Magic Under Glass

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  “They have been in the past. Magical creatures often are. I suppose you wouldn’t know the history, but you came across the ocean, so you must know of the merfolk.”

  I nodded. If ships didn’t pay for the privilege of sailing the seas, fish-tailed sirens would charm crew and passengers alike, leading them to their deaths. When I sailed to Lorinar, the captain tossed a bag of gold overboard to appease the merfolk, but even afterward some of the passengers had whispered nervously until we reached the safety of deeper waters. “Are the fairies like the mers, then? They demand things?”

  “Not quite like the mers. The mers are born of the sea, and we’re people of the land, so we’re at a disadvantage in a ship. The fairies are born of the earth, so we share their land.”

  “And men have trouble sharing land,” I said. I knew little of Lorinarian history, but every nation had its wars. Tiansher itself had been under another country’s thumb for nearly a century and fought for independence in my great-grandfather’s day.

  “The trouble is, fairies have a different view of land than we do. You couldn’t get any business done or progress made with fairies around. And they’ll tromp all over a man’s land—hunt on it, even—without any regard for property rights. They say we can’t just own land, but can you imagine a world where men can’t claim land to farm on? Could you imagine, having a picnic and suddenly a whole dozen fairies are roaming around, as if this were a public park? Thankfully, my father helped drive the heathens back past the river and erected the Western Wall before I was born.”

  Heathens—I bristled at that word. I’d had it hurled my way one too many times. “Some would say that people of my country are just heathens.”

  He spread out sideways on the blanket, propping his chin in his hand. “Oh, Nimira, I hardly think that of you. When I say heathens, I don’t mean humans. We are all born of God, even if we call him different names, but fairies are born of the dirt beneath our feet.”

  “What does that mean? Do fairy babies grow like carrots?”

  He laughed. “It just means they’re different from us. They’re tied to the land. It gives them power, and in return, they are bound to it.”

  His words unsettled me. “Fairies look just like humans in photographs. How can you tell them apart?”

  “You often can’t. A few fairies still live in our smaller cities and countrysides. But humans can live anywhere in the world, in cities of steel if they wish. Fairies wouldn’t survive in our modern cities.”

  “I wonder that we aren’t killing ourselves in those cities of steel,” I said.

  “You must admit, it’s a testament to human tenacity that we can survive in any condition,” Mr. Parry said. “Fairies aren’t free like we are.”

  “But don’t they have cities?”

  “Oh, they do, very attractive cities, I’ll admit, from the pictures. Lots of gardens and not a tenement to be found. But they’re backward.”

  “Backward? It sounds like an improvement over New Sweeling, at least.”

  He scoffed. “No gas, no electricity, none of our modern progress.”

  “We didn’t have those things in my country either. What’s the good of modern progress if you haven’t any gardens?”

  “I’m sure your country will have these things in time. The fairies choose not to have them. Their barbarism is willful.” He smiled with some impatience. “Oh, I don’t suppose you’d understand these things.”

  I’d been in awe of Lorinar’s “modern progress” when I’d first arrived, dazzled by street cars and the electric lights in many of New Sweeling’s buildings, but I wondered if it had really helped anyone. In Tiansher, at least beggars and princes alike had the same priceless view of the Shai Mountains. “Well, sir, I still think I’d like to see a fairy city, to compare.”

  “Perhaps someday you shall,” he said. “But first you should see Sormesen, and Heinlede, and Kassow . . .”

  I smiled as I plucked grapes from their stems. “I doubt I’ll ever travel so far as that!”

  He looked up at the endless spread of sky, perhaps thinking, as I was, how we shared that sky with all those far-flung places. “When Annalie passed, one of my greatest regrets was that I could never explore the world with her. We meant to travel. Instead, I’ve never even left the boundaries of Lorinar.” He met my eyes. “Someday, Nimira.”

  The intimate way he spoke my name so stirred my nerves that I couldn’t speak.

  “For now, I must content myself with words and pictures. Tell me more of your country.”

  6

  We talked long enough for Mr. Parry’s pale nose to turn pink in the sun.

