A Bitter Magic (8 page)

I trudge up the glass staircase. No dinner for me, thanks. Outside my door, I stop, reluctant to go in, reluctant to go anywhere.

A bath will make me feel better.

I step in the room, and my heart lurches. There's someone—Uncle Asa!—lounging on the sofa, head tilted to see me from a new angle.

“The traveler returns,” he says, smiling. “Did you enjoy slumming?”

It takes me a few seconds to answer. First, my heart needs to slow down. “Do you enjoy firing people?”

“When they disobey the rules, yes, I do.”

Sudden anger burns in my chest. “She was just helping me find my way. In my own house! What do you have against the Gypsies anyway?”

“Nothing at all. I have nothing against my horse, either, or my dog.”

His words knock the breath out of me. “You don't…,” I start. But I need to start again. “You don't see them as people?”

“People of a sort.”

“People like you and me?”

“Like you and me? No, my dear.”

“They are, though.”

“Well, I'm sure we could have a lively discussion sometime over dinner. Right now I'm just glad you're home safe, without being robbed.”

“They didn't rob me. They fed me.”

“Ah.” He gazes at the ceiling. “I can't imagine what delicacies they must have served.”

“Stew and corn bread,” I say through set teeth. “We sat on the ground. We ate from the same pot. Sang songs. Laughed. All sorts of things we don't do here.”

An unexpected smile lights his face. “Well, well! That got a rise out of you. Good!”

“Something else gets a rise out of me. Why do you have all these obstacles to keep me away from Mother's rooms?”

“It's not about you. People expect surprises. A magician's house needs to be interesting.”

“It's not interesting, Uncle Asa. Somebody should tell you this.”

“Others might disagree.”

“What others?”

He waves his fingers in the general direction of outside. “It keeps people off balance. It keeps them in awe. You must have noticed how the tourists flock here.”

“We have tourists, yes, but you hate them. You've told me that yourself.”

“Of course I hate them. But they pay the expenses. How would you like to be without servants?”

“I had an excellent servant. You fired her.”

“Yes, I did.”

“First Cole. Now Anna.”

“I had to make an example.”

“You realize you fired my only friends.”

“You were being distracted. I need your undivided attention.”

“Well, you just lost it.”

“But surely,” he says, laying his arm along the back of the sofa, “you know these people are not worthy of you. Gypsies? A carpenter's boy? Please!”

“Uncle,” I say, “if they're not worthy, neither am I.”

“You're a Thummel.”

“Everybody tells me that, as though it's some great thing.”

“It
is
a great thing.”

“Do Thummels value friendship?”

“They value duty. That's more important.”

“Then maybe I'm not a Thummel. Not worthy to help you in your rooftop laboratory. You should get someone else.”

I watch his face for a reaction. Maybe the tiniest
flinch. I've nicked him where it hurts. “You're making a mistake,” he says grimly.

“I don't think so. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like a little privacy so I can take a bath.”

“Yes.” He pushes himself to his feet. “I can see you must need one, considering where you've been.”

I take a deep breath. Then another.

I close the door behind him and lock it. I wish I could lock it twice.

First Elwyn, then Cole, now Anna. Is there anybody left I can talk to? Miss Porlock? There's the teapot. I pick it up and find there's still some tea left. Where's the cup?

I look around, trying to remember where I left it. Before I saw Anna from the window, I set the cup down. Where? Ah yes, on the table. On the
black glass
on the table. The glass is where I left it, but where's the cup?

An awful suspicion sweeps over me.

Okay, a housemaid may have cleaned up and taken it, but maids hardly ever come in the evening. I race around the room looking everywhere it isn't, in order not to accept the obvious:
the cup has disappeared!

It's the one test Uncle Asa didn't think to make: place something on the mirror and then do nothing.

I pick up Cole's little carved horse.
No, I wouldn't want to lose that. How about this?
I place a perfume bottle in the center of the glass. I never liked the scent anyway. I pull up a chair.

Nothing.

More nothing.

Maybe a slight something. A sort of fizz. Tiny points of light circle the bottle, like bubbles from champagne. Elementals!

More points of light by the moment. A swarm! I back away.

