During those excursions, Ezra would catch sight of Ms. Chicory as she drew out her lacy handkerchief and patted away the tears from Aja’s face. After attending to the young lady, Annabelle would cup Oliver’s cheeks in her hands, brushing the wetness from his eyes with her thumb.
“Keep your chins up, dears,” Annabelle would encourage them. “We will get through this.”
Completely defeated, Ezra sat alone in his train compartment and leaned his forehead against the window. His unfocused gaze stared through the condensation collecting on the glass. Only a week ago, the opportunity of a fresh start seemed more attainable than ever. Promising, even. But now—
Now, the Universe had once again left him empty handed. Broken. Lost.
Ezra chewed angrily on his lip. The Universe. The very phrase left a sour taste on his tongue. For something allegedly a source of strength and power, the Universe had a knack for dealing out the worst of destiny’s cards to Ezra.
The compartment door slid open, revealing a weary Annabelle Chicory. She offered a kind smile and took a seat on the cushion across from him.
“I thought you could use some company, my dear,” Annabelle said, patting his knee.
Ezra frowned and turned his attention out the window.
“Sweetheart, I know this is difficult for you,” Annabelle replied, “but I want you to know that no matter what, the Irish Chapter will always be here. You will always be a part of our family, and we will protect you from whatever the Legerdemain Brotherhood has brewing behind closed doors.”
Ezra attempted a polite smile, but it did not possess the vitality to reach his eyes.
The elderly woman reached over and grasped both of his hands. “Do not let hopelessness consume you.”
Ezra choked in disbelief. “With all due respect, ma’am, I cannot see the positive in anything that has happened in the last month,” he said, acridity souring his tone. “How do you and the others honestly think things will get better? It—it is impossible.”
“A wise man once said that Magi were always meant to do impossible things,” Annabelle said. “Never let those words go, Ezra. Your father meant them.”
His face screwed up with emotion.
Annabelle tightened her grip on his hands. A sudden sadness glittered in her blue eyes, with a redness flushing her nose. “Ezra, if anyone knows grief and heartache as much as yourself, it is me.”
Ezra waited in silence for her to explain.
“Thirty years ago, I lived happily with my husband and three young children in Canterbury,” Annabelle began, her voice trembling. “I had everything a young woman could ever dream of having: a lovely home, a supportive spouse, and the most beautiful, Gifted children. But one day as I was returning home from the market, a dark smoke obscured the horizon. With a terrible ache in my chest, I rushed like mad to get to them but by the time I arrived, it was too late. In less than a few hours, my entire life had gone up in flames. My husband, my children, and my home—my reasons for living—were all taken away from me.”
“I—I am sorry,” Ezra whispered. “I had no idea.”
“For years, I doubted if any decency existed in the Universe,” Annabelle continued, “for if there were an atom of goodness, if there were truly a higher power, how could such dreadful things happen to innocent people?
“Eventually, after a long career working as a nurse in England, I relocated to Belfast and, by complete happenstance, met Jonas and Kierra. They were celebrating the purchase of the High Street building at a pub. After chatting with them, I finally understood my calling.
“My whole life, I had this ideal picture of what I thought I needed when all along, my purpose was to serve the community through my Gifts and care for my new family.”
Annabelle paused, squeezing Ezra’s hands once more. “From the beginning of time, Magi and Quotidians alike have stared up at the stars, begging for them to somehow shed light on the meaning of this life. And when things go wrong, we see no other choice but to blame the very Power that gave us life to begin with.”
Ezra sniffed and pulled his hand out of Annabelle’s grasp so he could wipe the sadness away from his eyes.
“We might not understand the ways of the Universe, but that is just the mystery of how it works,” Annabelle said, a hopeful glint sparkling in her eyes. “The Light is on our side. Events in our lives are merely lessons we must face along the way. Lessons that make us stronger. Lessons that make us the unstoppable forces we were always meant to become.”
EZRA GLANCED UP FROM his teacup, meeting the eyes of the newly appointed magistrate.
The clock on the wall ticked the same, insistent rhythm. The crystal ashtray on the desk refracted a spectrum of colour over the same mahogany desk. A familiar collection of fountain pens occupied the same cylindrical container, now accompanying Harland and Wolff materials splayed across the desktop.
While the elements were frozen in time from his last visit to the magistrate’s office a month and a half ago, the Ezra Newport sitting in front of the Irish official was an entirely different person.
Ezra examined his reflection on the surface of his tea. His unkempt hair fell across his forehead, a perfect companion to his dark eyebrows and tanned complexion. A wistfulness saturated his amber eyes. His strong jawline was set in fervent determination. Yes, he certainly looked the same. But deep inside, he had lived a thousand years. Seen a million things. Embarked on a lifetime of adventures.
“Congratulations are in order for winning the attention of the Harland and Wolff recruiters,” said the new magistrate. A man in his mid-twenties, the young official held his tall, skinny frame in a confident stature. His eyes skimmed over the contents of the papers before him through golden spectacles.
