Spell and Spindle

by Michelle Schusterman

  Having the Brave Knight at his side helped Chance remember himself. He was not a marionette. He was a boy. And maybe this wasn’t the adventure he’d wanted, but it was happening whether he liked it or not. He could save himself. He could still be a hero, like the Storm.

  When the cabinet door was closed and there was nothing to hear or see, Chance and the knight discussed what all this information might mean. Their progress was hampered by the performances, of which there were seven a day; the first was at ten, and the others followed on the hour. The shows were only twenty minutes long, but they seemed to stretch on longer than the space between them, to the point where Chance all but forgot his real self and believed he was Princess Penny by the end. In the quiet dark of the cupboard afterward, bits and pieces of his former life would eventually trickle back as he talked with the Brave Knight.

  They discussed the spinning wheel more than anything else.

  Why does he just spin like he’s expecting something from nothing? the knight wondered.

  Maybe it’s supposed to spin something from nothing, Chance replied. Like magic.

  Suddenly, an image began floating across the surface of Chance’s mind. He and the knight quieted their thoughts and waited. They had grown accustomed to this by now. A memory from Chance’s real life would begin to take shape in the fog, and as soon as they sensed it, they both focused all their energy on not scaring it off.

  The spindle the puppeteer had left in Chance’s mail. Chance keenly recalled the sense of desperation he’d felt trying to reattach the string to Penny’s head. He remembered the shock when the needle had suddenly sunk so easily into Penny’s scalp. He remembered too the very real sensation of descending into foggy nothingness. And something else: a thought, an observation, but this part of the memory was bruised, discolored, harder to look at.

  Chance and the knight focused as hard as they could. And then they both saw it, the strange thing Chance had noticed right before he’d passed out.

  The string had been too long.

  Much too long. Yards and yards of the stuff. Just like in a fairy tale, Chance had spun something from nothing—and he hadn’t even used a spinning wheel. Just its spindle.

  So, thought the knight. Maybe the puppeteer is trying to spin string out of nothing?

  But string is practically worthless, Chance said. It’s not like spinning gold out of nothing.

  He had the nagging sensation that he hadn’t seen all there was to see from that memory. As if he were on the brink of a revelation. If he were in his real, human body, Chance would no doubt be experiencing frustration. He was standing on the edge of an epiphany, and he couldn’t take a step forward.

  String’s not worthless when you make marionettes for a living, the knight was saying. Especially when those marionettes can talk through their strings. He needs the materials.

  Chance didn’t respond. The materials. His thoughts were moving in overdrive now, making connections so fast he couldn’t keep up with himself. The spinning wheel. The string. The cabinets filled with the shiny tools and all the materials the puppeteer needed to make his magical marionettes. Only, Chance had been so busy cataloging what he saw, he’d forgotten to consider what he didn’t see. The realization hit like lightning.

  Wood, he told the knight. There’s no wood in this trailer.

  Penny had never listened harder in her life.

  Eyes closed, hardly daring to breathe, she stood with her back to a cabinet filled with vampire incisors labeled by country of origin. It was the Storm’s voice, no question—but there was no static, no comforting radio-crackle.

  He was here.

  Other voices soon joined his, and then there were more sounds: shuffling, scraping. But Penny kept her attention on the Storm. Or rather, on the actor who played the Storm, A. P. Halls. He spoke differently as himself—less depth, less grandeur. And while the Storm always sounded wary, even of characters he trusted, A. P. Halls sounded friendly and kind.

  “Penny. Penny.”

  Startled, she turned to find Constance and Howard waving frantically at her and realized she had involuntarily stepped away from the cabinet. She wanted to talk to the Storm in person. After all that time she’d spent here on her shelf in this very museum listening to his stories, she felt as though she knew him intimately. It seemed wrong that he should not know her as well.

  But of course, A. P. Halls would not see her—he would see Chance. And regardless, he probably wasn’t interested in the personal lives of his fans. Penny forced herself to join Constance and Howard, who were now crouching behind a short glass cabinet.

  “I can’t believe this,” Constance whispered, eyes alight with excitement. “What’s the Storm doing here?”

  Howard stood quietly and stretched onto his tiptoes, leaning to the side. Constance reached up and held on to his arm, as if to help him balance, although Penny didn’t think it was necessary. She didn’t let go when Howard crouched back down with them.

  “There’s a bunch of cables on the floor,” he said softly. “Microphones and other stuff too.”

  “Did you see the Storm?” Penny asked, but he shook his head.

  “I don’t see anyone. And I don’t even know what he looks like, do you?”

  “No,” Penny admitted. But she felt certain she would recognize him when she saw him.

  The three of them stayed there for nearly a full minute, listening to the chatter and sounds of equipment being set up. Then Constance winced and got to her feet.

  “My legs are cramping up,” she told them. “Look, they’re obviously not going anywhere, and we can’t just hide here the rest of the day—we have to find Fortunato.”

  “Maybe he’s with the Storm,” Penny suggested. “They’re using his museum, after all.”

  “It’s not his museum anymore; he sold it.” Constance blinked. “Oh! Maybe…do you think Mr. Halls bought it?”

