe that would be enough to put Mrs. Goldstein’s mind at rest. A group of teenagers were lounging in the chairs at the center of the concourse, a man in a suit was purchasing a ticket, and two women even older than the Goldsteins were chatting away on a bench near the exit. Penny zeroed in on the man in the suit because he looked as though he could be her father—tall and graceful, with curly black hair, and skin just about the color of a walnut. Then she caught herself and shook her head. They needed to find an adult who could pass as a parent for Constance and Chance, not Penny.

  For just a moment, though, she’d had that sense of familiarity again. As though the man in the suit really could have been her father. But marionettes didn’t have fathers. Unless the puppeteer counted, because he created them. But how could he create something that had a soul? Penny gazed at the tall man. His suit was nice, but the pants ended a bit too high, and the jacket was perhaps a tad too tight.

  I know what you aren’t. I want to know what you are.

  Suddenly, Penny became very aware that the body she currently inhabited was not her own. In just over a day, she had grown accustomed to walking and breathing and talking out loud. She had acclimated so quickly that it had been easy to pretend this was her body. But now, in this moment in a nearly deserted train station, Penny felt quite acutely the fact that she was wearing a suit that didn’t fit. And when this adventure was over, she would have to return it. She would go back to living inside a girl-shaped shell that couldn’t move or do anything at all.

  It hardly seemed fair. Why should Chance’s soul deserve a body that could jump and shout and dance, and her soul be trapped in a wooden cage?

  Her soul. Penny dismissed the thought quickly, because Constance could not be right about that. Marionettes couldn’t possibly have souls. Penny would not allow herself to even hope that such a ridiculous thing might be true. Because that might lead to wanting a soul. And Penny was not some demon puppet who stole souls from children.

  Or bodies. This body did not belong to her, and she would return it because it was the right thing to do.

  And for now she would not dwell on the fact that afterward she would be doomed to her wooden prison forever.

  “No sign of your parents, looks like,” Mrs. Goldstein was saying. “Should we perhaps—”

  “It’s okay, happens all the time!” Constance’s voice came out in a squeak. “We live nearby, um, I mean we’re staying nearby—we can walk.” But the words hadn’t even left her mouth when Mrs. Goldstein shook her head vehemently.

  “Oh, absolutely not, it’s the middle of the night!” She clucked her tongue and glanced at her watch, disapproval deepening the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. “Honestly, children riding the trains alone in the day is one thing, but I can’t…” She paused, pressing her lips together. “Well, that’s none of my business. But I refuse to let
you two walk around alone. It’s out of the question.”

  Mr. Goldstein stifled a yawn. “There’s a police officer over there,” he croaked, gesturing over by the ticket booth.

  His wife’s face lit up. “Ah, perfect. Let’s see if we can get you two a ride, okay?”

  With that, she strode across the concourse, clearly expecting the others to follow. Mr. Goldstein covered his mouth with his arm to muffle another yawn as he trailed after her. Constance and Penny looked at one another.

  “Have you ever run before?” Constance whispered.

  Penny shook her head.

  “Think you can?”

  “Yes.”

  And without another word, the two sprinted off toward the exit, still gripping each other’s hands tightly.

  They weren’t even halfway to the door when a voice that belonged to neither of the Goldsteins shouted something. But Penny couldn’t hear it over the rush of blood in her ears, the sound of her own breathing suddenly amplified. She didn’t look to see if the police officer was chasing them. She just focused on the EXIT sign and pumped her legs—Chance’s legs—as fast as they would go.

  Constance reached the doors a split second before Penny. She slammed into them without slowing her speed, and the two of them stumbled out onto the street. Penny barely had a chance to take in her surroundings before Constance yanked her arm, and they were off again. A few seconds later, Penny heard the doors burst open, followed by a shout. She did not look back.

  This street was nothing like the one the Museum of the Peculiar Arts called home. Unfathomably high skyscrapers lined the avenue, blocking most of the night sky from view. Despite the late hour, cars and buses still sat at every intersection as pedestrians, many dressed to the nines and laughing loudly, crossed the streets in a never-ending exchange from one restaurant or club to the next. Penny barely kept pace with Constance, who ran with purpose, as though she were heading toward something and not away.