by Lam, Laura
‘This . . . this is a lot to take in,’ Cyril said.
I nodded.
‘It’s hard to know where to start.’
‘Take your time.’
And he did. We sat in silence in the growing darkness. Cyril’s head was bent, and I stared at his crown of curly blonde hair. He worried his big hands in his lap.
‘I don’t know how you’ve dealt with all of this,’ he said.
My eyes filled with tears. I’d just told him impossible things, and in all likelihood he should have thought me cracked. But instead, his first thought was how difficult it was for me.
‘Lord and Lady, you’re the best brother,’ I managed, sniffling.
He gave a strangled laugh and held out his arms. I went to them. Cyril gave such wonderful hugs – firm and warm and safe.
‘You can really read minds?’
‘Well, like I said, Cyan is a lot better than me. I’ve only received a couple of impressions.’ But I can speak to people like this.
He jerked. ‘Holy Styx.’
‘I know.’
Cyril shook his head. ‘What does it mean, though? There were the Chimaera at the Celestial Cathedral. How many of you are there?’
‘We don’t know. They’re definitely returning, and we’re not sure if it’s by chance, deliberate creation, or both. Whatever it means, the world will change. The three Chimaera called for acceptance, and at least two of them died for the crime of asking for understanding. More out there might not be afraid, but it’ll be hard to convince any others to go public with the Kashura’s violent discrimination. Everything is hanging over us like a thundercloud. Any moment, the lightning will strike and the floods will come.’
‘That’s melodramatic, Micah.’
I half-laughed, half-choked. ‘A little. But doesn’t feel like that much of an exaggeration.’
He broke away from my embrace and grew still, eyes widening.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘You can read minds.’
‘Ye . . . es. I thought we’d established that.’
‘You need to come with me to the hospital.’
I swallowed. ‘Why?’
‘To see if you can reach Mother and wake her up.’
My mouth opened. Closed. The thought had not even occurred to me. The day of the explosion, seeing her had been enough of a shock, and I’d avoided thinking of her as much as possible, to dampen the tangled feelings I had. Could I reach her and bring her back?
Cyril looked at the clock. ‘We still have time before visiting hours are over.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘We’re going.’
I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to see her. That one glimpse of her in her sickbed had been more than enough. But Cyril was right.
I had to try.
But before we left, I knocked on Cyan’s bedroom door. She grabbed her coat. My fledgling abilities might not wake up my mother, but if Cyan couldn’t succeed, perhaps no one could.
The nurse showed us to Mother’s ward right away, and then hurried off to her next patient. The ward was still full of people recovering from the attacks, but our corner was quiet. I reached up and pulled the privacy curtain around the bed.
My mother looked exactly as she had the last time I saw her. Shrunken. Subdued. I didn’t sense anything from her. How could either Cyan or I hope to reach her?
We clustered around the bed. Cyril pushed an errant strand of hair back from her face. He’d never dare to do something like that if she was awake. At the moment she might be a weak, sleeping lamb, but I remembered her as a fire-breathing dragon.
‘Has Father been up to visit?’
Cyril’s head bowed. ‘Just once, right after it happened. He keeps saying he’ll come up more often but . . . well, you know how Father is.’
Yes. Father was never there. Not even for his wife.
My fingers fidgeted, and then I steeled myself and took her hand. Her skin was papery and cool to the touch. The rosacea on her cheeks from her frequent drinking had calmed.
Cyril had hope painted starkly on his face. But I didn’t know if we’d be able to do anything for her.
I tried first, questing with my newfound abilities. Her coma was like the deepest sleep, as though her mind was encased in Penglass and I could only slip off the sides. Letting go of her hand, I shook my head.
I was relieved. I didn’t want to touch her mind. What if I reached her? I’d be hit with the anger, the disappointment, and the guilt she surely felt about me.
Cyan took her hand next. She closed her eyes, becoming still as stone. I sensed her reaching and as her mind quested, I thought I saw the echo of that web of light I’d seen on the night of the fire at the Museum of Mechanical Antiquities. A tiny line appeared between her eyes. The minutes ticked past. Cyril and I did not speak, for fear of breaking her concentration. Sweat appeared on Cyan’s brow.
Eventually she broke away, her eyes opening, gasping as if coming up for air.
‘I thought I was close at one point, but she’s in too deep. I couldn’t reach her.’ She collapsed against the chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She looked exhausted, and after this she’d go home and sleep for ten hours straight to recover. Gratitude welled up within me, that she’d do this for us.
‘Try again, Micah,’ Cyril urged. ‘Once more. Just in case.’
I closed my eyes. I came across that barrier again, smooth and hard. I pushed against it. I pushed harder, as though I smashed against impenetrable glass. I stopped. My energy ebbed, and a headache pounded at my body’s temples.
And then I stopped trying so hard.
I eased against the barrier. And then I melted into and through it. It was as though I floated in a void, darkness cut through with threads of blue, like Penglass. Up ahead was a shadowy figure. My mother, wearing her most fashionable dress, with her corset tight, her best bustle, those white gloves and her favourite parasol. She meandered through the darkness as though strolling through the park on a summer’s day.
