The Glass Magician

by Caroline Stevermer

  Ryker, Thalia remembered, Traded almost every day for his swim in the Hudson River. What would it be like to be able to do this daily? What would it be like to be able to depend on having the freedom of the air, the river, even the open sea?

  The more Thalia thought about what could be, the less she was her swan self, fixed so firmly in the present moment. Her human side was overshadowing the swan. Thalia felt the moment to Trade back drawing near. She still had to follow the instructions given her by the Board of Trade. For the first time, she was confident she could.

  With plenty of wing-space in the Ryker courtyard, Thalia wheeled as she descended and came to earth precisely where she’d decided to land, less than a foot from the front doorstep. She folded her wings neatly and waddled forward. There was no way for her to ring the bell or manage the latch in her swan form, so she gave the door an impatient peck. It opened at once.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Cutler.” Rogers the butler sounded both respectful and apologetic. Perhaps the incident with the shotgun was still on his conscience. More likely, Thalia decided, he simply had enough common sense to be wary of her swan form.

  Rogers stepped back to let Thalia in. “Mr. Ryker, Miss Ryker, and, er, the others are waiting for you in the music room.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thalia followed Rogers to the music room as quickly as her short swan legs allowed. There the members of the Board of Trade were ensconced in the best chairs, sipping tea and nibbling cakes. Ryker was seated on the piano bench. Nell, still in her otter shape, was curled comfortably beside him, her chin on his knee. She gave a single welcoming chirp when Ryker dislodged her and rose to his feet as Thalia entered the room. Nell sprang from her resting position on the piano bench to perch atop the piano.

  Mrs. Kipling and Madame Gillyflower set their teacups down.

  “Excellent.” Miss Carey-Thomas helped herself to another little cake. “All present and accounted for.”

  Madame Gillyflower said, “You may Trade back now, both of you.”

  Taking them in turn, Thalia curved her long neck to eye the Board of Trade crossly. After her flight up the river, the music room was too hot, too stuffy, too small, and too full of things it would be easy to bump into and break. She wished she could be alone. The scrutiny of the Board of Trade was unavoidable, but it was embarrassing to have Ryker there watching too.

  “Unless the ordeal was too much for you,” Madame Gillyflower added.

  Thalia hissed scornfully at the very suggestion. She ignored the discomfort of being observed and let herself dwell on how hungry she was, and how good those little iced cakes looked. She thought about how thirsty she was. A cup of tea would be very welcome. She thought about what might be instead of what was.

  Thalia Traded back. She found herself seated in a huddle on the floor. Her stage costume was undamaged. Her shoulders felt as if she’d strained something important. “Ow.”

  “You did it!” Nell, now fully human again, but still as graceful as an otter, did a brief hopping dance of triumph. “So did I! I passed my ordeal too!”

  Beaming, Ryker came to help Thalia up. Such was Thalia’s relief, she let herself lean on him for an entire second and a half. “I Traded.” Thalia tried the words on for size. They fit. She had done it on purpose at last. “I really truly Traded.”

  “You did.” Ryker gave her a formal handshake. “You’re a Trader now.”

  “Congratulations.” Madame Gillyflower addressed both Thalia and Nell. “You have both passed your ordeal. Once you have finished celebrating your success, demonstrate some restraint. I’m not certain polite society is ready for either of you yet.”

  “Thank you.” Thalia followed Nell’s lead and curtsied to the Board of Trade. “Thank you all.”

  “Thank goodness that’s over with.” Nell turned to Rogers, who was watching from the door. “Is there any smoked fish left, do you think? Perhaps a few sandwiches?”

  “Very good, Miss Ryker.” Rogers turned to go.

  “Champagne, too!” Nell called after him. “This is a celebration.” She twirled on the spot and returned to the piano bench. “I was sure you’d beat me here, but you took your time, didn’t you?” Without giving Thalia a chance to reply, she explained. “Nat gave the Board of Trade a lift in the Pierce-Arrow, so I slipped in the back and hid beneath the rumble seat.”

