Magic Under Glass

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  “You know I like to see what sort of guests you bring around,” she said as Mr. Parry reluctantly allowed her to take his hat and gloves.

  “Well, this is Miss Nimira. She is a singer from New Sweeling.”

  “Ah. Miss Nimira.” Miss Rashten gave me a curt smile from a wrinkled face framed by curls and a ruffled cap, the sort I saw in older books. Her eyes flicked to my sleeve. “We should get you off to bed. You look spent.”

  I didn’t wish to be gotten off to anywhere by Miss Rashten. She wore a servant’s uniform, but an ordinary servant would surely have received a reprimand for the impertinent comment about seeing what kind of guests Mr. Parry brought around.

  We were coming forward into the main hall, a vast room where furniture jockeyed to fill space. The high ceiling, painted with dancing nymphs, drained the intimacy from our voices, leaving every word hollow. In the grand dwellings of Tiansher, empty space was meant to encourage serenity, but this vastness seemed cold and forbidding.

  “Are you hungry, Miss Nimira?” Mr. Parry asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Miss Rashten, would you mind telling the kitchen to send some supper to her room? We’ll be along in a moment.” He dismissed her with a nod, to my relief.

  We stood alone in the midst of thronelike chairs of dark wood and tables topped with vases. I had the sense that the chairs were never sat in and the tables never used.

  “My father had the house expanded when I was a boy,” Mr. Parry said. “We’re in the oldest part now. It’s not the height of style these days.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I surely don’t know what the height of style looks like.”

  Mr. Parry waved me on toward the stair. “The servants live in the east wing. Your quarters will be in the west wing, on the second floor. The upper stories are closed off, since my father died, but you’re free to explore the rest of the house. Can you read, Miss Nimira?”

  “Oh, yes. I love to read.”

  “I have an extensive library, and you’re welcome to it.”

  Upstairs, Mr. Parry led me down a carpeted corridor. I wondered if it was exactly proper, him showing me to my bedroom without a chaperone. Of course, we’d already been alone in his suite at the Royale, so I supposed this was no different.

  He opened a door. “This is your room.”

  As if by magic, a bowl of stew already rested on the table in the center of the room, letting off curls of steam, with bread and milk beside, and lit candles. This part of the house didn’t seem to have gaslights. A gentle fire crackled in the hearth. Fresh flowers spread from a vase set before a large mirror, and by the window sat a pillow-heaped chair, its frame woven like a basket. A perfect spot to read.

  “My wife started refurnishing this room before she died,” Mr. Parry said. “Her friends would stay here. The bedroom is through that door.” He backed out of the doorway. “I’ll leave you to your supper. Ring when you’re ready to dress for bed.” He pointed to the bell pull, a slender stick of metal with a handle, mounted to the wall.

  “Thank you, sir. Very much.”

  He left the room, and I parted the curtains. My room overlooked a garden, but I could make out only vague shapes in the darkness. In the distance, a ridge of tall and narrow trees shook in the wind that followed the storm. The waning round moon cast enough cold light to see their dancing silhouettes. Nothing in the city ever looked like that. I clutched my hand to my breast. I could hardly believe I’d wake every morning to look upon trees once again.

  The aroma of slow-cooked meat finally lured me from the window. I had almost forgotten how good food could be. We had cheap meat at Granden’s if we had it at all, still tough after hours of boiling. I had learned to gnaw with determination at the gristle, for we were always hungry. Here, I even had butter for the bread. I hadn’t had butter on my bread since the winter holidays.

  Miss Rashten came and unbuttoned my dress. She said nothing as she looked me over. When our eyes met, she smiled in a way more amused than kind. Perhaps the long day had already jarred my nerves, but I had the sense that she was testing me, perhaps waiting for me to make some faux pas.

  Still, as she whisked away the dress, I felt burdens sliding off me. It had been so long since anyone had brought me a meal or mended my clothes. I could put up with a few scrutinizing glances for the privilege of being taken care of. As a child, I had taken it for granted, but never again.