Mother! I called out.
She paused, then kept walking.
Mother! I called again.
She turned towards me, her face blurred by the swirling blue light. She raised a hand, but hesitantly.
The blue light swirled, brighter and stranger. I blinked and my mother was gone. I was back on the outside of whatever barrier lay around her mind.
Cyril shook me. He was above me, strands of blonde hair falling into his eyes.
‘I’m on the ground,’ I said, dazed.
‘You fell off your chair,’ Cyan said, her worried face appearing next to my brother’s.
My shoulder hurt. Cyril helped me back to my seat. ‘Anything?’
‘Sort of.’ I told them both what had happened, keeping my voice low.
Cyan tried one last time, but after a few minutes, she came back. ‘I couldn’t even get past the barrier.’
‘Have you ever come across anything like that before?’ I asked her.
‘Never.’
Cyril slumped in defeat. ‘I knew it was a small chance,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t help but hope . . .’
Cyan gave us a sympathetic look.
If she’s in that deep . . . she began.
I know. I know.
Then she might never wake up.
Cyril was silent on the way back to the Penny Rookeries.
‘Thank you both for trying,’ he said in the entryway. The carriage waited below to take him back to his shared flat by the Celestial Cathedral.
‘I only wish we could be of more help,’ Cyan said. ‘Maybe . . . if we keep trying, we’ll be able to break through.’
We all thought it unlikely, but Cyril thanked her just the same with his impeccable manners.
After Cyan went to her room, my brother lingered, squeezing my shoulder. ‘I came here to tell you something earlier, before . . . well, before I saw a ghost and learned you and Cyan are magical.’
Put like that, it sounded rather silly. ‘What was it?’
> ‘I received an invitation to your magic show tomorrow at the palace, for the Princess.’
‘How’d you manage that?’ I’d told him about it as soon as we found out, but because it was only the very inner circle of royalty and nobility attending, it didn’t seem possible he’d be able to go.
‘Remember Tara Cypress?’
I resisted the urge to make a face. We’d never been close, and I’d never particularly got along with her.
‘She’s a lady’s maid at court to someone invited, and she managed to find me an invitation as well. I’ll have to get there early and have every inch of me searched by the palace guards, but I can be there.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ Talking about this was far easier than discussing what had just happened – or, rather, failed to happen – at the hospital. So I told him about what I had noticed at the rehearsal, the way the Princess had shimmered. ‘You’ll be closer to her than we will – can you watch out, see if you notice anything as well?’
‘Lord and Lady, Gene, you think the Princess is a . . . Chimaera?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I’ll see what I notice, and try and eavesdrop on the other people there.’
I didn’t like getting him involved, but we needed all the help we could get. ‘Thank you, Cyril.’
‘Anytime, little sister.’ He frowned. ‘Or brother. Sibling?’
‘Call me what you like. They all fit.’
I gave him a last hug and ran up the stairs before he could mention Mother again.
14
THE FETE AT THE PALACE
I couldn’t believe I was able to go to the Snakewood Palace for one of their summer fetes, Winnie. I wish you could have been there to see it. It was the most magnificent display I’d ever seen in my life, and I don’t know how any celebration could ever top it. But it must be possible, for this was just a “small party”, as they kept calling it, not a birthday or other grand event. But the food, and the glass globes, the music, the gowns! It made our debutante ball at Sicion’s Ballroom look like little more than a country hall with some garlands thrown about. I still can’t believe my luck. When no one offered for me after the debutante ball, I thought my life was over. But now I’m lady’s maid to my cousin, and perhaps here at court I’ll find myself a husband after all!
— Letter from Lady Tara Cypress to Lady Winifred Poplar
From outside, you’d never have guessed a royal party would be underway that night.
I’d passed the palace before when celebrations were on. Lights glowing from every window, music drifting down onto the streets, more lights speckled through the trees of the grand promenade. But now, under the threat of Kashura Forester attacks, all was quiet. Wise, too, for such ostentatious displays and blatant waste of taxpayer’s money would not be well regarded.
We entered through a side gate and endured the customary searches by stoical-faced guards. As before, we slipped Anisa’s Aleph through security.
Doctor Pozzi came to greet us and take us to the stage. He was perfectly groomed, as usual. It was the first time I’d seen him since Lily Verre told us what he had done to her. I shored the walls within my mind, not wanting him to catch even the smallest stray thought. I wished tearing down his walls and unwinding every secret curled in the coils of his mind was possible.
‘I’m looking forward to the performance,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be as fantastic as all the rest.’
Smiling at him, hoping it didn’t look as tight and strained as it felt, I told him we needed to finish setting up.
