A Bitter Magic Read online

  I turn it around in my hand. A pretty piece of work, but who could be so forgetful—twice?

  No one in sight.

  “Do you see anyone, Elwyn?”

  I’m half convinced it was left for me. “Is anybody here?”

  Listening, listening.

  A crazy idea darts through my brain: Mother left it! It’s a secret message from my mother!

  “Hello?”

  Of course not. If she isn’t dead, she’s on the other side of the world. I stopped expecting to see her months ago.

  So why do I keep expecting to see her?

  Below, where the shoreline curves like a protective arm, the town begins to stir. First to appear are dockworkers and fishermen. At the far end of town, there’s movement among the tattered caravans of the Gypsies. Closer by, I detect the smell of frying sausage. Finally, the first of the Ravensbirk shopkeepers steps outside, broom in hand, to sweep the walk.

  No one looks like a carver of horses.

  I squint into the sunlight. Black glass, black glass. The mind’s a funny thing. Here I am by the beautiful Firth of Before, and I can’t stop thinking about a broken mirror on the floor of an empty stage.

  But I’ve seen that glass somewhere else. At least its frame—dark wood, tall, with scrolled corners. I close my eyes and watch blobs of orange light float across my vision.

  Mother’s bedroom! (My eyes spring open.) Right here in Ravensbirk. Didn’t she have a mirror like that in her bedroom? I was in that bedroom once….

  “Come on, Elwyn. Let’s go!”

  He looks at me questioningly. After all, we just got here.

  “Come on. I mean it!”

  —

  Mother’s suite of rooms has always been off-limits, except for those rare times when she’d invite me in for what she called girl talk. And strangely, I’m never quite sure how to get there, even though we’re on the same level, what Asa calls the Mezzanine. Between her rooms and mine, he constructed a Mirror Maze, which tourists (for an extra fee) are led through three times a day.

  He has the corridors reconfigured every night, and the sliding walls re-angled. Today, I discover, the hallway leading to Mother’s wing has been hydraulically raised at one end, so that any attempt to reach her quarters will send you sliding back where you began.

  All this is a demonstration of my uncle’s great magical powers, I suppose.

  While I stand there thinking, I detect light footsteps, a moan of metal wheels, and, yes, a hint of wisteria mixed with perspiration. Anna!

  She comes in sight wheeling a laundry cart, then stops beside me and pushes back her hair.

  She curtsies. “Hello, Miss Tummel.”

  I curtsy back. That always brings a smile. I especially like her calling me Miss Tummel. “Anna, I need your help. I have to get to my mother’s rooms.”

  Her smile fades.

  “Really. I need to get there. But as you see…” I indicate the glassy hill behind me.

  She shakes her head.

  “What is it?”

  “I cannot lose my job.”

  “Why would you lose your job?”

  “Mr. Strunk, he tell me.”

  “He tell you—he told you what?”

  She nods at the tilted hallway. “Do not say people how it works.”

  “But I’m not people.”

  “You are people. He says your name.”

  Now there’s a depressing thought.

  “Okay. Just get me past this one thing. I’ll find my way after that.”

  She looks doubtful.

  “Anna.” I look at her seriously. “It’s important.”

  She directs her frown at the laundry cart, then nods, walks past me, and approaches the wall. She grasps the edge of one of the mirrored panels. It is on a hinge, and behind it are several switches. As I peer over her shoulder, she pulls the top one down. There’s a loud groan from underneath us as the floor subsides to flatness.

  “Wonderful!” I take her hands in mine. “Thank you.”

  She looks down.

  I start off. Where, I have no clear idea, but I’ve gone on these expeditions before. I’ve even made maps and floor plans to help me remember where I’ve been, but with each new configuration of walls and floors, it’s a different castle every day.

  Ah! Mother’s door! Heavy, oaken, dark, with a distinctive golden latch. I sniff the air. Odd. Why the smell of straw? The whiff of ammonia? I pull the door open. A broom closet!

  I can almost hear Asa chuckling.