  I pulled back the sheets and sank into a huge mattress, so far from the ground that I imagined the bed floating away as I dreamed. I was so used to a tiny room, hearing Eila’s dogs and Polly’s snoring through the walls, and Saraki’s slow breath on the rare occasions she wasn’t in Granden’s rooms. I listened and heard nothing but the slow creaks of an old house turning in for the night.

  I blew out the candle. Sleep crept in with the darkness.

  4

  In the morning, the servants filled a tub with hot water from brass canisters, and I had a bath—a real, true bath that left my fingers wrinkled. I lathered my long hair and scrubbed down my arms and legs with a fat bar of soap. The water turned gray. Baths had not come often enough at Granden’s.

  A young maid brought me fresh underclothes. I relished the soft, clean cotton of the chemise and pantalettes against my skin. I had stockings of silk now and an imported Verrougian corset in blue.

  I was quite cheerful even as she whispered, “You’re going to sing with the clockwork man, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.” She called him “the clockwork man,” I noted, although Mr. Parry had only ever said “automaton.”

  “You’re brave, miss.” She was combing out my hair.

  “Is he really haunted?” With the sun spilling in my window, I didn’t believe an automaton could scare me.

  “Oh, I’ve heard him, miss! It’s true what they’ve said; he moans and twitches. Like he was trying his best to speak to me. I nearly jumped out of my skin! Of course, I don’t want to scare you off.” She took a section of my hair and separated it; gentle tugs on my scalp signaled she had begun braiding. “Such pretty hair, miss.”

  “It’s my one vanity,” I said, although I actually had several vanities. It was never wise to admit that, however. In Tiansher, they said your lips would shrivel. “He truly moans and twitches?”

  She nodded. “I s’pose I could have imagined it. Mr. Parry says he’s sure I did, but if that’s so, it was the realest imagining I ever had. I might be accused of daydreaming from time to time, but it stays in my head.”

  I smiled. “I’m not afraid of an automaton. Even if he does moan and twitch, I don’t suppose that ever hurt anybody.”

  Nevertheless, I felt a twinge of apprehension as she showed me to the sunlit room where Mr. Parry awaited with an automaton as large as a man.

  It sat still on a bench at a small pianoforte. Large brown eyes stared glassily ahead from a finely crafted face, its lips shut and perked in a smile. I nearly believed it could come to life with the slightest provocation. Soft brown hair framed its forehead and cheekbones, with delicate ears poking out, and the rest drawn back at his neck into a blue satin bow. Men didn’t wear their hair that long anymore.

  “It is an amazing piece, isn’t it?” Mr. Parry lifted aside the back of the automaton’s coat and began to wind him with a silver key. Even his clothes were works of art. His coat of deep green velvet was embroidered with red and black patterns that curled around the cuffs, the broad collar, and the back pleat. The buttons were of carved wood, just like the buckles on his shoes. Fairy-tale shoes, I thought, with their heels painted red. He wore knickers and silk stockings.

  Through the chipping paint of the pianoforte, I could still make out birds, trees, and deer traipsing around the sides, while the legs had been carved in the shape of snakes.

  “It’s beautiful.” Fascination replaced fear, and I ran my fingertip along the automaton’s sleeve. The velvet was nearly as soft as a rabbit’s fur, and beneath it I traced the line of a metallic skeleton.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. The carving and needlework are . . . breathtaking.” The embroidery stood up to anything I’d seen in Tiansher, and embroidery was a specialty of women of the court.

  “The fairies do make beautiful things,” Mr. Parry said. “They’re tied to nature—they draw power from it; they die without access to it. Naturally, their art reflects the bond. The paintings on the pianoforte are a fine example, although they could use restoration. Here, he’s wound—step back and watch.”

  I jumped as the automaton jerked to life with a muted but steady grinding sound.

  His torso slowly moved back. His chest began to rise and fall with feigned breath, his hands parted, and his eyes moved from side to side, as if he surveyed the piano before him and would look up at any moment and see me standing there.