  The other two shrugged. “Can’t we just ask him?” Penny wondered. “Why are we hiding at all?”

  “Because…” Constance chewed her lip and glanced at Howard. “Well, the door was unlocked, so we didn’t break in, exactly, but we’re not supposed to be here. What if they call the police on us?”

  The Storm would never do that, Penny wanted to say, but she didn’t. Because she knew, logically, that the Storm was just a fictional character, and that A. P. Halls might very well call the police to report three runaway children sneaking around a closed museum.

  Or he might help them find Fortunato.

  “I know.” Penny gestured for the others to lean closer. “We should split up. One of us can go talk to the—to Mr. Halls and see if he knows where Fortunato is. The other two can keep hiding in case…well, in case things go wrong. Look,” she added when Constance opened her mouth to protest. “If Mr. Halls can help us find Fortunato, then we’re that much closer to finding Chance.”

  Constance pressed her lips together. It was clear she didn’t like the idea of them separating, but Penny knew she had made a solid point. “Fine,” Constance said at last. “So which of us talks to Mr. Halls?”

  Penny thought that much was obvious. “Me, of course.”

  This time it was Howard who protested.

  “No,” he said, then looked at Constance. “It should be you.”

  Constance tilted her head. “Why?”

  “Because you’re…you look more…” Cheeks darkening, Howard waved his hand vaguely at her. “Innocent.”

  The corner of Constance’s mouth twitched. “Because I’m a girl?”

  “Well, yes.” Howard glanced at Penny and shrugged. “Adults are just that way, you know? People see us boys at the park without anyone watching us, they usually assume we’re up to no good. But with the girls? They get all concerned, ask if they’re lost. Especially, um…well, especially white girls. That’s just how it is.”


  That was impossibly stupid, in Penny’s opinion. But then she remembered how the police chief had had patience with Constance but not with Howard, even though they had both been guilty of the same wrongdoing and they had both called him “sir” so politely. She remembered how the Bonvillains had acted as though the idea of Chance having dolls was laughable, whereas it was normal for his sister. She remembered how the Thank-You Man had leered at Constance and taken obvious pleasure in her fear, all while ignoring the brother at her side.

  Howard was right, Penny realized. But she didn’t understand why. They all had brains and hearts; those were the most important bits. Why should it matter if some of their other parts were different?

  Constance was nodding in agreement. “You’re right,” she said, and now her hand was back on Howard’s arm. He did not seem to mind. “But if we’re separated…Penny…I can’t just—”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Howard told her. “I promise. We’ll do everything we can to find your brother.”

  He gave her a nervous but reassuring smile, which Constance returned. Penny supposed she should have felt irritated that they had made this decision without her, even though the idea had been hers. But that feeling was back more powerfully than ever—the one she could only guess was specific to children who had older siblings. That warm feeling of being safe and protected and cared for. She felt that same tugging in her chest as she had earlier, as if something were trying to get her attention but she couldn’t quite see it.

  Constance smoothed out her skirt, straightened her back, and marched out from behind the cabinet. Howard and Penny crouched down, tensed and ready to run.

  “Excuse me,” they heard Constance say, her voice bright and polite. “I was looking for Mr. Fortunato?”

  A little thrill sang through Penny’s chest when the Storm responded. “I’m afraid he doesn’t work here anymore,” he said. “Did you know him?”

  “Oh yes, he’s a dear friend of my dad’s,” Constance replied. “I just love this museum. I can’t believe it’s gone!”

  “Not for long!” a new voice chimed in, this one belonging to a woman. “My brother and I bought the place and most of Fortunato’s stock along with it. We’ve got quite a collection of our own, too. And my brother thought getting the Storm himself to broadcast live from the museum would be great publicity for our grand reopening!”

  Penny frowned. Fortunato had sold his oddities, too? She had assumed everything was going into storage. His collection was all he had; why would he sell it?

  “How exciting!” Constance was saying. “You don’t happen to know where Fortunato’s gone, do you? It’s very important that I find him.”

  “He moved out early this morning,” said the woman. “Heading for the carnival.”

  Penny and Howard exchanged a wide-eyed look.

  “The carnival?” Constance asked innocently. “You mean, just for the day?”

  A. P. Halls responded, only now he sounded every bit like the Storm: sad and wary.

  “Oh no. He’s taking over for the puppeteer.”

  The late-afternoon sun still burned strong as the curtain rose for the Princess Penny show once again. The star of the show relished every moment onstage, every twirl and leap, every sight that wasn’t cupboard doors. He lost himself in the story once again, all memories of his parents and his sister and the real Penny drifting farther down into the murky waters of his mind. Each time, those memories took longer to resurface after the performance. He wondered vaguely how long it would be before they drowned completely, and whether that would really be so terrible.

  It might have happened that very evening had he not suddenly seen Fortunato.

  The former owner of the Museum of the Peculiar Arts stood under the shade of a nearby oak tree, watching. It wasn’t until near the end of the show, when Princess Penny and the Brave Knight were rushing from the caves, that a familiar silvery head appeared in the distance. Suddenly, the memory of an emotion returned: anger, red and raw and real.

