CHAPTER 21
THE DARKNESS SHIFTED.
A haze of voices like water coursed somewhere in the shadows, and she flowed with them, bobbing up and down. Heavy enough that she feared she would sink.
She shifted again, and the voices grew louder, or perhaps she only heard more of them. Voices churning like a distant storm.
She jerked, and for a moment she felt weightless. Then her body hit something solid.
Somewhere in the black waters a thousand leeches burrowed into her skin, feasting and squirming, the pain lancing her skin.
She gasped.
“Get him now!” yelled a man’s voice. “He doesn’t need blood, she’s covered in it!”
Something cold and metallic touched Ceony’s skin and snaked up the length of her torso. A chill swept over her.
“He’s here!” called a woman.
Somewhere in the shadows Ceony heard a man chanting, the mumbling of old and unfamiliar words. She felt heat in her skin. She knew that heat.
The chanting paused. “Get the glass out, or the spell will do nothing,” said the voice, calmer than the rest.
A wave struck Ceony, spinning her in the darkness. Rolling her over. A leech dropped from her skin, then another. The chanting resumed, as did the heat. Heat she had felt on Foulness Island.
Blurs of light mingled with the shadow. A broken sunrise.
An Excisioner.
No! Ceony’s mind screamed, but her lips didn’t move; her eyes didn’t open.
The leeches fell away, burned away, and the water sucked her down until the voices faded.
When Ceony opened her eyes, a halo of electric bulbs, none of which were lit, stared down at her like glass eyes with filament pupils. She blinked, focusing her vision. The bulbs protruded out of swirls of brass, which joined together like an upside-down bouquet plugged into the gray-slab ceiling—a ceiling she didn’t recognize.
She blinked again, slowly, her eyelids heavy. Her whole body felt heavy, as if it had been carved out of wood. Her dry tongue shifted in her dry mouth, tasting sand and sour. Her head ached—a calm, dull pounding deep in her brain.
She glanced down at an olive-colored blanket pulled up to her breasts, her arms lying parallel on top of it. A string with a tag hung off her left wrist. She stared at it until her eyes focused enough to read her name: Twill, Ceony. She shifted, feeling a stiff foreign material around her body. She craned against the thick pillow beneath her head to see what she was wearing—a white linen dress, or perhaps robe, that covered her nearly to the chin.
She looked to her right, taking in a row of empty hospital beds, white and flat with short, crib-like grating on the sides. An English flag and pole rested in the corner, near a door. A hospital. She was in a hospital.
When she looked to her left, a mobile curtain blocked her view of the rest of the large community room. Beside her bed rested a simple wooden chair without a cushion. The book A Tale of Two Cities lay open and upside down on it, about half-read.
She lifted her arm, surprised at its weight, and rubbed her eyes. She pulled it back and examined her hand.
That was when she remembered.
The house. Grath. The window, the mirrors. Blood, glass. Mg. Aviosky. Delilah.
She gripped the sides of the narrow mattress and tried to sit up, but the hospital spun around her and her empty stomach threatened to heave. She collapsed back onto the bed, the metal bars of its frame squeaking.
Once again, she lifted her hand and studied it, remembering the bits of glass that had been embedded in her flesh, remembering the pattern of the cuts marring her skin. She could still see them perfectly in her mind’s eye, but her hand bore no bandages, no scars. She lifted her other one, remembering how the glass shard had cut into her fingers when she wielded it, but it was equally unscathed.
A dream? But it had been so vivid, so real. And why would she be in the hospital?
How was she even alive?
She prodded the back of her neck—her hair bound in a loose tail—and felt for bruises, scars, but the skin felt smooth to her touch. She pressed against her bruised cheek, but felt no pain, only the pressure of her own fingertips.
“Ceony.”
She looked up to see Emery stepping around the curtain, dressed in the same clothes he had worn into the train station. Her heart raced at the sight of him, then drooped as she noticed the sling over his shoulder, cradling his right arm.
“You’re hurt,” she said, but the words came out as rasps.
Emery disappeared around the curtain, and she heard him call for water. Moments later a nurse in white came around the curtain with a pitcher and glass, which she set on a small table by Ceony’s bed. She filled the glass partway, then helped Ceony lift her head so she could drink.
The water sent cold chills down her throat and into her arms and legs, but she swallowed it in one gulp. The nurse prepared a little more, urging her to drink in smaller sips.
Ceony finished and coughed. The nurse pressed a hand to her forehead. “You seem well,” she said, “but I’ll have the doctor look at you. How are you feeling?”
Ceony glanced from the nurse to Emery. “Feeling?” she repeated.
“Please,” Emery said, “she only just awoke. Let me talk to her for a moment.”
The nurse nodded and left, leaving the pitcher and cup behind.