  He began to play. His eyes darted left and right, watching his hands. His fingers moved up and down in precise motions, playing a sentimental standard I recognized: “In Springtime Blooms the Rose.” His music bore an ethereal quality, as if it didn’t quite belong in the real world, so pure and strange it was over the clicking of his mechanism.

  Suddenly, his eyes lifted up and to the side, right at me.

  I made a peep of surprise before the eyes lowered again. “Oh—he looked at me!”

  “Yes, he always looks up a few times. Watch, he’ll look ahead in a moment—there, see?” he scoffed. “It’s only a machine.”

  “Of course, yes. It just surprised me, is all. He does look so very . . . not real . . . but alive.”

  “Only due to the skill of his builders. And my reputation as a sorcerer hasn’t helped. People are far too eager to believe sorcerers enchant everything we touch, but good sorcerers know magic is dangerous.”

  “Oh, indeed.” Sorcerers in Tiansher had always frightened me, from the mysterious shamans of court to the cackling charm-sellers of the villages.

  In another moment, the automaton stopped playing. Once again, he surveyed the piano, peered out at the imaginary crowd, and then bent forward slightly, as if he could now relax.

  A strange sadness came over me when the automaton’s mechanism ground to a stop. The hairs on my arms lifted, and I forced back a shiver. What if he had looked at me? No, no, of course he hadn’t, but . . . I understood why the other girls might have imagined things, faced with such a strange creation.

  “The fairies made him . . . but he does not play fairy songs?” I asked Mr. Parry.

  “At the auction, they said he was altered at some point to play songs from Lorinar. Do you know ‘Fair She Was, Well He Loved Her’?”

  “I think I know the melody . . . da da da, da da da da . . . ?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “. . . not the words, though.”

  He rummaged in a basket and plucked out a song sheet. “Can you try these if I wind him again?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Parry wound the automaton once more, and now he played the sweet strains of a Lorinarian love song. Even as I hummed along with the chorus, trying to find my way, I wondered what his original fairy melodies had sounded like. I’d heard many songs in my three years in Lorinar. Even on the ship over, a group of returning missionaries gathered after dinner and sang, when enough of them could hold down their dinners and stumble from their berths, that is.

  Mr. Parry watched me, arms crossed, tapping his hand against his elbow in time.

  I tried the first verse. “Years ago, the stage was set . . .”

  He came to peer over my shoulder. “Close, but a little slower, a little softer . . . ‘The stage was set’ . . . like that.” He finished the verse. His singing voice had a certain charming and unexpected frailty. When I joined in with him at the chorus, I worried he might stop, but he sang with me until the end.

  Our voices silenced, and we heard the automaton grind to a stop behind us. Our eyes met over the lyric sheet. A smile played at Mr. Parry’s lips.

  “Well,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like that.”

  “Singing? But it seems like everyone in Lorinar likes to sing! Even the fishmongers.”

  The tentative smile broke into a true one. “Is that your impression of our fair nation, then? It’s no wonder they say abroad that we have no culture.” He made an abrupt turn back to the basket of song sheets, and I had mere seconds for a thousand dreams to race through my mind, for . . .

  I had brought a true smile to Mr. Parry’s lips. No one needed to tell me that a smile didn’t often form there.

  He tucked more songs under his arm, wound the automaton, and guided me through the rest of the repertoire. Our eyes met more times than I could count. I saw more of his smiles: the sly grin, the amused twitch of his lips, the full-blown prelude to laughter that showed his straight teeth.

  I hoped I pleased him. I didn’t know what else to do but give smiles I hoped were winsome and try not to let my native accent creep in.

  Had Mr. Parry hired me with an intent beyond singing? He treated me almost like a suitor might. A true gentleman suitor, with cautious tread and flashes of feeling. My future would be safe in a place like this.

  How I craved safety.

  When we finished singing, Mr. Parry offered up a second silver key. “One for you, Miss Nimira.”

  I took it in my palm, turning it over, this fairy thing. The top was shaped like a sprig of leaves. Mr. Parry’s hand had warmed it.

  “I want you to come and practice here whenever you like. I hope to show you off before long. Mr. Smollings has expressed interest in seeing the automaton when he next visits.”