  I continue on, the corridor darkening as I circle an aquarium stocked with glowing fish, then enter the dazzling brilliance of the Mirror Maze. Suddenly, a dozen Cisleys stare back at me, one of them fat and two feet tall, another with a mustache of butterflies, as if I needed to look worse than I already do.

  I’ve never liked the way I look. Still mostly flat-chested, with a tangle of brown hair I can’t do anything with, and freckles! Freckles!

  I won’t even mention the bony nose. You could use it for a sundial.

  Nice eyes, though. “You have such nice eyes, Cisley.” That’s what grown-ups tell me when they can’t think of anything to say.

  Sea green.

  The one feature I inherited from Mother. Green eyes. They look better on her. Everything does. What chance do I have next to “the most beautiful woman in Europe”?

  You can bet she never had freckles.

  I push on through the maze, narrowly avoiding myself, stepping on my face beneath my feet. And an added confusion: why am I smelling flowers? Amid all this glass? I follow it, and the scent grows stronger. At last, flushed and out of breath, I fight free of the maze, make my way down a familiar-looking corridor, and find myself before a thick wooden door. Same golden latch as before.

  Broom closet?

  From underneath, the smell of roses is unmistakable. Roses and cologne.

  I try the handle.

  Locked. Of course! Everything is locked around here.

  The maids have to get in to clean, don’t they? Maybe Anna has a key. I should have asked. But I remember now. As house steward, Strunk keeps all the keys himself, locking and unlocking each room as needed. It’s not really his job, of course. It’s not even the butler’s. It’s the housekeeper’s. But in this secretive place, everything is controlled from the top.

  I grab the handle, pull on it, rattle the door, then rattle it harder.

  No use.

  I turn back the way I came, fumbling my way through the maze, around the aquarium, past all the twists and turns of Uncle Asa’s twisted brain, back to my rooms.

  Chapter Six

  Next morning, eager to get to the seawall again, I duck Elwyn in his pail and hurry down, ignoring his complaints. As I reach my sitting place, I get a jolt. The rosewood box is still there, and the wooden horse beside it; but something new has been added: a comical-looking, big-eyed turtle, in mahogany, its head poking out of its shell as if searching for something.

  I approach the little figurine as if it were an explosive. Suddenly I’m sure I’m not alone. “Okay, who’s there?” I call out, loud enough for even the dockworkers to hear me, if they wanted to. “Come out!”

  Nothing. The only thing coming out is Elwyn, who has crawled from his bucket.

  I peer into the shadows of boulders and scrub trees beside the wall. A faint smell reaches me—a hint of sweat?—before a side wind snatches it away.

  “I mean it!”

  Slowly, from behind a rock ten yards away, a head appears.

  Not my mother. Not nearly my mother. Why did I think it would be?

  Next, the shoulders appear. A boy, for God’s sake! A beggar kid, by the look of him, in his worn work pants.

  We stare at each other in silence. Not that it’s silent out here. Thirty feet of wind separate us. I hold out the turtle. “Is this yours?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Whose, then?”

  “Yours.”

  The voice is calm. Calmer than mine. I wish
the wind would quit whipping my hair around my face. “Why?”

  He steps out from behind the rock. Bare feet. “I thought you’d like it.”

  I move closer. Twenty feet of wind between us. Elwyn starts holding back, and I give his leash a tug.

  “Why would you care what I like?”

  He shrugs. Shrugs!

  I give another tug on Elwyn’s leash. “Do you have a name?”

  “Cole Havens.”

  “Coal? Like coal from the ground?”

  He laughs. It’s a good laugh, and it allows me to laugh, just a bit. Elwyn’s the only sourpuss here.

  “No, of course not,” he says. “It’s a perfectly regular name.”

  “Well, I never heard of it.”

  “Well,” he says, “who ever heard of Cisley?”

  So he’s a smart aleck.

  Ten feet of wind swirl between us. Not even the wind can disguise how much he needs a bath. But, okay, he’s definitely a nice-looking person. All cheekbones and eyes. Dirty blond hair completely out of control.