Ezra stared absently at the brass nameplate on his desk that announced him as “Associate Magistrate James Murphy” and fell back into the cadence of his mental musings. Once he and the Irish Chapter had returned to Belfast, everything shifted back into a semi-familiar existence. His lessons and responsibilities at the academy resumed as if they had never ceased. Interviews with the real staff at Harland and Wolff had come and gone in a frenzy of colour and fleeting emotions. While he still had another two months to go before finishing the term, the opportunity at the company beckoned louder than ever before. A promise of new life. And in the midst of the madness, the mid-April winds blew late spring into Northern Ireland, a striking contradiction to the scene in which he had first arrived.
“Mr. Newport?”
“Oh—er, thank you, Mr. Murphy,” Ezra replied, jolting out of his thoughts.
Associate Magistrate James Murphy stared at him over his spectacles for a few moments before returning to his paperwork. “During your short absence from Ireland, the Royal Irish Constabulary wanted your head for Mr. Arnold Byrne’s murder,” stated the magistrate. “But a fisherman spoke up about seeing the real criminal on Queen’s Island that evening, so you are now off the hook.” The man spent a quarter of a minute laughing at his own joke. “Fisherman. Off the hook. Oh my.”
Ezra raised an eyebrow, unamused.
“Anyway, the fact of the matter is this: The man who kidnapped you might have been posing as a Harland and Wolff employee, but as you know, the job offer was—and still is—entirely authentic. Should you accept, the company is willing to begin training you once you graduate from the academy,” said the associate magistrate, pushing a document and fountain pen across his desk. “All we need is your signature.”
Ezra brushed his fingertips across the paper, excitement tingling in his hands. The typewritten lettering, along with the official logo of Harland and Wolff, resolutely declared his future. Ezra’s heart fluttered an anxious rhythm as he picked up the pen.
If only Anne and Baba were here to see this, Ezra reflected gloomily. He imagined his mother’s smiling eyes encouraging him onward and his father’s strong hand resting on his shoulder.
Ezra swallowed, gripped the fountain pen, and scrawled out his name above
the bold, black line.
“Excellent,” approved the magistrate. He accepted the paperwork from him and issued a curt smile. “Welcome to the Belfast workforce, Ezra Newport.”
THE DARKENED SHOP WINDOWS of the Emporium of Exotic Trinkets greeted Ezra as he lingered on the sidewalk. The closed sign had not budged. With Miss McLarney’s continued absence from Belfast Royal Academy, he knew she and Jonas must have still been caught up in affairs at Magi headquarters. No one knew when they would return. But Ezra could not ignore the restlessness in his soul any longer.
Scrounging in his coat pocket, Ezra retrieved the letter he had written earlier that morning. He nodded in determination and slipped the letter through the post slot, hearing it flutter over the wooden floors.
He had made his father a promise. And inshallah, he would see it through to the end.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
A Grave Mistake
Every centimetre of Jonas van der Campe’s aura had once shimmered with unexplainable magic. But now, that magic had faded, and so had the usual sparkle in his eyes.
Jonas straightened his waistcoat while observing himself in the hotel room mirror. Fading bruises edged along his cheekbones and jawline. Sleepless nights saturated the skin beneath his eyes. Despite the depths of depression, he’d managed to put a comb through his hair and a razor to his unkempt beard. He had to look presentable for the Council when he delivered the news.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jonas picked up the hotel stationary from the stately writing desk. He had committed it to memory after reading it over so many times:
For some reason, the loops of his urgent handwriting seemed almost unfamiliar. The black ink shone in a different light. A light that painted him as a failure. A fraud.
The happenings at the Basilica Cisterns haunted him, like a never-ending nightmare on a relentless loop. With every remembrance of his father’s words, inadequacy slashed through him. His Magi family had gotten hurt because of him. His closest companion had betrayed him only to join forces with his worst enemy. Everything that used to make all the sense in the world had deliquesced into utter chaos.
And that was why he had to go through with this.
Folding the letter into a crisp envelope, Jonas allowed the silence of the room to comfort his piercing anxieties. Yet, his fingers still trembled when he unclasped the Magi pin from his jacket lapel and dropped it into the envelope. And tears still pricked the corners of his eyes when he clutched the communication close to his heart.
Behind him, the hotel room door creaked open.
“Are you ready? The carriage is waiting.”
Without turning to acknowledge Kierra’s presence, he sniffed and ran a hand over his face. His cousin’s encouraging touch grazed his shoulder, which somehow made him feel even weaker than he already was.
“Jonas, you do not have to do this.”
“I do,” he sighed, tucking the envelope inside his jacket. “There is nothing more I can do to salvage this broken commitment. Besides, it is what they would expect of me.”
“Exactly,” Kierra responded, grabbing his shoulders so he would not find interest in some other distraction. “It is what they would expect. But you are not the Magi Council. I am not sure if you have realised this yet, but you already do not fit the mould of the average man.”
Jonas allowed the slightest grin to brighten his expressions.
“This level of perfection you are holding yourself to is unachievable.”
“I know,” he replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. Just as he opened his mouth to speak again, an insistent pounding shook the door.