Fewer lights now and less of the bottle. Tiny places where the bottle simply isn't, as if it were riddled with holes. Is this an illusion or some kind of physics I never heard of? The last bubbles blink out, and the mirror lies empty as an abandoned skating rink. Only the slightest scent of perfume lingers in the air.

Try something else! What about this silver letter opener? No one writes to me anyway
. I lay it on the glass and hunch down so I'm at eye level with it.

Come on
.

Nothing.

Do something!

Finally, it starts. So it works on metal, too. Two, five, a dozen points of light begin to glow.

More appear, a circling constellation.

Then they start blinking out. A minute later, the letter opener is not there. Not anywhere!

I'm struck by the awful finality of Mother's absence.
She disappeared into the mirror, and then the mirror broke
. It's the only explanation that makes sense, the only reason she couldn't meet me that night at the boat. She's
trapped
in there!

How do I get her out?

I pace around the room like an animal. In front of
the window, I stop and stare out at the night, my breath coming in gulps, like sobs without tears.

Maybe I
will
take that bath
.

When the tub's full, I step in and sink up to my chin, letting my thoughts drift and my bones relax.
Come on, we can think our way through this
.

Mother. Mirror.

Did the glass
make
her disintegrate, through some unknown chemical action? Or did she pass
through
it, the way my hand passes through the surface of the bathwater? I can still see my hand. If the glass weren't black, could I see my mother? Is she on the other side? Is she
looking out
?

I jump out of the tub, sloshing water, and pad to the table to retrieve the shard of mirror. Back in the bath, I hold it up, but can't see anything, not even myself.

I do feel something, though, or imagine I can. A slight pull, a weak magnetic field, a tingling in my thumb where I'm holding the glass.

Tiny lights begin circling my thumbnail. For a moment, I'm too shocked to move. More points of light, like tiny fireflies.

No! NO!

I let go, and the glass splashes into the water. I'm staring at my thumb.

At most of my thumb
.

No blood. Nothing. The top joint of my thumb!
It's not there!

“Cole!”

He doesn't hear me.

“Cole! Up here!”

Finally, he looks up. I wave.
“Hold on!”
In my hurry to get down to him, I manage to scrape my knee on the seawall, tearing my skirt. So what—I've got to see him, got to tell him what happened! I make it to the weed-slimed rocks, then pick my way to the sandy beach, where he stands, a half-filled sack slung over his shoulder.

Say something!

Now that I'm in front of him, I can't find the words. I haven't seen Cole since Asa fired him. Are we still friends? I
have
to tell him about the black mirror, but what if he's repulsed? I'm a little repulsed myself. Part of me is
missing
!

I slip the hand in my pocket. “So.” Clear my throat. “Where are you headed?”

He squints into the sunrise. How nicely the light slants across the side of his smile! “Nowhere special.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

We walk silently, Cole scuffing in his bare feet while I get sand in my shoes. He doesn't notice the soft clicking sound in my pocket as I gently tap the wooden turtle he made me.

Tap it with my glass-tipped thumb!

Click-click. Click
.

That was the second shock, as bad as the first. Not just what's missing, but what replaced it: a slant of black glass where the last joint of my thumb used to be—the same glass the mirror's made of. No wonder I couldn't sleep last night. My left hand felt so foreign. Even now I can't stop touching it, and each time I do is a surprise.

Heal it!
I told myself.
You can heal wounds, can't you?

But I couldn't. I tried for half an hour, but no matter how tightly I held the thumb, no matter how hard I concentrated, nothing changed. Finally, I realized:
It isn't a wound. It's an absence. How do you heal what isn't there?

It may not be there, but I can feel it. In fact, if I don't look straight at it, I'd swear my thumb is whole. Especially when it aches.

Aches to exist.

I hate to think what might've happened if I'd left my hand there longer. Or if the piece of glass were larger. I might've been left with a stump at the end of my wrist!

Click-click. Click-click
.

I look over at Cole. “What have you been up to, since—”

“Mostly looking for work.”

“Your dad finished those chairs, I see.”

“Now he's looking, too. Not much work to be had these days. Not even at the glass factory.”

I'm quiet for a while. “I'm sorry you lost your job.”

He grunts in agreement.

“He fired my friend Anna, too.”

“I know. Nicolae told me. He's not a big fan of your family.”