  “Very clever.” Thalia accepted the cup of tea and the little cake Ryker handed her. She ate the cake as slowly as she could, but it was still gone in a moment. She was grateful that sandwiches were in her near future.

  “Very bumpy.” Nell turned her attention to the Board of Trade. “It was so kind of you to grant us our ordeals today. I’m sorry we haven’t planned a more formal celebration. A bigger cake, for one thing. Champagne and sandwiches will be here soon, though. Rogers is very good.”

  “We won’t stay.” Madame Gillyflower rose. Mrs. Kipling and Miss Carey-Thomas followed suit. “You have done well today. We shall leave you to celebrate en famille.”

  “It’s best we don’t become too familiar with you,” said Miss Carey-Thomas.

  “Nor you with us,” added Mrs. Kipling crisply.

  Ryker and Nell accompanied the Board of Trade out. Thalia let them go without her. Once she was alone in the music room, she took the chair Miss Carey-Thomas had occupied. Her knees had gone weak. She was now a true Trader, an adult, and quite literally a fully fledged one. She was safe from manticore attack, prey no longer, and since she would no longer attract them, she would endanger no one else. She would be of no interest to Aristides now. Thalia was surprised by how much that thought hurt.

  Thalia could not only Trade and fly as a swan whenever she wished, she could come and go freely in her human form. The city was hers again. But where should she go? What should she do next?

  Wherever Nutall had gone with the other Sylvestri, it was where he had chosen to go. Thalia had done her best to help him. Now she was on her own. Where would she choose to go? Her home was the theater, but she would need a new act, a solo, before she went back on the circuit. In the meantime, what to do?

  It was tempting to plan an immediate visit to Philadelphia. Professor Philander Evans had been so wrong. There ought to be consequences for such ignorance. With regret, Thalia let that thought go. The responsibility for the error was all her own. Her mistake had been trusting in his knowledge without corroborating it.

  What true knowledge about Traders existed? Where could Thalia find answers to her questions about Trader ways? She was certain Ryker and Nell would do their best to help her, but who were the authorities on the subject? Now that she knew how to Trade, how best could Thalia learn how to be the kind of person who Traded?

  With a sinking feeling, Thalia admitted to herself her growing suspicion that the most reliable source of answers to her questions had walked out of the room with Madame Gillyflower and the other members of the Board of Trade.

  * * *

  The morning after the impromptu celebration of Nell’s and Thalia’s successful ordeals began far later than usual. Thalia, alone in the breakfast room with the morning editions of the newspapers, was cheered yet not surprised to read that all charges against David Nutall had been dropped. Miss Nora Uberti had confessed fully to her crime, which she had planned and carried out entirely alone. No charges were brought against any accomplice. Thalia, reading between the lines, thought she saw the words “especially not any member of the Ostrova family” implicit in every version of the story. The Ostrova Magic Company, although the site of the murderer’s arrest, was not connected with the crime in any way.

  The only reporters Thalia had asked Madame Ostrova to invite to her special performance were those she trusted to keep their promise to report the events accurately. Madame Ostrova, she suspected, had elicited a promise of her own, to keep the reputation of the family business unsullied. Thalia wished she’d thought of that.

  The gossip columns in the Solitaire newspapers noted that the first Mrs. Von
Faber, clad in deepest mourning, had been seen at the opera two nights running. Rumor had it that Caruso had arranged for her to attend as a distraction from her mourning, although the Great Caruso himself had denied it. Wherever the tickets had come from, Mrs. Von Faber seemed to be enjoying herself.

  It was a surprise to Thalia when Rogers appeared in the doorway bearing a card with that very name upon it. “Mrs. Von Faber wishes to see you, miss. She says it will take only a few moments of your time.” As Thalia rose, brushing out her skirts, he added, “She is in the parlor, miss.”

  Thalia followed Rogers out of the room and went to the parlor. There she found Mrs. Von Faber examining the porcelain figurines ornamenting the mantel. Seeing her close to, Thalia was surprised how well the white Solitaire woman had retained traces of her youthful air. Perhaps it was an illusion caused by the plumpness. Mrs. Von Faber’s cheeks still retained an almost childlike fullness, and her careful application of rouge made her seem almost doll-like despite her age.

