The Wingsnatchers

by Sarah Jean Horwitz

  Grit had been mercifully silent since they left the stage. Carmer looked around and found the stable empty. He placed Grit on the edge of the pen, where Eduardo sniffed at her curiously.

  “Are you going to feed me to it?” Grit asked, shying away from the horse’s wet nose.

  “As much as I’d like to, no.” Carmer sighed and began loading his supplies into the carriage. His anger at Grit was slowly redirecting toward himself. “I made a promise that I’d get you back, and I will.”

  He didn’t mention that he was just as likely to foul up when there wasn’t an angry faerie under his hat as when there was.

  “He talks to himself, too! So you’re a nutter on and off the stage, Carmer III?”

  The finely dressed boy Carmer had run into at the rehearsal lounged in the doorway of the stables, the moon big and bright behind him. Carmer glanced quickly at Grit, but she had already ducked into the shadows.

  “How did you know my name?” asked Carmer.

  “I make it my business to know my master’s competition,” said the boy with a shrug. “Not that I’d count you as such, after tonight.”

  Grit snorted; Carmer hastily covered the sound with a cough.

  “You should watch our performance, Carmer,” the boy continued. “Perhaps you’d learn a thing or two.” He took a few steps toward Carmer and looked him up and down, a disdainful sneer spreading across his fair face. “On the other hand, perhaps Skemantis is a bit out of your league.” He spun on his heel with the grace of a dancer and strode away.

  Grit stepped out into the moonlight once more, looking contemplative. She stuck out her tongue in the haughty boy’s direction.

  Carmer laughed despite himself. “All right,” he whispered, “I should have enough time to run you back to the Arboretum before the show’s over.”

  Grit hesitated, still staring after the other boy. She bit her lip in concentration. “The Arboretum may have to wait,” she said, as if she would rather admit to anything else.

  Carmer raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “There’s something not right about that little git—something I’m sure I’ve felt before. I want to know what it is.” Grit hopped up onto his arm and looked at him expectantly. “Well,” she said, “do you think we’ll be amazed?”

  Carmer grabbed a program out of a bored-looking usher’s hand in the back of the third tier and snuck into a group of miraculously empty seats in one of the back rows. Grit perched once more on the brim of his hat, thorny heels crossed under her, assuring him that she was hardly likely to be noticed in a darkened theater with everyone’s attention directed at the stage. He finally conceded the point, and they settled down to watch the show.

  Carmer scanned the program until he found the Amazifier’s name, wondering how many sets he’d missed and who the snooty boy’s master might be. The master of ceremonies, a reedy man in shiny midnight blue tails and an oiled goatee, cleared his throat as the applause for the previous act died out. A woman in a red sequined gown hurried off the stage, patting a gloved hand at the blackened remains of an elaborate peacock feather fascinator in her hair that was still smoking. Carmer got the feeling he wasn’t the only one who’d dropped the proverbial ball that evening.

  “Thank you, Madame Mystique, for that electrifying performance!” declared the announcer, whose name the program said was Conan Mesmer. “And now, for our final performance, an expert illusionist who has graced this stage on more than one occasion. He has all of Skemantis in his thrall, and we can’t get enough of this fresh face in the magic scene—that is, if we could see his face at all! Please join me in welcoming the marvelously modern masked magician . . . the Mechanist!”

  The audience burst into expectant applause.

  “Have you ever heard of him?” Carmer asked Grit, but before she could answer, the crashing sound of thunder rumbled all around them and the theater plunged into darkness. Several women screamed.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Someone’s cut the gas!”

  “Anyone got a light?”

  In the moment before true panic set in, the chandeliers overhead started pulsing with a faint glow. The light faded in and out, getting brighter with each pulse, casting eerie shadows over the theatergoers’ faces. One moment Carmer could see the whole theater illuminated in ghostly half light; the next, he could barely make out his hand in front of his face. A violin in the orchestra struck up a plaintive tune. The strings swelled with each pulse of light, weaving a spell that kept all eyes transfixed on the ceiling.