Emery refilled the cup and sat on the chair, moving the novel to the floor. He took Ceony’s hand in his—the one not held to his chest by the sling. His warm skin tickled hers.
Ceony pushed herself slightly more upright, though far from sitting. “Your arm,” she said. “But you’re safe.”
He smiled at her, a genuine smile that lit up his eyes and carefully touched his lips. “My collarbone, actually,” he said, “but seven more weeks should see it fine.”
“Seven?” she repeated. She winced at a sharp pain in her head.
Emery squeezed her hand. “Do you hurt?”
“It’s fine, I . . . How long have I been here?”
“Magician Hughes brought you here nine days ago,” Emery said. “I’ve only been here for two.”
“Nine?” Ceony repeated.
Emery nodded. “The spells they used on you are very draining on the body. They wanted you to wake on your own.”
Ceony’s breath quickened, and she felt panic forming in her belly. She remembered something, but the harder she tried to grasp it, the more it slipped away like river silt in her fingers.
Emery leaned forward and smoothed her hair. “Shhh, you’re safe. You’re well; we both are. You should rest.”
“I’ve rested for nine days!” she exclaimed, but she paused and took a deep, deliberate breath, trying to settle herself. “What spells?”
Emery frowned. “The Cabinet does not like to advertise it, but not all Excision is illegal. A few are employed by them for cases such as yours.”
Ceony’s skin went cold. “An Excisioner . . . did something to me?” Who did he kill in order to heal me? Images of Delilah bound to her chair filled Ceony’s mind.
Her skin rose in gooseflesh. Her intestines stirred.
“He healed you, yes,” Emery said, and his frown turned to a flat line. His eyes were not impenetrable this time; they were filled with concern. “I wasn’t here, I’m sorry. I left to protect you, but it seems that it was the last thing I should have done.”
Ceony shook her head, her skull throbbing at the action. “Delilah, Aviosky. Grath—”
He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “Grath is dead, and has already been cremated. Delilah . . .”
Ceony’s mouth grew dry once more. “She’s . . . she’s okay?”
Emery lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Ceony.”
Ceony bit the inside of her lip, but that didn’t stop the tears from betraying her. Emery brought her knuckles—her unscathed knuckles—to his lips, but he didn’t speak. Ceony pressed the sleeve of her other hand to her mouth to stifle a sob, and she sunk back into her
pillow, staring at the ceiling, trying not to replay Delilah’s murder in her head.
It reminded Ceony of Anise Hatter, her best friend from secondary school, who had killed herself. If Ceony had only gotten to her in time, she’d still be alive. Only this was even more Ceony’s fault. Ceony had been there, and still . . .
The doctor arrived, and Emery stepped back as he listened to Ceony’s heart, not commenting on her tears. He asked her questions in a paternal tone—how she felt, did her head hurt, did she have any pain—which Ceony answered with only nods. The doctor said she could check out in an hour and left, pulling the curtain closed for privacy.
Emery resumed his seat. They remained quiet for a long time.
After Ceony’s tears dried to her cheeks, she asked, “Magician Aviosky?”
“Is alive and well, thanks to you,” Emery said. “She’s checked in twice a day since I arrived to see how you’re faring.”
Ceony took a deep breath, letting herself feel grateful that at least she’d managed to save one of them. “My family?”
“They’re back home, preparing for a permanent move. Your parents were here this morning. You should call them after you’re released.” He paused. “I can call them, if you prefer.”
“They’re safe?” she asked, studying his eyes for their secrets. “Saraj?”
“Saraj has been incarcerated,” Emery said, a finality to his words. His eyes hardened. “It was a matter of luck and trickery that got him there, but we managed it.”
“We,” she repeated. “You weren’t alone.”
“No. The Cabinet would never send a single man after an Excisioner.” He glanced down to his sling.
“He’s been jailed before, though.”
Emery frowned. “Yes.”
“And escaped.”
“Not this time,” he assured her. He sighed. “I’ll tell you the rest later, when things have settled.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Ceony stared at the ceiling for a long time, until Emery’s chair scooted back and he stood.
“I’ll contact your parents and finish your paperwork,” he said.
Ceony squeezed his hand, halting him. “I have to tell you something,” she whispered.
His brow rose, but he returned to his seat without question.
Ceony rolled her lips together and glanced around to ensure no one had snuck up on her. “He did it, Emery. He broke his bond with glass. Grath died an Excisioner. He . . . he bonded to Delilah’s blood.”
Emery frowned. “I feared as much, judging by the autop—by the information I received.”
“But I broke my bond, too,” she whispered. “I’m a Gaffer, Emery.”
He leaned away from her, incredulous. “You sustained serious injuries, Ceony. You may be suffering—”
“Give me a mirror,” she said. “I can prove it.”