  “Who’s Mr. Smollings?”

  “The ambassador of magic. Head of the Sorcerer’s Council. An old friend of my father’s.”

  “The ambassador of magic? Didn’t something happen to him?” Although I didn’t keep up with Lorinar’s politics, even I hadn’t missed the news this past spring, that the ambassador of magic had been found dead, thought to be murdered by fairy bandits who lingered near the wall separating the human and fairy lands.

  “You’re thinking of Garvin Pelerine. The previous ambassador. Mr. Smollings has taken his place.” A brief furrow marred his forehead before he continued. “You can rest for today. I’m sure you’ll want to explore the gardens and the house. The library will be of particular interest. It’s the door past the west stair, in the hall.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “My pleasure—but before you lose yourself, I’ll have lunch sent to your room. Exploring is better on a full stomach.”

  The same fair-haired young maid from breakfast brought a tray of food to my boudoir. She lifted the silver cover to reveal a spread of cold sliced pork, crusty bread, cucumbers, and pastry filled with the first peaches of the season. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the aroma hit my nose, and I heartily thanked her for bringing me such delights.

  She bobbed a curtsy. “You’re welcome, miss.” She turned to go. I knew maids should do their work without complaint or conversation. How many times had I missed the loyal family servants since I’d come to Lorinar? Now it felt strange to be served by a nameless girl no older than myself.

  “What’s your name?” I called.

  “Linza, miss.” She gave me a shy smile. “Did you make it through your visit with the clockwork man all right?”

  “No moaning or twitching,” I said. I didn’t tell her I had found him more intriguing than scary. She might think me odd.

  She widened her eyes. “Wait and see, miss.” Then she stepped back, bobbing her head at me as if apologizing for the remark, before she hurried off.

  I wanted to ask Linza exactly what had happened with the other girls Mr. Parry hired. Perhaps more than that, I wished to talk to another girl, my age, and feel the ease of friendship. Of course, Linza probably had silver to polish or floors to sweep, and Mr. Parry might frown on me becoming too familiar with the servants.

  Well, if I couldn’t expect friendship with Linza, I vowed to be kind to her at le
ast. I wouldn’t need company here, at any rate, not with a library and gardens to roam!

  I ate the pork a little too fast to be ladylike, and my racing hunger slowed. I could already tell I’d regret stuffing myself. I flopped back in my chair with a sigh.

  Outside, wind tossed the frail trees about. The skies promised more rain. The garden walk would have to wait.

  I gathered my dishes back onto the tray and covered them with the lid, leaving them as tidy as possible for Linza, then set off to explore the house. I headed for the library, poking in rooms on the way, and now I could finally see what I had only glimpsed before: the billiard room, linked to the smoking room, both with their masculine airs, heavy furnishings, and Hangalian carpets. The drawing room had grown quite dusty, like Mr. Parry did not employ enough help to keep up, or perhaps he only needed a wife to manage things.

  The library, however, did not disappoint. A statue of a woman with a scroll tucked under her arm and a torch in her raised hand guarded the room; I imagined her as some goddess of wisdom. Books stretched so far above my head that rolling ladders clung to the shelves to access them. In the room’s center, chairs and tables clustered.

  Miss Rashten found me in one of the chairs hours later, buried deep in a tale of swashbuckling, revolution, and ripped bodices, while outside the rain poured down.

  “You’ll ruin your eyes, you know,” she said. “Why don’t you turn on a lamp?” I’d hardly noticed. But now that she mentioned it, I realized I was holding the book to my nose in the dim. She continued. “Mr. Parry would like to meet you for dinner in the tower, so we’d best get you into something suitable.”

  “In the tower?”

  “Mr. Parry has taken his meals there since the mistress died.”

  Miss Rashten kept her eyes locked on me until I shut the book. I noted my page and started to follow her. “Where is Linza?”

  “Linza is otherwise occupied. I’m attending you this evening, Miss Nimira. I want to get some idea of your character.”

  “Oh.” It sounded almost like a threat.