  There was a strange whooshing sound, and the entire audience shielded their eyes, blinded by sudden light. Quite a few more people screamed this time. Carmer was one of the first to lift his head, and when he did, he gasped. The stage lights were back on, along with some of the house lights, giving him a decent view of the whole theater. The chandeliers were completely obscured by giant clouds of pure white. Something soft floated down toward him, and he reached out to grab it, but Grit was faster; she caught the first feather in her hands and stared down at it, eyes wide.

  They’re birds, Carmer realized, and it seemed everyone else did, too. There were gasps and smatterings of shocked applause. Hundreds of white doves circled overhead.

  The birds came together in a giant swarm, flying here and there across the theater, skimming ladies’ hats and making everyone in their path dive for cover. Carmer, for one, stayed upright, and caught a strange silver gleam in a bird’s eye as it flew close enough for him to feel the flutter of its wings. Doves didn’t normally have silver eyes . . . did they?

  In one swift motion, the swarm of birds dived toward the stage, flying so fast Carmer was sure they had no choice but to crash into it with a sickening crunch of broken wings. But as the white cloud made contact with the stage, the doves disappeared, leaving nothing but showers of silver sparks in their wake. With a swish of his cloak, the man they had all been waiting for emerged from the shining deluge of silver: the Mechanist.

  Carmer’s first thought was that the Mechanist’s cloak was the most beautiful fabric he’d ever seen; he doubted even Kitty could make something so splendid. It shimmered with the colors of a thousand tiny rainbows, changing colors with even the slightest movement, refracting and reflecting the light around him and casting eerie shadows upon the stage floor. Grit gasped, but Carmer hardly heard her.

  The Mechanist was masked, as Conan Mesmer had promised. A delicate silver clockwork contraption covered the top half of his face and reached all the way up under his shining silk top hat. It was shaped perfectly to his facial features, like a second skin, and his eyes looked unnaturally bright staring out between almond-shaped slits. There was no disguising his smile, however. It was as bright as the light around him, and Carmer imagined he could see the sharpness of his teeth even from the cheap seats. It was a smile that knew he already had the competition in the bag.

  The last of the silver sparks dissipated, and the Mechanist bowed with a sweep of his mesmerizing cloak. Carmer saw a familiar flash of silver at the magician’s gloved wrist; he was too far away to be certain, but the thick band reminded him of the one he’d spotted on the blond boy earlier.

  The audience erupted in applause, clapping and cheering until their hands hurt, and it was only then that Carmer came back to himself. It was like awakening from a dream. He remembered the Amazifier and his own disastrous performance, and found he didn’t have much energy for clapping at all. What chance did they stand against that?

  “Thank you! Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I am,” said the magician, “the Mechanist.”

  While the applause continued, the blond boy from the stables brought out a large birdcage on a stainless steel table on wheels. A quick glance at the program told Carmer the boy was called Gideon Sharpe. At least now he knew his tormentor’s name.

  The Mechanist spread his arms, purposefully showing the crowd the silver bands this time. A billiard ball – sized silvery blue orb was embedded on the inside of each. With
a flick of his wrists, the doves appeared over the audience once more, and the music picked up. The Mechanist threw his cloak over the cage and the birds flew into it, hundreds of them seeming to fit impossibly inside. He withdrew his cloak and the cage stood empty.

  The audience applauded again, but Carmer knew the trick was far from over. Once again the cloak fell over the cage. The doves streamed out the other side and flew another lap around the theater. The Mechanist urged them back to the cage, the stones at his wrists flashing along with the birds’ eyes. They pelted toward it as they had dive-bombed the stage earlier, but again, the expected crash never came.

  Real birds flew into one side of the cage, but real birds did not fly out.

  Hundreds of gleaming white-painted automata streamed out over the audience, each a perfect mechanical facsimile of the living thing. Carmer reached out and brushed his fingertips against a cold metal wing as it fluttered by. He shivered at the touch. Amazing as the birds were, Carmer didn’t want to see what feats the rest of the show would bring.