Emery held her gaze for a long moment, but finally stood from his chair and left. He returned a minute later with a small mirror on the end of a metal shaft, similar to the tool Ceony’s dentist used to see the backs of her teeth.
Ceony took it from him. Touching the edges of the tiny mirror the way she had seen Delilah do it, she said, “Reflect.”
She handed it back to Emery, whose eyes narrowed as he looked at the new image in the mirror. A picture of Delilah—her smiling face as it had looked the day Ceony dined with her at the bistro. The moment before their world had flipped over, leaving Ceony hanging by her fingernails and Delilah swimming in the dark.
Emery set the mirror down. “How?” he asked. “But perhaps I don’t want to know.”
“You bond to what your material is made of,” Ceony whispered. “I did it with the wooden floorboards in Magician Aviosky’s mirror room. Next you bond to yourself, and then to the new material. It breaks the bond, Emery, and seals a new one. I think I could do it again. I hope so. I don’t want to be a Gaffer. But I need sand.”
“Sand,” he repeated, thoughtful.
She rolled onto her shoulder, clasping Emery’s arm. “Please don’t tell anyone,” she begged. “If it falls into the wrong hands . . . Oh, Emery, what would Excisioners do with such magic? They’re powerful enough already.”
She thought of Delilah slumped in her chair and pushed the image away. A sore lump formed in her throat.
“You should report it,” Emery said, lowering into the chair, “but I won’t force you. And I won’t say a word.”
Ceony let out a long breath. “Thank you.”
Emery nodded. He pulled his arm from her grasp and entwined his fingers with hers.
“She saved me,” Ceony murmured. “Delilah saved me. She taught me the spells, not knowing I would use them. If she hadn’t, I would be dead. Magician Aviosky would be, too. Grath wanted her heart.”
Grath. Ceony shivered.
“What will they do?” she asked.
Emery leaned toward her. “What do you mean?”
“I . . . I killed him, Emery,” she whispered. “I stabbed him and shattered the glass. I killed Grath.”
“Saving your life as well as the life of a prestigious magician,” Emery said. He released her hand and caressed her cheek. “If anything, Ceony, you’ll be congratulated.”
Ceony’s stomach turned. “I don’t want to be congratulated.”
“Then you won’t be,” he promised. “It’s over today. We’ll go back home, if that’s what you want. If you can bond to paper again.”
Ceony nodded. “I do. And I can. I’m sure it will work.”
Emery stood and bent over her and smoothed hair from her forehead.
“I’ll go take care of things. I’ll be right back, and then we’ll go home together,” he said.
Ceony nodded, a small warmth filling her heart. She clung to it, cherishing it, as she watched Emery go. Emery, the paper magician. How she loved him.
Grunting, Ceony pushed herself into a sitting position and reached for the pitcher, but she stopped halfway, studying her outstretched hand. The hand that had gripped the glass that killed Grath Cobalt. The hand that had made her a Gaffer.
She brought it closer to her face, tracing a finger over her palm and knuckles where the scars should have been. She was a Gaffer now, but tonight she would be a Folder again.
And Ceony realized she held the secret Grath had labored years to discover, the secret no living magician knew existed: the secret to breaking and resealing bonds. She was a Folder—she would always be a Folder—but she could be a Gaffer, too. Or a Pyre, a Siper, a Polymaker. She could even be a Smelter.
Balling her hand into a fist, Ceony twisted in her bed and looked out the window behind her, out into the yard of the hospital and the street beyond, where the buggies were parked bumper to bumper, and the first orange leaf of fall flew on the air, caught up by a summer wind. Ceony knew it then.
Starting today, she could be anything she wanted to be.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THERE ARE SO MANY people I’m grateful to for helping with the fruition of this story. First is my husband, Jordan, who reads everything I send to him and listens to me talk talk talk about this book and others constantly, without ever a peep of complaint. A big thank-you also to my dedicated readers—Juliana, Lauren, Laura, Hayley, Andrew, Lindsey, Whit, Alex, and Bekah—all of whom helped me make this story decent.
Of course, I can’t forget Marlene, who boosted me over the publishing fence with this series. I want to cheer for Angela Polidoro, who is a fantastic line editor, kiss the 47North team for their hard work, and extend my thanks to my editors David Pomerico and Jason Kirk for making my words palatable.
And, as always, my hat’s off to God, who gave me the brain that comes up with all my ideas.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 Kyndall Elliott
BORN IN SALT LAKE City, Charlie N. Holmberg was raised a Trekkie alongside three sisters who also have boy names. In addition to writing fantasy novels, she is also a freelance editor. She graduated
from BYU, plays the ukulele, owns too many pairs of glasses, and hopes to one day own a dog.
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