  “I told you picnics were nothing but a hazard,” Miss Rashten scolded as he entered. “Not only have you ruined your complexion, but there are all manner of insects; why, I’ve even heard of a picnic set upon by bandits.”

  “Thankfully we seem to have escaped that fate,” Mr. Parry said.

  Grumbling, she hustled off and came back shortly with some concoction of lemon juice and rosewater, prattling on about its usefulness while she tried to administer it to Mr. Parry’s nose.

  I wondered if I could yet slip away to the automaton.

  “Let’s go to the library and see about animals,” Mr. Parry said. We had been talking of elephants and tigers. “I think I may have a book with pictures.”

  The automaton would have wound down anyway, I told myself, and I must not begrudge Mr. Parry’s attentions. I was living the dream of all trouser girls who made wishes on stars from their garrets or spun fancies while they mended their dancing slippers.

  We gave the whole afternoon over to looking at books and talking of the mourning habits of elephants, the holidays of our respective nations, our dear departed mothers, and the education of women. We were always polite.

  I didn’t know what to think about Mr. Parry. Sometimes I was taken with him, his flashing smiles, his dark eyes, his esteem for me and my intelligence. When he spoke to me I never doubted that he thought I had worth as a person; he didn’t just see a trouser girl.

  Other times, however . . . I knew nothing of fairies, but I didn’t like how he spoke of them. I thought of the garden fairies on his father’s desk, and wondered how much the son took after the father.

  The next morning, I tucked paper and pencil in the pocket of my dress and returned to the automaton. I stood behind him, staring at the silver key for a long time. Knowing he had tried to communicate with me, winding him now seemed a very different matter. I wondered if he could feel it.

  Finally, I took a deep breath and slipped the key in its slot. I saw life fill his eyes as I came around to stand before him.

  I spoke right away. “I’m so sorry. I met Mr. Parry in the hall yesterday while fetching the paper and he asked me to a picnic. I couldn’t very well refuse. If he knew I’d seen you come alive, he’d send me away like all the rest.”

  “Mmm.”

  “We don’t have long.” I tore off a scrap of paper and wedged it between two keys. “I’m marking the midpoint of the alphabet here so I can count letters faster. I’ve made a chart of the letters—the first half above this line, the second half below it. Don’t actually play the keys or you’ll make a good deal of noise—just touch them.” I hoped I wasn’t explaining things too fast. I was quite frantic that Mr. Parry might burst in, or one of the maids—especially Miss Rashten. “Can you do that?”

  “Mmm-mmm!”

  “All right.” I propped the chart of letters up where the piano book would go and stood at his shoulder with my pencil and paper. His left hand jerked to life, sliding to a key. His mechanism clicked and knocked inside his breast. He gently tapped a key, and I checked it against the chart.

  “G,” I said, writing it down, and as soon as I spoke it, the hand turned to the next letter. Tedious progress, yet I doubt I’d have noticed the moments pass if not for my fear of discovery. Curiosity made my limbs tremble.

  G-A-R-V-I-N, I wrote. “Garvin? You mean the old ambassador of
magic?”

  “Mm.” He resumed spelling. DEAD? He made a questioning noise.

  “Um . . . well, yes. They’re saying he was killed by fairy bandits.”

  He grunted with distress. TELL MORE.

  “There’s a new ambassador now. Mr. Smollings, I believe. I don’t really know any more. Why? Did you know Garvin?”

  He made a thinking noise, then an affirmative one. He knew Garvin, but I think not well, I noted on my paper. I glanced at the clock. Already, five minutes gone by for these few questions. I had so many more, but how much time could I take? If Mr. Parry came in, I’d have a hard time explaining myself. Before I could decide what to ask next, the hands began to move again. I quickly searched the chart of letters.

  FREE ME.

  I don’t know why I felt like someone had grabbed my heart and shook it. I looked at him, into the glass eyes framed with dainty false lashes. The eyes looked back. The trapped thing inside them pleaded. I could almost read his thoughts. You’re the only chance I have. “What can I do?” I asked.

  FIND KARSTOR, he spelled.

