Magic for Nothing

by Seanan McGuire

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “I got off the bus and came pretty much straight here.”

  “You allergic to anything? Gluten free, non-dairy, any of the usual restrictions?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Glad to hear it. We respect dietary needs—we have to, if we don’t want to kill people by mistake—but we’re not set up for anything catastrophic. Sam, get the lady a plate and a cup of coffee.”

  “Okay, Grandma,” said Sam, and skulked off, pausing only to shoot a glare at me.

  “You’ll have to forgive my grandson; he doesn’t like strangers,” said Emery.

  “Huh,” I said. “Well, I don’t much like strangers either, so I guess I can’t blame him. You’re his grandmother?”

  “Yes. His mother, my daughter, left us a long time ago. Don’t look so distressed—she didn’t die, she left. She couldn’t deal with certain realities of her life as a mother, and she felt I was better equipped. Her loss, as I always tell Sam.” Emery fixed me with a steely gaze. The pleasantries were over. “How about you, Miss . . . Timpani, wasn’t it? Do you have any family?”

  “None to speak of at the moment, ma’am,” I said. “I’ve been on my own for a while now.”

  She glanced at the mice, clearly checking to see if they were upset by what I was saying. Using Aeslin mice as a living polygraph was clever. Unfortunately for her, nothing I was saying was technically a lie. The mice wouldn’t have reacted even if they’d been less well-trained than mine were. That’s the beauty of being the gray child. I knew how to color outside the lines.

  “That’s a pity and a blessing at the same time. Once you’ve lost everything you have to lose, transition gets easier.” Emery leaned forward. “What can you do? Don’t lie, and don’t exaggerate. You have a pair of Aeslin mice with you. That alone buys you an audition, and possibly a berth, if you don’t need to go terribly far. They’re rare creatures in this day and age. They deserve to be protected.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I’m doing my best to do right by them.” Mindy looked up at me, bristling her whiskers into a fan, and I resisted the urge to cup my hands around the mice and protect them from prying eyes. Aeslin mice were pushed to the brink of extinction by a combination of monster hunters and overly-ambitious showmen who thought talking mice were the flea circus of the future. “I do trampoline work, some trapeze—give me a good partner and a solid net and I’m up for almost anything. No high wire or tightrope work. My balance is good, but it’s not superhuman. I’m an excellent knife-thrower, hit what I’m aiming for nine times out of ten, even when I’m in motion. Um. I know how to make coffee, I can change the tires on a car, and I roller skate.”

  Emery raised an eyebrow. “You . . . roller skate.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sometimes while throwing knives. It can be pretty impressive if I do it right, and it’s definitely fun for the crowd. Um, I know how to rig most throwing games, and can play the plant if I’m not doing my own knife-throwing act.” Playing the plant meant being the one to walk the midway, looking delighted by the chance to show my skills. It meant winning a lot of stuffed rabbits that would then go back into the general pool to be won again. And it meant not doing anything more public-facing, since the rubes tended to get pretty pissed off when they realized the girl who’d shilled them into plunking down five or ten or twenty dollars on an unwinnable game was also the carnival marksman.

  “You realize I’m going to ask you to prove every skill you’ve just listed for me,” said Emery. “Are you sure this is the resume you want to go with?”

  I paused to do a quick review before offering, “I also mend my own clothes, don’t snore, don’t smoke, and mostly don’t bite people.”

  “The standards were very low at your original show, weren’t they?”

  “I work to my strengths,” I said, and shrugged. “Not attacking people without cause is a strength.”

  “I see. And how did you come to acquire your traveling companions?”

  “They’ve been with my family for generations. They need me.” Still not a lie. Still not the entire truth. “I guess this is where I tell you that I know the mice aren’t the only strange things in the world, and that it’s not my business if not everyone with the show is entirely human. Ma’am.”

  Emery’s eyebrows rose. “That’s blunt.”

  “I try to be.”