  Thalia cleared her throat.

  “Good morning, Miss Cutler. Thank you for seeing me.” Mrs. Von Faber held up the figurine. “Meissen. Interesting. I would have bet good money it was Limoges.” She put it back on the mantelpiece. From her jet-beaded reticule, she drew out a thin brown envelope. “I am grateful to you for finding out who killed my dear Johan. I offered a reward. You’ve earned it. So I will pay. But that’s not why I’m here right now. I’m here because I’ve gone all through my husband’s papers. He had a special box. I knew it was important, but no matter what I tried, I couldn’t open it, so I had to pay a locksmith. He got it open last night. There were some envelopes inside. Since this one has your name on it, I thought you’d better have it.”

  Thalia eyed the envelope suspiciously. “What is it?”

  Mrs. Von Faber chuckled. “It’s not some kind of summons, if that’s what you’re worried about. Nothing legal.”

  “Is it illegal, then?” To Thalia’s surprise, Mrs. Von Faber looked embarrassed. Any reply she might have made was broken off when a maid, bearing a tray with Rogers’ idea of appropriate refreshments, joined Thalia in the doorway. Thalia let her past to arrange the tray, then invited Mrs. Von Faber to be seated.

  “Oh, how nice.” Mrs. Von Faber jostled the maid in her eagerness to take a chair. “Very kind of you, I’m sure.”

  “Very kind of my hosts.” Thalia took the best chair and poured out coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Both, please. Lots of both.” Mrs. Von Faber put the envelope down when she accepted her cup from Thalia. There was a single word written on it in bold black letters: CUTLER. “If you don’t want it, just put it in the fire. I won’t take it back.”

  “What is it?” Thalia repeated.

  “Read it and see.” Mrs. Von Faber took a wafer-thin cookie from the plate Thalia offered. “There were half a dozen envelopes like that inside. Different names on them, of course.”

  Thalia picked up the envelope. It had been sealed with wax, but someone had already opened it. There was nothing inside but a single sheet of newspaper. She spread the page flat. The San Francisco Pantograph, April 14, 1896. The society page, filled with breathless accounts of debutante balls, news of forthcoming engagements, and half a dozen wedding announcements. On the other side of the page Thalia found only a jumble of advertisements. Nine years old, and the newsprint was already starting to yellow. “What is this supposed to be?”

  Mrs. Von Faber helped herself to another cookie. “Use your eyes.” She held out her empty cup for a refill.

  Thalia turned back to the society news. There, among the portrait photogravures of brides stiff as waxworks, was a picture of her mother. Beneath it, the caption read, Heir to Paxton Fortune Weds Widow. In the text of the announcement, it said that Margarete Gruenewald, Trader, had married Lyman Paxton, also a Trader. In addition, Lyman Paxton’s father was the Paxton, he was heir to the Paxton Trust, and he was working for the family firm, a real estate empire. The happy couple were already on their wedding journey and would not be receiving well-wishers at their palatial home on Nob Hill for another month.

  Thalia closed her eyes to try to subdue her emotions so that her thoughts could come to order, but after only a moment she had to open them again to take another look at the image.

  The likeness was unmistakable. The woman in the picture was older than she had looked in the wedding portrait Thalia had found among her father’s personal effects. But it was the same person, no question. Margarete Gruenewald. Her mother. Her dead mother.

  Thalia checked the date of the newspaper again. “This is from 1896.”

  “Yes, I read it.” Mrs. Von Faber gave up waiting for Thalia and poured herself more coffee.

  “My mother died in 1888.”

  “She doesn’t look dead to me.”

  The Margarete Gruenewald in the picture had been alive in 1896. Thalia reminded herself it didn’t mean her mother was still alive in 1905. But hope had other ideas. She could not help hoping.

  If her mother was still in San Francisco, still alive, Thalia could find her. She could talk to her, she could ask questions, and she could find out why she’d been lied to for so long. Why had her father done it? Her mother would know his story. How many more lies of omission were there for Thalia to discover?

