Free The Paper Magician by Charlie N. Holmberg

the Magicians’ Cabinet, didn’t he? Yes . . . he did. A Siper—a rubber magician. He’d given a speech at Tagis Praff once. Mg. Thane had friends in high places.
    Oddly enough, none of the letters read “Thane” on them—none appeared to be from family. Mg. Thane had mentioned being an only child, but what about his parents? His cousins? Surely he had cousins.
    She scoured the bookshelves next, finding more textbooks and old novels, ledgers filled from cover to cover. The only thing that stood out was a Granger Academy yearbook dated 1888–1889. Apparently she and Mg. Thane had attended the same secondary school, albeit twelve years apart. Odd that Mg. Aviosky would assign her to a magician so young, but there were few other options for Folders. Perhaps that was why she had sat so rigidly in the buggy.
    Fennel pawed at her shoes.
    “I know, I have work to do,” Ceony said, suppressing a sigh. She scooped the paper dog into her arms, laughing as he wagged his tail, and carefully pushed Mg. Thane’s chair back under the desk.
    She spent the rest of the day Folding frogs and fans, reading more about anatomy than she ever wanted to know, and doodling in the margins of her notes on papier-mâché.

    When Mg. Thane didn’t return the next day, Ceony began to worry.
    She had never considered herself someone prone to worrying, and it seemed almost silly to worry over someone whom she’d only worked with for a short time, let alone someone she hadn’t wanted to work with in the first place, but she worried.
    She imagined that flicker in his eyes just before he’d left, thought of the privacy of the telegram. And she worried.
    She thought again to contact Mg. Aviosky, but didn’t. What would she say? Today, at least, she had no desire to get Emery Thane in trouble, so she busied herself with chores to take her mind off of things.
    She fried fish and chips for lunch, enough for one. She wiped down the countertops and swept out the kitchen. She gathered her laundry to wash it.
    Outside her bedroom, Ceony peered down the hallway to Mg. Thane’s bedroom door, which he had left closed. It would be kind to wash his, too, wouldn’t it?
    Leaving her own dirty clothes in a pile near the stairs, Ceony let herself into the paper magician’s bedroom and spied around.
    His bed was larger than hers, understandably, and the window across from its foot was larger as well. Three different candlesticks sat atop the dresser by the door, which was missing three of its bronze handles. A collection of beads, some sort of jewelry box, and a variety of paper gadgets that looked like chunks of machinery sat all around them. A bottle of brandy and a glass sat on the nightstand beside a novel without a cover, a bottle with a ship inside of it, and a tall paper box painted gray, violet, and peach.
    There was a shelf stacked with larger sheets of paper, writing utensils, and books; a closet full of more long coats and dress slacks; and a hamper brimming with dirty clothes.
    She put her hands on either side of her face like a horse’s blinders and went straight for the hamper. No snooping today. She was nineteen years old—she could respect a man’s privacy.
    She washed clothes until her knuckles turned red, then hung them on a line in the backyard to dry.

    Ceony woke up alone again the next day. After finishing her anatomy book, she took down the laundry and folded it. Unsure of where Mg. Thane kept the particulars of his clothing, she left it on his bed for him to put away when he returned.
    She paused at a bookshelf on her way out. Good heavens, the man owned a lot of books. She perused the titles, wondering why these books had been kept in his room instead of in the library. Not snooping, not really. Just curiosity.
    She found only a handful of textbooks—most of the volumes appeared to be leisure reading, both by popular and unpopular authors. She found a second copy of A Tale of Two Cities and a poetry book by Matthew Arnold. At the