I nod, and we walk on. Ahead of us, along the bluff, stand the wagons of the Gypsies.

Anna, Nicolae, Hanzi. Just thinking about them makes my stomach tighten.

As we pass the docks, fishermen give Cole friendly waves. One of them shouts, “Who's the new girlfriend?”

Cole laughs. Doesn't notice my blush, thank goodness. Everybody knows Cole. Sailors. Gypsies. Shopkeepers. A gaggle of girls passes us, giggling. The tall one with waist-length hair flashes Cole a smile. That red lipstick doesn't suit her at all.

Should I be wearing makeup? Would Miss Porlock allow it?

Should I tilt my head as I talk?

The girl pauses to murmur something to Cole that I can't hear, then flitters away, glancing back as she goes.

“She's pretty,” I say.

I bet she has all ten fingers
.

No freckles, either
.

“She is.”

“Do you like her?”

“Sure.”

This is so obviously not my business. What I really want to do, what I
have
to do, is tell him about my thumb, which has begun to ache again.

My whole insides are aching, full of sore feelings. I'm not part of Cole's world. I'm this strange creature. I don't even have a parent. Or part of my body.

My thumb twitches.

“What's that clicking sound?” Cole says, pausing.

“What sound?”

“Wait. It stopped.”

Should I tell him? I can't. I've got to. Still, I don't say anything. It's like my throat has closed off. “How's your sister?” I say at last.

“Gwen? She's great. She has a birthday coming up. I've been working on her present.”

“You keep track of your sister's birthdays?”

He gives me an odd look. “Of course. What do you do at your house?”

Click-click
.

“There it is again!”

“There what is?”

“That clicking sound.”

I've got to stop doing that. “So,” I say, “what are you getting her?”

“I'm building her a kite. It's a new design I've—” He breaks off.

“What?”

“I'm hearing it again.”

My breathing slows to nothing. “You mean…this?”

He stares as, slowly, I draw my left hand from my pocket.

He takes hold of it and turns it back and forth. “Good God! What
happened
?”

Even I can't believe what I see, and I've been looking at it since last night. Tears fill my eyes. A warm drop lands on his wrist.

Cole's eyes narrow. “Did
he
do this?”

“You mean Uncle Asa?” I shake my head. “I managed it all by myself.”

“That's crazy. You would never—”

“Remember in Mother's room? We talked about the black mirror? Well, I have a piece of it. I was holding it, and…”

My throat strangles with tears. I look at Cole desperately—glimpse pain in his eyes as he reaches out his arms and enfolds me. He holds me a long time, muffling the world till all I can hear are his bumping heart and the muted screams of seabirds.

Friend
.

I'm getting used to the sound of it.

Seeing my mutilated thumb the other day shocked Cole, but didn't scare him off. That tells a lot about him. Good things.

Now that I've stopped helping Uncle Asa with those foul-smelling experiments, I have more time for myself. Against his wishes (but what isn't?), I've been spending my days outside—with Cole.

Yesterday was interesting. It was Gwen's birthday, and I got to meet the whole Havens clan. Cole led the way to the edge of a slope where the dune grass changes to scrub pine on the way down to the firth. “Here we are.”

I didn't see anything but a decrepit wharf sticking out
in the water. Above it, someone long ago had built a sort of house.

Is that where Cole lives?

As we got closer, I heard squeals of children and sounds of running feet; but before we could reach the door, our way was blocked by an explosive orange cat that leaped onto the doorstep, his back arched and eyes glaring. He hissed. Then, with a flick of his tail, he turned and stalked off.

I looked at Cole. “He hissed at me!”

“That,” he said, laughing, “was Melon Ball. It's how he says hello.”

“I'd hate to find out how he says goodbye.”

“Good mouser, though.”

“He probably
scares
the poor things to death.”

Cole pulled open the door, and a girl in a fluffy dress ran right into him. “Whoa! Slow down, Gwennie.”

She broke away and ran, all knees and elbows, after a boy with a balloon.

The party speeded up from there. Cole steered me to the kitchen, where a solid, ruddy-faced woman in a smock was holding a tray of cookies over her head, to keep it from the reaching children.

“Hey, you little monsters,” she pleasantly scolded, “these are for later!”