  Thalia looked at the name on the envelope. CUTLER. “My father was still alive when this was printed. What was your husband going to do with this?”

  Mrs. Von Faber shrugged. “I don’t know. I have no idea what Johan’s intentions were. But he did like to have influence. He liked to know secrets.”

  Thalia’s father might not have known about her mother’s remarriage, but his story of her death was false. What about her baby brother? What had become of the infant?

  So many lies. Had Nutall known any of this? Thalia considered the possibility but made herself dismiss it.

  Mrs. Von Faber went on reminiscing. “I don’t think Johan ever asked for money outright. He asked for favors instead. When he needed something from someone, he would let them know what he knew. He made it clear what would happen if they didn’t do as he wished. Always, when he asked someone for a favor, they granted it.”

  In other words, blackmail. Thalia thought hard. Perhaps Von Faber had kept this image of her mother to use against her father? Or against her mother? Her mother had committed bigamy. She had married a Trader in San Francisco years after she’d married Jack Cutler. Could that knowledge possibly have been used to extract anything from her father?

  Favors. Belatedly, Thalia remembered the Cadwallader Syndicate. “The noncompete clause.”

  “Such a fuss over that.” Mrs. Von Faber stirred more cream and sugar into her coffee. “I don’t understand contract law.”

  “Cornelius Cadwallader,” said Thalia. “Was that name on one of the envelopes?”

  “I called on him at his home first thing this morning. The look on his face.” When she smiled, Mrs. Von Faber looked like a big Dresden doll. “He thought I was like Johan until I explained things to him.”

  “You mean he thought you were going to go on blackmailing him.”

  Mrs. Von Faber’s soft chuckle had a faint undertone of scorn. “As if I needed anything from him. Johan left me and the children well provided for. No, Mr. Cadwallader didn’t understand me properly until I moved to put his envelope on the fire. Then he stopped me. Never saw a man jump so fast.”

  “Do you know what was in his envelope?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Von Faber gave Thalia a sharp look. “Of course I know. I opened it. I also know that it is no one’s business but his. But I’ll tell you this. He was glad to get it back.”

  With a contented sigh, Mrs. Von Faber put her empty cup down on its saucer and brushed crumbs away. “Do as you please with that. I must be on my way. Four envelopes to go. People may not be glad to see me come, but I so enjoy how happy I make them when I go.”

  Thalia put the sheet of newspaper aside to escort Mrs. Von Faber out. She too was ha
ppy to see the woman go. Her thoughts were racing, repeating the same points again and again.

  Her mother might truly be dead now, but in 1896, she had been alive and living in San Francisco. Her mother’s maiden name meant there was no possibility of a mix-up in images at the newspaper. Nor could it be some chance resemblance between her mother and another woman.

  In 1896, Thalia’s mother had been alive. The announcement had said nothing about children. If her father had lied about her mother’s death, had he lied about her baby brother too? Was her mother still alive? Was she living in a big house on Nob Hill with her husband and her son?

  Anger began to tinge the shock Thalia felt, but it was a good kind of anger. It spurred her on.

  Thalia’s stunned wonder began to give way to determination. She had telegrams to send. She had letters to write. She would go to California herself. She would go to San Francisco. If she had to, she would walk to Nob Hill.

  But she wouldn’t have to walk, Thalia reminded herself. She would have Mrs. Von Faber’s reward money to pay her expenses. Her first letter would be to the Dakota to apply for letters of transit on the cross-continental train.

  She had lost her father. She had lost her mother, yet there was a chance she could find her again. She might even find she had a younger brother. Someone out there in San Francisco knew more than she did, and Thalia vowed she would find the truth.

  Somehow, Thalia was going to get her questions answered. All her questions.

  When Thalia returned to the parlor, she found Nell there, examining the sheet of newsprint with interest. “This woman is a relation of yours, isn’t she? She has your nose and chin exactly.” Nell folded the paper.

  With a silent nod for his sister and a smile for Thalia, Nathaniel Ryker joined them and sat across from Nell. Even though she had to take long pauses to get through it without giving in to her various emotions, Thalia explained the whole thing to both of them.