‘Of course, of course.’ He left us, to my great relief, and we hurried to finish preparing for the show. From behind the curtains we peeked out as several members of Ellada’s social elite entered the ballroom, sipping wine, nibbling food plucked from silver trays held by palace servants, and murmuring softly amongst themselves. I recognized a few of them. Lord Wesley Cinnabari, who had been at a séance we’d performed for the Lord and Lady Elmbark on the Night of the Dead near midwinter. That had been one of our first large bookings with the nobility, and that séance and the others that followed had helped us finance the duel with Penn Taliesin. There was Tara Cypress – we’d been presented at our debutante ball together an age ago, along with Lady Winifred Poplar. There was my brother Cyril, trying to blend in, keeping close to Tara. There were a few young girls I didn’t recognize, around the Princess’s age. In the middle of them was the Princess Royal herself, wearing a pink gown sparkling with crystals, her security guards never far away. She seemed subdued, quiet, barely speaking to the other girls. Her uncle, the Steward, was laughing and moving around the room greeting guests.
The enGlamoured Drystan, cheek to cheek with me as we looked through the gap in the curtains, suddenly stiffened.
‘I didn’t think he’d be here,’ Drystan whispered.
I followed the direction of his gaze: his father. Lord Nigel Hornbeam. The resemblance was obvious, his features were echoed in Drystan – pale hair and eyes, strong jawline.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, resting my hand on his shoulder. ‘Do you want to sit this one out?’ Even as I asked, my mind tried to plan an alternate show. We’d lost Oli as a stagehand and we couldn’t use Cyril. We could do it without Drystan, but it would be trickier.
‘No,’ Drystan said, touching the Glamour around his neck as if for reassurance. ‘I’m not all right, but he won’t recognize me with this. He’d never expect me here.’
With Pozzi’s Elixir enhancing my gifts I was even more sensitive to his emotions than usual, feeling Drystan’s pain almost as acutely as he did. My throat closed; panic thrummed through me. It reignited my own feelings of displacement and guilt: the part of me that still regretted cutting my family out of my life, too.
Maske came onto the small but grand gilt-and-marble stage to introduce the show. He would be performing the bulk of the tricks tonight, while we had supporting roles. It was understandable that he’d want the majority of the limelight: performing for royalty in the palace for a private party was a career highlight. Even his adversary Taliesin had never managed that.
‘When I was a young lad,’ Maske began the act, ‘I thought there were no magicians in my family. My father was a woodworker, and his father before him, and his father before him . . . or so I thought.’ He paced the stage slowly, as if lost in memories.
I manoeuvred the lantern, slotting in the small silhouettes Drystan had carved from flat pieces of wood and moving them slowly left to right, so that there was a constant stream of shadows accompanying Maske’s tale.
‘I was working late into the night. Most of the time, my father created furniture to sell, but he always taught me that we should master true art from the wood. So I was carving a cat, looking at my little pet sleeping in front of the fire.’
With easy sleight of hand, a little carved cat appeared in his palms. He made it disappear and then asked a member of the audience to stand and pat their pocket. The volunteer – the Treasurer of Ellada – took out the carved figurine, incredulous, to scattered applause.
Maske sat down in a chair on the stage, pantomiming nodding off to sleep. ‘I was so tired that night, and fell asleep in the middle of carving. I was lucky I did not cut myself.
‘At first, I thought I dreamed, for there in front of me was a great mage.’
Behind the scenes I crashed the cymbals, and Maske threw a powder that flashed bright green. When the smoke cleared, Drystan, nearly hidden by a huge cloak, appeared before him. Even beneath the Glamour’s illusion, it was clear that his features were pinched with tension. Yet he performed perfectly.
‘I am your great-great-grandfather, Jasper Maske,’ Drystan declared.
‘You look a little young,’ Maske said, and the audience chuckled. ‘You lie, or I am dreaming. My family has been naught but humble woodcarvers for generations.’
‘Are you so sure? The magic calls to you, doesn’t it?’ Drystan asked. ‘It sings to you, deep in your blood. It’s always been there,
and it always will be. I am here to unlock it.’
Drystan twirled, his cloak flaring out behind him, showing his magician’s suit. He levitated in the air and pressed his hands to either side of Maske’s head, looking deep into his eyes. With another flash of smoke he ascended to the gridiron above stage, leaving Maske alone.
The rest of the story was Maske learning his ‘magic’ and delighting the audience with his tricks. As it was a smaller stage, he couldn’t perform as many grand-scale illusions as at the Kymri Theatre, but his arsenal of prestidigitation was impressive nonetheless. A shower of coins fell from his bare palms, even with his sleeves rolled up. He made a rose bush grow from a seed he planted, and water pour from a vase that appeared to be empty.
He disappeared into the spirit cabinet, and reappeared at the back of the audience. I smiled. It was one of the earliest tricks we had learned, and though I had not liked being tied within the cabinet, the fact that Drystan had been crouched in the dark with me, close enough to kiss, had made it easier to bear.
Peppered throughout the performance were card tricks of all sorts. Maske flitted through the small audience, asking them to choose a card and always having it appear in an interesting way. He’d ask the participant to throw the entire deck in the air and stab the chosen card with a small knife. Another card appeared within a block of ice, and still another in a woman’s handbag on the other side of the room. Even I, who knew the truth behind every trick, could not help but be impressed by the ease with which he performed them. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness. Everyone knew it was sleight of hand, yet no one could catch him.
Behind the scenes Cyan and I pulled levers, provided sound effects, and did all we could to bring the show to life.