  Apparently, he wasn’t alone in this opinion. Grit suddenly swung down in front of his face, her tiny fingers clutching the brim of his hat. Her expression was bloodless.

  “What’s the matter?” Carmer whispered under the oohs and aahs of the enraptured crowd.

  “That man. The Mechanist.”

  “I don’t like him much myself,” said Carmer bitterly.

  “No,” said Grit, and for the first time, Carmer saw true fear in her eyes. “You don’t understand. That man is using faerie magic.”

  8.

  A DEAL IS STRUCK

  “But how can he be using faerie magic?” Carmer asked again. He was just beginning to process the idea that magic was even real, and now a grumpy faerie princess was telling him someone was stealing it. Grit sat on Eduardo’s head, absently scratching the horse between the ears, while Carmer waited for Kitty and the Amazifier to return.

  “I told you, I don’t know. There weren’t even any faeries there. I would have known,” Grit insisted.

  “But Madame Euphemia uses magic, right?” he asked. “She’s a Friend of the Fae, like you said. Maybe the Mechanist is like her?”

  Grit shook her head. “Being a Friend of the Fae doesn’t actually give you that much magic. It just makes you more attuned to it. Madame Euphemia is . . . different, I know, but she’s also not parading her puppets around in front of half the city! The one thing I know for sure is that the Mechanist is no Friend of the Fae. We would never allow someone to exploit our talents like that. It attracts too much attention.”

  “I could see that,” Carmer agreed.

  Outside, the stable boy wished someone a pleasant evening and the doors creaked open. The show must have ended. Coachmen were suddenly waiting at the ready for their wealthy employers. Assistants and apprentices began loading up carts and revving engines, and gossiping all the while. Carmer held out his hand, and Grit hopped up to be put under his hat.

  “Did you see the way those birds flew? It was better than the ballet!”

  “How did he make all those lights appear?”

  “Sent the chills right down my back, though, didn’t it?”

  Carmer spotted Kitty on her way in, chattering animatedly with a team of identically costumed acrobats. She caught Carmer’s eye and her expression soured. She turned back to her acrobats, ignoring him. Carmer sighed.

  “She’ll come around. I daresay I will, too. No sense in crying over spilled ammonia, even if the scent is rather pungent.” The Amazifier stood in front of them.

  Carmer couldn’t bring himself to meet his mentor’s eyes.

  “Is there something you want to tell me, Carmer?” the Amazifier asked, not unkindly.

  Carmer tried to keep his face blank. Somehow he felt the reply “Why, yes, there was actually an angry mythical creature under my hat for the entire performance!” would not be suitable. He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Master Antoine,” Carmer said instead. “I just . . . I understand if you need to let me go now.”

  Eduardo whinnied softly in the silence that followed.

  The Amazifier reached over to pat the horse on the head. “How long do you think I’ve kept Eduardo here, Carmer?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, sir.”

  “Longer than you, that’s for sure.” The Amazifier winked. “And I supposed you’ve wondered why I’ve never gotten rid of him. Retired him to a kindly old farmer somewhere, or even sent him off to the glue factory. But the truth is, I’ll stand by this old horse as long as he sees fit to stand by me, because we’ve learned from each other, and taken care of each other, and traveled the world together. And that might not sound like very good deductive reasoning to scientific minds like ours, but that’s the way it is. There may be faster horses in this world, but there’s only one Eduardo.”

  The Amazifier flicked his hand in a graceful gesture, and a shiny apple appeared in his palm. Eduardo happily gobbled it up. “You really thought that after one bad night, I’d toss you out on the street, boy?” The Amazifier looked slightly hurt at the suggestion.

  What Carmer couldn’t say to his mentor was that he’d thought exactly that. Enough people had given up on Felix Cassius Tiberius Carmer III in his short life that he still expected it as a matter of course. “I thought you’d be angry with me for costing us the competition.”