  “Karstor? Who . . . what . . . is that?”

  SORCER—

  I heard the wood floor groan in the hall and stopped writing. I shoved the paper under the stack of song sheets until the footsteps passed.

  “Sorcerer?” I whispered.

  “Mmm.”

  “I can’t talk to you much longer. One more question for today, and then we must sing and play before anyone grows suspicious at how quiet we are. What are you? A man? A ghost?”

  Here came the longest response yet. A MAN, FAIR LADY. A MAN.

  7

  A man, fair lady. A man.

  In my mind, the words had a voice.

  He was a man. Not a ghost—at least, not as I imagined ghosts to be. He didn’t want to scare me. He wanted my help.

  How frustrated he must have been, trying to communicate with all those other ladies, only to see them scream and tear from the room, as I had nearly done. But I hadn’t, and now I must be the one to learn his story.

  I sang the frivolous tunes of Lorinar. He plucked out his haunting notes with the strange timing of an automaton, as if he really were only a machine. Before I left him, he touched the keys again to say GOOD-BYE. Then his chest moved back, his hands stilled, the eyes dulled. He slept.

  I turned to the door. I didn’t want to look upon him anymore, with the life gone from him.

  Linza brought lunch to my room, offering her small smile and a plate of cold roast and potatoes. Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, wiry arms ending in chapped hands. I imagined her scrubbing the dainty breakfast plates and great pots.

  “Would you like something for your hands?” I said. “I have a little cream left from last winter. My hands dry out in the cold.” I wished I could tell her about the automaton, but I didn’t dare tell a soul.

  “Oh, you’re too good to me, miss!” she said, but with such eagerness that I knew she’d accept. I opened the valise with my scant possessions from the troupe. I had not touched it since I’d arrived. My mother’s sky blue bird costume lay across the top, and Linza gasped at the sight of it.

  “Did you dance in that?” she asked, peering over my shoulder at the deep blue sash.

  “Oh, no. These clothes belonged to my mother. In the troupe, we wore a modified costume—not quite like what we’d wear at home.”

  “It’s lovely,” Linza breathed.

  I was about to close the lid when I noticed the eagerness in Linza’s eyes.

  Many girls would have only scorned the tunic and trousers, but I held them up for Linza’s inspection. She ran her rough fingers over the embroidery.

  “Lovely needlework,” she said.

  I smiled. “Some other women in court were much better still. My mother was impatient with the needle.”

  “No, I adore it. May I spread this out on the bed?”

  At my nod, Linza unfurled the sash across my quilt. She studied the curling designs, her lips just parted.

  I always kept Mother’s slippers in their dyed leather shoe bag, but now I drew them out and placed them in Linza’s hands. “She did her best work here,” I said. “Wedding shoes. She wore them only once.”

  “Oh, miss, was your mother a princess?” She turned the slippers over, admiring every embroidered inch from vamp to soles. Jeweltoned trees and birds, hills and waves danced across them, including a deer with a missing leg. It was customary to include one purposeful mistake in every design, and as a child, the mistakes had delighted me most.

  “No princess,” I said. “A dancer in the royal troupe. We had only one princess.”

  “Did you ever see her?”

  “Of course. You would be disappointed, though. She was ugly.”

  Linza laughed. “I guess real princesses are never like in the stories. Have you seen the princess of Roscardi?”

  “No.”

  “She was here last year, and her picture was in the paper, and oh—she looked frightened and sickly. Like this.” Linza sucked in her cheeks and widened her eyes, an alarming expression, as Linza’s eyes already verged on buglike.

  “Princesses are people like the rest of us, I suppose.”

  She handed the slippers back with a sigh. “Oh, Miss Nimira, you have such pretty things. I wish I could embroider like that. I’m terrible with sewing and mending. Rashten—that is, Miss Rashten scolds me about it.”

  “Well, embroidery is more satisfying than mending. You’re creating something beautiful.”

  “That’s true.” Linza made a face, probably thinking of her work, which I imagined was rarely beautiful. “But I can’t complain. Mr. Parry takes care of us. My mother worked for him before I did, and even now, with her rheumatism as bad as it is, he set her up right.”