  The princess clung to the memory of that feeling throughout the rest of the show as the Evil Witch was destroyed and good prevailed. He clung to it during the song of gratitude and during the final dance through the field of flowers. The children watching had no idea that the beautiful princess spinning and singing so joyfully on the outside was very close to seething with rage on the inside.

  As a rule, the puppeteer did not socialize with his adoring audiences after performances. But he would leave the five marionettes hanging from the rafters in artful poses, their toes just skimming the stage, and allow the children to come and admire them up close for a few minutes. Eyes sparkling with wonder and curiosity, they would lean as far as they dared over the stage, taking in the exquisite details of each marvelous puppet, reaching out but never daring to touch. Most children had their fill after a minute or two of staring, and then the distant shouts of laughter and tinkling music would beckon them to return to the carnival’s other delights. But one or two usually lingered, unable to look away from the puppets. Often these children seemed lonely or lost. Sometimes even desperate. The puppeteer, lurking in the shadows of the curtain, would memorize their faces and identify those who were saddest.

  Sadness was a vital step in creating the world’s most marvelous lifelike, life-size marionettes.

  It was, in fact, the first step.

  “The puppeteer?”

  Penny stepped out from behind the cabinet, ignoring Howard’s frantic whispers to stay hidden. Her eyes were locked on the Storm. He wasn’t nearly as tall as she’d imagined: he was pale and slight, with dark eyes that seemed kind but were creased with worry lines. He was younger than she’d expected too—younger than the Bonvillain parents. He glanced at Penny, then did a double take.

  Kinship, that unexpected jolt of recognition when seeing a bit of yourself reflected in the eyes of a stranger.

  For a moment, Penny’s logic and reason vanished. The Storm did know her. Not Chance. Her. Somehow, impossibly, he knew her just as well as she knew him.

  Then the Storm said, “And who’s this?” and Penny’s heart sank. She glanced at Constance, who cleared her throat.

  “This is my brother, Joey. And I’m Jessica. Joey,” Constance said firmly, giving Penny a pointed look, “you don’t have to be shy. Come meet Mr. Halls.”

  Penny stepped forward, still unable to look away from the Storm. She was vaguely aware of a few other adults watching, standing among a mess of cords and cables and unfamiliar equipment. The Storm shook her hand, and she swallowed nervously.

  He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Joey.”

  The way he said “Joey” was strange, as if he knew that wasn’t her real name. Constance fidgeted nervously, and Penny wondered if she’d screwed everything up. Her brain seemed to have split into two parts: the logical side, which was berating her decision to step forward and was frantically trying to assess what to do if Mr. Halls realized they were runaways; and a newfound dreamy side, which insisted that this man was, in fact, the Storm and that he could help them save Chance. He was always the hero of the story, after all.

  “So,” the Storm said. “You two have heard of the puppeteer?”

  “Just old stories, sir,” Constance replied, while Penny merely shook her head. But in truth, the word alone conjured vague images that drifted through her mind like smoke; graceful, long-fingered hands, icy blue eyes, and hollow smiles. Music, too—a tinkling melody she couldn’t quite hum.

  “Fortunato knows him,” the Storm said. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “I assume you know the old tale of the cabinetmaker’s apprentice?”

  He glanced at Penny, who nodded mutely. “Yes, sir,” Constance squeaked.

  “The puppeteer modeled his marionettes after that story,” the Storm continued. “Brought him fame for a brief time. Then he disappeared—drafted into the
war, or at least that’s what everyone believes. He came back, but he was changed. And not for the better. Like seeing the worst of humanity made him less human.”

  Penny’s breathing grew shallow. The man with the sharp face, the puppeteer; she knew deep in her gut they were one and the same. The same man who had cut off her string and kidnapped Chance.

  He had created her.

  “He gave his last marionette to Fortunato ages ago, before he went overseas. When he returned, he began to build more. And now he’s about to turn all of them—his whole show—over to Fortunato.”

  The Storm’s words washed over Penny in waves, drowning her. The logical part of her brain was shrinking by the second, but she still heard it: Why does this matter? Why are you panicking? Just focus on finding Chance!

  Even Constance’s voice trembled a bit when she spoke. “But why?”

  “That’s a good question,” the Storm said. “I wish I knew the answer. But I do know this—he’s dangerous. My advice to you two is to stay far, far away from him.”

  “We weren’t…I…not going to…,” Constance sputtered. But the Storm wasn’t looking at her. Constance fell silent as he leaned down, looked Penny right in the eyes, and whispered:

  “How long have you been swapped?”

  The world stopped moving. Penny’s shock was so great that she didn’t feel it at first: no sharp intake of breath, no extra-hard thump of the heart. It was as though time were suspended.

  The moment was broken when the Storm, with an encouraging smile, placed his hand on her shoulder and said, “It’s okay.” Then relief flooded through Penny, shaking her limbs and rattling her rib cage and causing her eyes to leak. She sank to the floor, and Constance was at her side in an instant with a comforting hand on her back. The Storm sat cross-legged in front of Penny. The other adults continued setting up behind them, apparently unaware that the entire universe had just collapsed into particles and rearranged itself into something entirely different.