  He cocks his head to the side. “Do you really talk to that lobster?”

  “What?”

  “People say you talk to the lobster.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because…” He seems to be deciding how to put it. “Lobsters can’t talk?”

  “They don’t talk. Not usually.”

  We’re five feet apart now, and I can see his expression change. I know what he’s thinking: So she really is crazy.

  Who cares what he thinks?

  “They also say you’re a snob,” he says. “Are you a snob?”

  “Oh yes.”

  The answer seems to please him. “Me too.”

  I take in his shabby appearance. “What do you have to be snobbish about?”

  “Phonies. I can’t stand phonies. Are you a phony?”

  This Cole person is getting annoying.

  “You tell me,” I answer.

  That makes him laugh out loud.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He just shakes his head.

  “So you can’t stand phonies,” I say. “What else can’t you stand?”

  “Mice.”

  “Mice?”

  “Can’t get rid of them. Our house is down by the wharf. Mice and rats all the time.”

  “Lovely. Get a cat.”

  “We’re going to.”

  I don’t know why this conversation has turned into a contest. “Were they expensive?” I say to change the subject.

  “What?”

  I hold out the turtle. “I hope you didn’t spend too much.” The way he looks, any amount would be too much.

  “I didn’t spend anything. I made them.”

  I hope my mouth didn’t drop open. “You made them?”

  Cole’s about to answer, but instead he lets out a loud yelp of pain. “Ow! Shit!”

  Now there’s a word you don’t hear in the castle.

  The lobster, seeing the boy’s bare feet, has clamped a powerful claw on to his ankle, drawing blood.

  “Elwyn!” I drop to my knees and pry the claw open. It’s not easy. “Stop that, you horrible creature!” I plunk him into his pail.

  The boy has dropped to the ground, gripping his foot. “I don’t think your friend likes me,” he says through gritted teeth. His hands are covered in blood.

  I can’t help myself. “You’re not doing it right.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not doing it right. Here. Let me.” I kneel. I take his foot and wrap both hands tightly around it.

  Cole looks determined not to cry out again, but it’s a near thing.

  Here I am on my knees, holding a strange boy’s foot. Not what I thought I’d be doing this morning.

  As always happens, the wounded place starts getting warmer. Very warm.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” he says, alarmed.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this. I make a note to wash my hands.

  After another few seconds, I release the foot and examine it. The bleeding has stopped, and the gash is definitely smaller than before. The foot’s just as dirty, however. I take hold of it again and bend over it with closed eyes.

  “Hey,” he says. “My foot feels hot!”

  “It’s supposed to.” Doesn’t he know how to fix a cut?

  “Ow! Stop!”

  “Don’t be such a baby.” Finally, I let go. As expected, there’s no trace of blood; in fact, no sign he’s ever been cut. “It should be all right now.”

  He scrambles to his feet and steps back, fear in his eyes. “How did you do that?”

  “What do you mean? What do you do when you cut yourself?”

  “Put a bandage on it, of course.”

  “A bandage. Why would you do that?”

  He looks confused. “Maybe because I don’t know magic?”

  “Magic!” I have to laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  “No, really.”

  “My uncle’s the magician.”

  “And you’re not?”

  I look up at him. “I’m just a girl.”

  “Just a girl,” he murmurs. There’s something extra in his look that makes me uncomfortable. I get to my feet to break his gaze, but that’s worse, because now we’re eye to eye, two feet apart.

  “Well,” I say, picking up Elwyn’s pail. “If you’re okay now, I’ll be going.”

  He looks down at his foot, turning it from side to side. He still thinks I’ve done some amazing thing. I think his carving is amazing. I slip the wooden figures in my sweater pockets.

  “Thanks for these,” I say. But I can see he’s thinking of something else.

  If he’s not going to say anything, I’m going to leave.

  Partway along the seawall, just before it curves, I look back. The boy stands where I left him. The wind makes a racket between us.

  “The turtle’s very funny,” I call to him.

  “He’s supposed to be,” he calls back.