  “I’m glad of that, anyway.” I handed her the little jar of cream. “For your hands.”

  She took a dab and worked it in. “You should eat, miss, before it’s cold.”

  “It was cold to begin with!”

  She shook her head at herself. I put the clothes away and Linza returned to her tasks, but if the food was cold, the room had warmed with company.

  As soon as I wound the automaton the next morning, he began to spell.

  “Wait, wait!” I cried. “Let me arrange things.”

  I wondered what he might tell me today. Maybe he knew more about Garvin’s disappearance, or—

  WHAT IS YOUR N—

  I cut him off. “My name?”

  “Mmm.”

  I stared at the sentence I had just taken so much time to write. He must have had a thousand things to say, yet he wanted to know my name first? “You could have just spelled ‘name.’ I’d have known what you meant. But it’s Nimira. You could call me Nim, though. It’s shorter.”

  I LIKE NIM.

  My stomach flipped. I could hardly bear kind words from him; it would have been easier if he showed no emotion, no opinion. “You hardly know Nim.”

  THE NAME. I started to respond, but he was still going. SILLY GIRL. He finished with an emphatic grunt, a verbal exclamation mark.

  “I’m not silly,” I said, but my words sounded so strange, spoken to his still face. I quickly looked back at his hands. “We have important work to do, and not much time. We must figure out what I can do to set you free.”

  I’M ERRIS. PLEASURE TO MEET YOU.

  I almost scolded him for taking the time to write all that out, but then I realized he must have been yearning for this simple, normal thing: an exchange of names and greetings. I wondered how long he had waited to tell someone his name.

  “Erris,” I said. “I like Erris, too.”

  Only now did he return to business. KARSTOR, he repeated.

  “You said he was a sorcerer, but where can I find him? Who is he?”

  COUNCIL.

  “The Sorcerer’s Council? I know Mr. Parry mentioned it. The ambassador of magic is head of the council, right?”

  SPEAK ONLY TO KARSTOR.
His hands jerked around so fast I could hardly keep up.

  “Why? What’s going on? Who are you?” Strange enough that the automaton had consciousness, but he seemed to have rather urgent business with these sorcerers as well.

  He made an unsure sound. GARVIN SAID TELL ONLY KARSTOR.

  “Did you know Garvin when you were a man?”

  AUTOMATON.

  “You were already an automaton?”

  YES.

  “Did you talk to Garvin with the piano, too?”

  SOME, BEFORE.

  “He died?”

  “Mmm.” He sounded sad.

  “You’ve never come alive for Mr. Parry,” I said.

  CAN’T TRUST. ONLY KARSTOR.

  “But I’m not Karstor. How do you know you can trust me?”

  I DON’T, he said. BUT MUST TRUST SOMEONE.

  I jumped at the sound of a door shutting somewhere in the distance and quickly motioned for him to start playing. He obliged, starting a merry tune, ending our conversation for that day.

  I kept the papers with the words I’d written hidden in my valise. I took them out and stared at them more times than I cared to admit. In this way, I managed to keep up the conversation over several days without forgetting what to say next.

  I asked where he’d come from.

  TELMIRRA, he spelled.

  “I feel I’ve heard of it . . . in a story . . .”

  WEST. OUR CAPITAL.

  “The fairy capital? Are you a fairy?”

  YES.

  I thought I hid my surprise well, finding he was one of the fairies Mr. Parry had warned me of. Or, at least, he had been. “What happened to you?”

  ENCHANTMENT.

  “How long ago?”

  He hesitated. TOO LONG.

  “Years?”

  He disregarded my question. GARVIN’S DEATH SUSPICIOUS.

  “Why? What do you mean? Oh, you probably don’t have time to answer anyway.” I could have cried with frustration for how slowly the answers trickled from his fingers.

  NOT FAIRIES.

  “There are fairy bandits, though, aren’t there? I don’t mean to insult your—your people. I’m not sure I’d blame them, sometimes. But if I’m going to help you, I need to know at least a little of what’s going on.”