  Sam’s return cut off her reply. Emery flashed him a smile and relieved him of a plate, which she set in front of me. “I’ll want a demonstration of the things you say you can do after lunch. Until then, eat, rest, and try not to make too much of a nuisance of yourself. Sam, show Timpani around, and take her to Umeko’s old trailer, I think. Umeko hasn’t used it in months, and Timpani will need a place to sleep for as long as she’s with us.”

  “But, Grandma—” Sam began.

  “No arguments. Breakfast and tour guide. That’s a good boy.” She stood, kissed him on the temple, and walked away, leaving me to blink after her.

  “I guess my interview’s over,” I said.

  Sam scowled as he sat in her vacated spot. “Did you fail it? Please tell me you failed it.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, pulling my plate closer. The theme of the meal seemed to be “beige.” Scrambled eggs, oatmeal—with brown sugar and butter, at least, which elevated it to the level of “actually food”—two pieces of cornbread, and a glass of orange juice. I gave one of the pieces of cornbread to the mice, who cheered enthusiastically before vanishing under the table with it. Like most mice, Aeslin do not enjoy having humans watch them eat.

  “Damn,” said Sam.

  I raised both my eyebrows. “Are we going to have a problem?”

  “It depends. Are you going to leave?”

  “I told you, I’m looking for a permanent show.”

  “Then yes, we’re going to have a problem.” He scowled harder at me.

  If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s being scowled at. My siblings have been doing it for as long as I can remember. I picked up my fork and began mashing my scrambled eggs into the oatmeal. “Too bad. You’re not totally unfortunate on the trapeze. Your form isn’t great—”

  “Hey!”

  “—but that doesn’t mean you don’t have potential. We could have had a lot of fun.”

  “Oh, please,” he scoffed. Actually scoffed. “Like you could keep up with me?”

  I shrugged broadly. “You could try me and find out. Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

  “Or maybe you’ll drive me insane with your insistence that you belong here, and your voice will magically become the dulcet humming of the spheres.”

  I blinked. “Harsh.”

  To his credit, Sam looked faintly abashed. “Sorry.”

  “I mean, inventive, and points for the use of ‘dulcet,’ but . . . harsh. Do you talk to all the new girls like this, or did I get really lucky somehow?”

  “We don’t get that many new girls. Especially not ones who wander out of a field in the middle of the week and disrupt my workout.”

  “So I’m a novel experience. Goodie for me. It’s always nice to have absolutely no expectations to fail to meet.” I pointed my fork at Sam’s plate. It was laden about three times as heavily as mine, but I couldn’t blame him for that. He was eating like an athlete, and feeding me like, well, a stranger who could damn well get her own second helpings. “You want to call a ten-minute truce while we inhale sufficient calories to keep body and soul together?”

  “Sure,” he said, looking relieved that he wasn’t going to need to talk for a few minutes. We set to eating our respective breakfasts.

  He was definitely a faster eater than I was: I wasn’t sure he paused long enough to chew between bites. I mashed everything into one big beige pancake of oatmeal and eggs and bready bits, and began to eat, measuring the tent around me as I did. That’s the nice thing about meals: pe
ople expect a little quiet, and that can create the perfect opportunity to get the lay of the land.

  Not many folks were up yet—it was way too early for this kind of show to be really active—but the ones who were seemed pretty normal for the carnival setting. They wore jeans, sweatshirts, and the occasional long skirt; unlike Sam, most of them had shoes on, proving they were smarter than the average trapeze artist. A few cast curious glances in my direction. None seemed really unfriendly, not the way he did. Leave it to me to find the one person in the show who didn’t like new people.

  Despite his triple portions of, well, everything, Sam finished first. He pushed his plate away, eyeing what was left on mine dubiously. “Did you have to kill it before you could eat it?”

  “It never hurts to be sure,” I said, before taking another bite. “The oatmeal’s good.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “Okay, this?” I pointed my fork at him. “Getting old. Dial it down if you don’t want me to accidentally kick you at the first opportunity.”