She caught sight of me, and the smile faded. “This is the one?”

Cole nodded. “Mom, this is Cisley.”

Mrs. Havens looked me over like I was a suspect cut
of meat. I could guess what she was thinking:
What is my son doing with the spoiled girl from the castle?

“Hi, Mrs. Havens.”

She nodded briefly.

“Can I help?”

“No need,” she said, and swept past, just as a large man with a sea captain's beard emerged with packages in one hand and a cane in the other.

“You must be Cisley,” he said in an overriding voice. He shifted the packages to his cane side and held out a hand. “I'm Charlie Havens, Cole's father.”

His handshake was warm and rough, his eyes blue. “Can I help?” I asked. My second try with that question.

“Could you take these things? They go on the table at Gwen's place.”

It wasn't hard to tell which place was hers, her plate surrounded by ribbons and paper-doll cutouts.

Soon everyone was called to table—there was even a plate brought for me—and shouts and laughter rang through the room. I found it a little alarming. I'm never around children and don't know how to talk to them. It's not anything like talking to Uncle Asa.

After cookies and cider came the songs. Oh, the songs. Everybody joined in, as best they knew how, with a round about the bells of London, and another wishing Gwen to live to a thousand and three. I didn't know any of these, but with Cole's nudging, I hummed and stumbled through a verse or two.

Then Mr. Havens stood at the table's head, waited for quiet, and in a strong, mournful voice sang out the old Scottish tune:

What tho' on hamely fare we dine
,

Wear hoddin-gray, an' a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine
,

A man's a man for a' that
.

The table was silent for a bit; then a boy burped, and everyone laughed, and it was time for presents. The one from Gwen's parents turned out to be an oversized storybook with color illustrations. The book was not new, but Gwen received it with gasps of delight.

How did I ever think she was old enough to be Cole's girlfriend? She's taller than most eleven-year-olds, certainly taller than her friends, but she acts younger.

And worships her brother.

Even more so after Cole pulled out his present: a spectacular kite, a big blue trapezoid on which he'd painted a seagull in flight. The idea, he explained to her, was that, on a clear day, the kite would disappear (blue against blue), and all you'd see was the bird.

Gwen jumped up and down, and begged to go out and try it
right now
!

The parents stayed behind while Gwen, Cole, and I trooped outside, along with Gwen's school friends. For the next hour, we ran ourselves ragged up and down
the beach while the big white bird sailed overhead. It was exhausting fun, and when I at last headed home, dawdling along the shore, I kept thinking about that family—as poor as beach sand—and about my own.

Today's a different adventure. Cole and I have been clamming, of all things. Something it would never occur to me to do. If I wanted clams, I'd reach for the bellpull and order some, missing all the sunburn and backache of crouching down and digging in wet sand.

It's warmer than usual today as we tramp barefoot along the tidal flats with buckets, trowels, and clamming rake. What a relief to pull off those awful shoes and the itchy stockings beneath. Miss Porlock would have a fit if she saw me, but how else are you supposed to kneel in sand or run through waves?

By early afternoon, Cole and I have filled two buckets. Strolling along, he lugs the pails while I carry the trowels, swinging my shoes. I don't know when I've felt such easy contentment—a warming sun on my face, my new friend beside me.

“Thought I'd drop in on Underwood,” he says. “Want to come? He's been having a hard time lately.”

“Who's he?”

“You know. He's that painter.”

My breath suddenly catches.

“What's the matter?” Cole says.

Click-click. Click-click
.

He gives me a closer look. “What is it, Cis?”

“I've seen that man before.”

“Of course you have. He's out here every morning with his paints.”

“No, I mean somewhere else.”

Cole nods toward the bluff. “Well, he lives in that little place up there.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Underwood? He's not doing so well these days. Can't find buyers for his work. Who has money for paintings?”

We continue scuffing along.

“My dad's trying to find him a job, anything. Maybe at the glass factory. Of course, he needs a job himself.” He gives the buckets a shake, and the shells softly clatter. “I'd like to drop off some of these clams. Some for you, too, of course.”

We climb the bluff to the painter's cabin. A board's missing on the weather side, and the shingles look rotted.

Cole knocks.