Both cousins leapt in astonishment. Kierra recovered first, cautiously approaching to greet whoever stood on the other side. When the door swung open, a short, dark-skinned woman draped in a cloak traipsed into the room with terrifying intensity. Her golden Magi pin—alongside the silver seal of the Administration—sparkled on the left side of her outerwear.
Jonas opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The Administration official looked between the two of them, her sight finally resting on Jonas.
“Jonas van der Campe?”
He shrunk backward, caught off guard by her gruff, Australian accent. “I am Jonas. With whom am I speaking? Are you from the Sydney Chapter?”
“Formally, yes, but now I lend my talents to the Investigative Division,” she answered without blinking. “Edwin Mears tells me you have an affinity for breaking the rules.”
“Wh—who are you?” Jonas asked.
After sweeping away bouncy black ringlets from her face, she held out a confident hand in greeting. “My name is Atlantis Townsend, and I also have an affinity for breaking the rules.”
“Er, aren’t you my probation officer?”
“Technically.”
“Are you here to arrest me?”
The woman stared at him through an odd expression. “Do you want me to arrest you?”
“Not particularly.”
“Good, because I don’t have time for that paperwork,” Atlantis admitted.
Baffled by the statement, Kierra stifled a dumbstruck laugh behind her hand.
“See, Mr. van der Campe, we have a problem on our hands,” said Atlantis. Striding with purpose to the hotel window, she surveyed the streets below as if expecting someone to be watching. “The Administration does not want our communities to know, lest we have a worldwide panic. However, against my better judgement and against the wishes of the Council, I am coming to you with the interpretation of the prophecy and the identity of the Roaming Lion. After all, among our twelve Chapters, you were the first to enquire about it.”
Jonas shared a bewildered look with Kierra before turning his attention to his probation officer. He fought the urge to explode into raucous, disbelieving laughter. After all this time, after everything that happened, now the Magi Administration wished to communicate? “Er—I beg your pardon, Miss Townsend, but you are much too late. We have already determined the identity of the Roaming Lion. And Ibrahim Newport is dead.”
Atlantis furrowed her eyebrows, standing within mere centimetres of Jonas. Her gaze locked onto his; he could practically feel the electricity of her aura sparking and fizzling like firecrackers.
Jonas gulped, backing into the writing desk.
“Did you know Dark Watchers were ordered to hunt down his family?”
“Of course, I did,” Jonas responded. “The Legerdemain Brotherhood was on to them before—”
“No,” interrupted Atlantis. Her stormy, silver eyes softened for a fraction of a second. “My department ordered those attacks.”
“Oh, God above,” Kierra gasped, clutching her heart. “The Magi Administration was behind the Portadown train wreck? All the attempts on the Newports’ lives? But why? The prophecy said that Ibrahim—”
“Whatever you think the prophecy said, you were wrong.”
“But the Legerdemain Brotherhood came to the same conclu—"
“You both got it wrong,” sighed the woman. She folded her arms in impatience. “Typical, coming from the minds of men and Quotidians without formal training on ancient Akkadian.”
“So, if our understanding of the prophecy is wrong, what does it really say?” Jonas questioned.
Drawing a folded piece of paper from her trousers, the young woman glared silver daggers at Jonas to silence him. “The prophecy was misinterpreted, both in our original records and in the newspapers. But when we obtained the cuneiform tablet from the British Museum, our language experts were able to ascertain the actual message.” She cleared her throat.
“When struggles crest
Kings crumble at the Alliance
A Roaming Lion seizes the throne
And the Tribes he’ll control.
Locked within time
Where Destinies are viewed
His memories unlock magic
And together, great power shall they wield.
Bring forth the Lion, Dragon, and B
ull
In the city where it all began
A circle of Twelve shall overcome
Or bow to the Queen’s celestial fate.”
Bitter silence felled what meagre expectations Jonas had left. It couldn’t be true. Not after all that had happened.
“And before you make a snide remark about how that doesn’t rhyme or that the metering is off, ancient Babylonians weren’t as fond as phonetics as Europeans,” Atlantis remarked.
“So, you are saying Ibrahim Newport is not the saviour of the Magi?”
“The Roaming Lion is not Ibrahim Newport.”
Grappling for words that stumbled over each other in his mouth, Jonas’ jaw fell open in shock. “Wh-what? But that’s not possible!”
The young woman’s eyes danced from Jonas to Kierra and then returned to their original target.
“When the Prophetic Translation Case was reopened in February, the Investigative Division unearthed another excerpt from the same Babylonian author,” the young woman explained. “But that segment went into greater detail of the identity of the Roaming Lion. He is someone much stronger than Ibrahim Newport. Someone possessing magic so advanced that he has not once, not twice, but multiple times cheated death.”
Confused, Jonas met Kierra’s gaze. She pursed her lips and crossed her arms. But even through wordless communication, he could tell they were thinking the very same: Could the Roaming Lion really have been alluding to Labynetus all this time? If only they had known sooner, before his reincarnation had been unleashed into the world.
“The fact is, Jonas, we have known who he was all along,” she continued. “But you kept mucking up all our efforts.”
The Magi Menagerie Page 34