  “You’d never catch me.”

  “The cocky always have the farthest to fall.” My breakfast was basically over: there were only a few scraps remaining. I looked under the table. Mindy and Mork had annihilated their cornbread and disappeared, which probably meant they were back in my bag. A quick check confirmed that yup, I had two peacefully sleeping Aeslin mice curled up in my pencil bag. They must have been as exhausted by all the travel as I was.

  I looked back up to find Sam watching me, an expression somewhere between wariness and hope on his face. It faded as soon as he realized I was looking at him.

  “Come on,” he said brusquely, snatching my plate. “I’ll show you around.”

  “Great,” I said, and followed.

  There is no “normal” where the American carnival is concerned, especially not when dealing with a hybrid show like Spenser and Smith. But there are certain attributes that remain constant, if only because they represent the most effective way of doing things, and carnivals are all about maximizing effectiveness. The more streamlined the show, the faster it will be to set up and tear down—and when a town decides to change a local ordinance because they want those traveling weirdoes out of the field, it helps to be able to get out in less than six hours. Not as big of a concern these days, when carnivals are rarer and hence a more exciting spectacle, but still, it’s good to know that a quick exit is possible.

  With a tent show, the layout frequently goes something like this: the front gate and ticket booth, which will be as secure as needed, given the attractions on display; the midway and entrance to the big tent; the entrances to the smaller, sideshow tents, of which the Spenser and Smith Family Carnival had six; the rides at the back, both to lure townies through the entire show, and to minimize the distance any given component would have to travel. The only exception at this particular show was the Ferris wheel, which was set up right at the end of the midway, where its lights and slow, romantic turn would attract even more people than the greater thrills beyond.

  It was a nice little operation. I would have enjoyed attending it, screwing with the people manning the games of chance, and coming away with a few new stuffed toys. As it was, I felt bad for coming in under false pretenses, and wary at the same time. Three teenagers were missing. That was more than enough to justify intervention by my family—and if the Covenant got involved, it was going to be seen as more than enough to justify a massacre. I needed to be on edge until I could either clear the carnival’s name or condemn it once and for all.

  Sam said as little as possible during my tour, which was no surprise. He kept looking up like he expected something to drop out of the sky and save him from the necessity of showing me around.

  Finally, once we had exhausted the wonders of the closed midway and the powerless rides, he led me back through the tarp to the bone yard. It had woken up while we were walking around: there were people everywhere now, some with plates from the mess tent balanced on their knees, others firing up personal barbeques. A surprising number of people seemed to think hot dogs were an appropriate breakfast food. Oh, well. It was no skin off my nose.

  Sam clearly knew the bone yard by heart, and led me between tents and vans without pausing. If he’d been marginally friendlier, he would have been the perfect guide. As it was, I sort of wanted to punch him in the throat, just to see if it would get something out of him other than a scowl.

  He stopped at a small RV. “Here,” he said brusquely.

  I Spocked an eyebrow at him. “You might want to use a few more words. This sentence no verb. This sentence barely nouns.”

  “Oh, my God, could you be more annoying?”

  “Yes. I assure you, I could be more annoying.” I looked at the RV. “What is ‘here’? Is this my temporary home?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Umeko moved in with her boyfriend, and since they seem pretty stable, you get her room for the time being.”

  I blinked. “I was sort of expecting to be sleeping on someone’s floor. New girl, and all.”

  “We don’t trust you enough to let you sleep on someone’s floor.” He smiled for the first time, showing me all his teeth. “See, quarantine is a useful principle that you should probably get used to.”

  “Social quarantine. Nice.” I tried the door. It swung open to reveal a narrow room slightly bigger than my closet at home. It contained a bunk, a counter, two cabinets, and a microwave. I’d be able to change my clothes, if I wasn’t too picky about needing to stand up straight. “Cozy.”