We wait. He knocks again. “Mr. Underwood?”

He looks at me. “Maybe we should go in. He's got an ice chest where I can put these.”

“I don't know. I mean, if he's not home—”

“It's okay. I've been here lots of times.”

“He won't get mad?”

Cole is already inside.

It feels silly to stand out here, so I follow, watching as Cole throws open the shutters. Sunlight streams in,
revealing, well, I'd call it squalor, but then, I live in a castle, with gleaming corridors and space everywhere. Here, there is space nowhere. Just a paint-spattered counter, a small coal stove, clothes and paint-smeared rags piled on the only chair, a rumpled bed in semi-darkness against the back wall. What strikes me most are the paintings, a dozen canvases, landscapes mostly, covering the narrow walls.

“They're good,” I murmur, leaning over to look. I hadn't expected them to be good.

Cole opens the ice chest and empties half a bucket of clams into it, then a little more. “He used to be pretty well-known around here.”

“He was?”

“He did that painting of your mom that's in her bedroom.”

“He did
that
?”

“I saw the signature.”

I flip through some canvases leaning against the wall. I hold one up to see it better: the portrait of a man, pensive, staring out a window. A self-portrait, I realize, an Underwood by Underwood. Am I sure I've seen that face before? I stare at it, trying to think.

After a minute or so, I notice several bright gnats circling the left side of the canvas. It takes a few seconds for me to realize, and then believe, that they're not gnats at all, but points of light—
elementals!
I thump the canvas down, but too late. There's a small, perfectly round hole in the painting.

Cole catches the look on my face. “What is it?”

“My thumb!”

“Your what?” He comes over.

“I keep forgetting. I've put holes in my towels, in my dresses….”

“I don't un—”

“The glass on my thumb!” I cry. “It's the same as the mirror!” Even I can hear the despair in my voice. “Look, I've put a hole in his painting!”

“You're right.”

“He's going to hate me.”

“I don't know about that. But we've got to be more careful.”

Inwardly I thank him for that
we
, like he's part of whatever happens. But I'm the one who has to be careful. I've got to learn to do everything with my other fingers. “It's just lucky,” I say, “I haven't caused more damage.”

“Well, now we know.”

I take a deep breath and nod.

He gives me a one-armed hug. “So. I'm ready if you are.”

“Okay.” I'm turning to go when a different painting catches my eye. It shows the seawall below the castle, sunlight buttering the edges of rocks and gilding the hair of a distant figure facing out over the firth.

“Hey! That's me!”

Cole looks over my shoulder. “Think so?”

The figure is too far away to make out the features,
but the painting next to it leaves no doubt. It shows me much closer, standing on the wall, shading my eyes with one hand and holding a golden chain in the other—a chain attached to a lobster!

“My God! All these mornings I was watching him, he was watching
me
!”

“I suppose I was watching you, too.”

“That's different.” I stare hard at the painting. “Come on. Let's get out of here.”

We climb down to the beach. By the water, Cole turns to me. “You don't have to worry about Underwood. He's all right.”

“How do you know he's all right?”

“Well…,” Cole considers.

“And what's he doing here? When did he get to Ravensbirk?”

“A few months ago. Does it matter?”

“I don't know. Maybe not.”

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

The idea shakes me. But sooner or later, I'm going to have to talk to him about the painting I ruined. “Will you go with me?”

“Sure.” His hand reaches up and touches my hair, as if stroking a nervous cat. Then, slowly, he leans forward—
What is he doing?
—and kisses the top of my head! “See you tomorrow?”

I nod dumbly and watch him go.

My brain's in a tumult as I turn toward home. Underwood's
paintings. Cole's kiss. All right, it was on the top of my head, but still…

Up ahead, the dark rocks rise, and above them, glittering in afternoon light, the castle of glass. The top is almost blinding, as if on fire, flinging brilliant colors in all directions.

As I approach, a cloud slides over the sun, dropping the temperature and extinguishing the light show. For that moment, I see the parapet clearly and a distant figure looking out from it.

I have to shield my eyes to be sure. It's Asa! He's staring at me through field glasses. A shudder runs through me. First, the painter is spying on me. Now it's my uncle. Who else is out there?

I'm being watched. I'm being watched all the time!