  “Oh, I’m about ready to toss you into a vat of liquid nitrogen,” admitted the old man cheerfully. “But we’ll figure something out. There is, after all, only one Carmer III.”

  Carmer knew this was supposed to make him feel better, but it only made him feel worse. He’d done nothing to deserve the Amazifier’s continued affection.

  “Master Antoine, why did we come here?” Carmer asked, though he already knew the answer.

  For the first time, the Amazifier looked abashed. “I entered this competition, my boy, so that I could keep you on with me, and Kitty as well.”

  “That’s why you stopped me from keeping the books a while ago, isn’t it?” Carmer said. “We’re in trouble.”

  “I’ll be frank with you, Carmer,” said the Amazifier heavily. He suddenly looked as old as he was. “If we don’t win this competition, I’m afraid that Antoine the Amazifier and his traveling companions can be no more. Even if there is only one Carmer III.”

  Carmer had suspected as much, of course, but to hear the Amazifier admit their dire situation aloud gave weight to his greatest fear. If the Amazifier could no longer afford to keep up his act, what would they do? Would Carmer go back to an orphanage? And what about Kitty? Would she have to sell all her beloved costumes and go back to the small mining town she once called home?

  Carmer knew the Amazifier disliked the city, knew the old magician was far past his prime. Yet his master had tried so hard to keep their little misfit family together by coming to Skemantis. And now Carmer had ruined everything.

  “We’ll make it to the next round,” Carmer found himself saying, though he didn’t believe a word of it. “I’ve got some new inventions that’ll really spice up the act.”

  “Not literally, I hope,” chuckled the Amazifier, stepping up into the wagon. “Last time, we all smelled like paprika for a week!”

  “Only a little longer,” Carmer said quietly as they followed the caravan of carriages, both steam and horse-drawn, out of town. The Amazifier and a still-sulking Kitty Delphine were discussing the Mechanist’s standout performance in detail as they bumped along, leaving Carmer free to whisper a comment or two to Grit. “I’ll sneak you out of camp first thing in the morning.”

  Carmer mumbled something else about looking like he was talking to himself, but Grit was hardly listening. She was thinking about the conversation in the stables between Carmer and the Amazifier and all the strange things she’d seen since she’d left the Arboretum the night before—Wingsnatchers and mechanical cats and Friends (or foes) of the Fae. The minute she stepped back into the Arboretum, her mother would lock her up in th
e highest branch of the Great Willow. She might never have a chance to discover who—or what—was attacking the faeries, or how the mysterious Mechanist was using his powers. This Felix Carmer, strange and uneducated in the ways of the fae as he was, might be her only chance to explore the city and get to the bottom of things.

  “No,” said Grit from her seat on the brim of his hat. She swayed from side to side with the movement of the wagon. “I have a better idea.”

  “After all this bother,” sputtered Carmer, barely managing to keep his voice down, “you don’t want to go home after all?!”

  “What I want is to find out where those metal beasts came from, and why a human magician has an army’s worth of faerie magic. And I know something you want, as well.” Grit hesitated, certain that she was about to break just about every rule that existed about humans and fae. “You want to win this competition. And I . . . I can help you do it.”

  “What do you mean,” said Carmer slowly, “by ‘help’?”

  “If you take me around the city, if you use your knowledge of this world to help me find what’s attacking the faeries . . . I’ll use my magic to help you win this magic competition. I trust you’ll be the only one with a faerie princess in your corner.”

  Carmer looked thoughtful for a moment. Grit knew he was remembering how she’d made the lamp explode in the alley. Hopefully, they would solve her mysteries before it was time for her to prove her magical prowess. The less Carmer knew about her abilities (or lack thereof) the better.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Carmer said, “but you’ve got yourself a deal, Grit.”

  Late that night, when the Amazifier and Kitty Delphine were asleep, Carmer crept up to his workstation in the attic laboratory. He held Grit in his hand like a living lantern. Her soft golden glow lit their way along the creaky staircase; he shut the door as quietly as he could behind them.