  “It’s that or sleep in the field.”

  “Given that glorious range of options, cozy sounds good to me.” I stepped up into the RV. Then I frowned. “This is about half the size I expected from the outside.”

  “Yeah, the other half is where we keep the pythons.”

  It took me a second to realize he wasn’t kidding. “Lovely,” I said. “I’m assuming since Emery told you to put me here, she’ll be sending someone to get me when it’s time for my audition?”

  “Yeah,” said Sam.

  “Fantastic,” I said, and took great pleasure slamming the door in his face.

  Of course, this left me, my suitcase, and my backpack in a room barely large enough to deserve the name. I hoisted the suitcase onto the bed before wiggling out of my pack and putting it carefully on the counter. I didn’t want to wake the mice if I could avoid it.

  A cabinet door next to the microwave concealed a minuscule closet with a mirror on the inside. I squinted at my reflection: the frizzy braids, the deep circles under my eyes. I looked the part of someone who’d been beating the road for months, looking for a new place to belong. So why the hell was Sam so reluctant to believe me?

  The bed, though narrow, looked comfortable. I decided to test it out by sitting down. Just for a minute. The mattress was thin. That didn’t matter. I yawned, closing my eyes. I wasn’t going to sleep, I was just going to take a second to center myself. I wasn’t going to sleep, I was just—

  Someone was hammering on the door of the RV. I opened my eyes. The light slanting through the tiny window over the bed had changed, becoming brighter and more direct than should have been possible, considering the early morning fog.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, and sat up.

  My entire body ached. It felt like I’d been doing Pilates in my sleep, working my core until it gave up completely. I stood on shaky legs and staggered to the door, opening it to reveal Sam. He was wearing jeans and a different sweatshirt, this one much less shapeless and sleepwear-esque. He still wasn’t wearing shoes.

  “Do you have some sort of religious issue with the idea of shoes?” I blurted.

  He blinked. “If that’s what passes for ‘hello’ on your world, it’s no wonder you’re an exile on ours.”

  “HAIL!” squeaked the mice. I looked behind me. Mindy and Mork were standing on the counter, under a l
ittle mouse lean-to they’d constructed from four plastic forks and a paper plate.

  “Not going to ask where you got those,” I said, and turned back to Sam. “Sorry. I guess I was more exhausted than I thought. I crashed like the Hindenburg. What time is it?”

  “Almost three,” he said. “Grandma wants you.”

  “Do I have time to change into something that smells less like I’ve been sleeping in it for the last six hours?”

  Sam actually smiled, thin-lipped and chilly. “No,” he said. “If you’re going to work this show, you’re going to come when my grandmother calls.”

  “Goodie,” I said, and hopped down from the RV. I was still wearing my shoes. Hooray for the unexpected nap. “All right: take me to your leader.”

  If the bone yard had seemed populous before, it was nothing compared to now. There were people everywhere, from the thickly muscled men and women in overalls moving heavy equipment from one place to another to the tattooed, strikingly-dressed performers, ride monkeys, and pitch men. There were also children, a surprising number for a show this size. Several of them went racing past, too caught up in their game of tag to register the fact that I was a stranger. I watched them go, feeling oddly wistful.

  “Hey.”

  I turned to Sam. He was looking at me, a surprising degree of understanding in his eyes.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Just a little homesick,” I said.

  “Well, don’t worry,” he said, the moment of understanding passing as quickly as it had come. “Grandma’s going to work you until you don’t have the energy to be homesick.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on,” I said, and followed him through the tarp, onto the great sawdusted backbone of the carnival, which was lumbering to life around us. None of the rides were running yet, but they were swarming with carnies, checking the bulbs and the bolts, making sure that everything was good to go. About half the games were unshuttered, their pitch men going through their paces. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn drifted on the wind, sweet and close and demanding my attention. You could belong here, it said. Just breathe in, and belong.