  We stand there, taking each other’s measure for a few more seconds. Strangely enough, I don’t feel awkward. The distance helps. If we could always talk at twenty paces, I’d be fine.

  “Well,” I say finally.

  He nods.

  I turn the corner, and he’s gone.

  Chapter Seven

  Some days, I just feel bad. I think about Mother. I ignore Miss Porlock. I hurt Strunk’s feelings. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

  I just called Strunk a horrible little man. I knew it wasn’t true when I said it. He’s not horrible. He’s a very nice little man. Well, he can be. He refused to give me the key to Mother’s rooms because he had to refuse. Uncle Asa would fire him.

  It’s Asa I have trouble with.

  I feel around in my sweater pocket for the little turtle Cole carved, with its comical expression. It has become my good-luck charm.

  That’s another thing. What’s Cole up to? He wasn’t there yesterday or this morning. No more carvings left for me on the seawall.

  Did he decide he doesn’t like me? Was it all a dare? Did he go back to his friends and tell them how he finally met the Mystery Girl of Ravensbirk, and she wasn’t so much when you saw her close-up?

  Oh, and she really does talk to lobsters.

  From where I’m sitting, halfway up the glass staircase, I can see the whole atrium below. Saw Asa go out a few minutes ago to talk with the chief mechanic. His magic depends a lot on mechanics and groundskeepers and optical experts. Something’s always going wrong. Today, it’s the outdoor labyrinth. A movable metal plate beneath one of the hedgerows has seized up—rust in the gears or something—making it impossible to change the configuration. The whole section has to be dug up.

  A flutter of voices makes me turn. A dozen tourists troop down the staircase, led by a chirpy young woman from the visitors’ desk. Normally, I’d flee to the kitchen and take refuge with Mrs. Quay, but I’m too depressed to move. I just scooch to the side and let them pass.

&nb
sp; “Oh, here’s Miss Thummel!” pipes the tour guide, flipping her hair. “She’s Marina Thummel’s daughter. Hi, Cisley!”

  I manage a wan smile. Everyone stares at me as they pass, some whispering. This is an unexpected bonus for their admission fee: the daughter of the magical Marina!

  One young girl, maybe eight years old, approaches me. “What’s it like living in a glass castle?”

  The others pause to listen.

  It’s a question I get all the time, but for her it’s the first time in the history of the world.

  “It’s…magical!”

  She beams, nods vigorously, looks around at her friends. “I wish I could live here!”

  “What fun that would be!” I answer. As long as you don’t have an uncle like Asa standing over you.

  The group continues on and files out the back way, since the labyrinth is closed for repairs. The girl turns and waves to me. I wave back.

  Uncle Asa is still outside. He usually spends his days in his rooftop laboratory. Guess he’s not doing that today. Guess I won’t be getting into Mother’s rooms, either. But I’ve got to see if the mirror is there.

  I plod upstairs. Time to feed Elwyn. Then there’s Latin with Miss Porlock. Oh joy. Outside the door, I pause. I don’t want to go in.

  What’s the choice?

  “Cisley, is that you?” Miss Porlock’s shaky voice sings out from my sitting room.

  “Hi, Miss P.” I poke my nose around the corner. There she is, a dumpling of a woman in the chair by the window, sunlight glancing off the bulge in her forehead. A porcelain teapot and the usual plate of ginger cookies are beside her. She bakes them herself and thinks I like them.

  Latin can be fun, like figuring out a puzzle or learning how to talk to Elwyn; but today I’m too jumpy. “Say, would you mind if we skipped our lesson this time? I don’t feel very well.”

  “You’re never well when we discuss the ablative case. Have a ginger cookie,” she says. “It will buck you up.”

  I sigh and slump into a chair. There’s no escaping the ablative. I bite a brittle cookie and open my book.

  An hour later and three pages into Cicero’s second oration against Catiline, I’m free to go. First, I look in on Elwyn. My little friend seems content to crawl around in the bath. After a quick check of the water temperature—tepid, the way he likes it—I give him a wave and slip out.