Magician's Fire (5 page)

Harry woke up.

He lay there, listening to the sounds of Mrs. Mack's boarding house coming to life—the coughs and murmurings of the other lodgers, the scrape of chairs. His nose twitched as he breathed in the smell of Mrs. Mack's gruel, which he had long ago learned to avoid. Looking up, he saw beads of morning light sliding through the broken roof tiles over his head. He lifted his hand and let the sun play over it, slanting between his fingers, surrounding them.

Flexing his fingers, he tried to move them through the crisscrossing rays without them being touched, and succeeded, apart from a single spot of light just glancing off his thumb. It was a game he had invented back in the slums of Budapest, his faraway Hungarian home, where the roof over his bed had also been broken. He had played it ever since, and he played it now.

His fingers crept through the light. The smell of the gruel sweetened into the warm fragrance of
zsemle
, the buns his mother used to bake every morning. He breathed the scent in and heard, very faintly, the whispering of his father reciting prayers as the family sat by the fire. Harry's fingers crept on as the sweet smells and whispers drifted around him, and then, all at once, disappeared.

He saw his parents' faces—fearful and tightly drawn. He heard his father's words, but they weren't prayers now. They were frightened mutterings, talk of money and debts, which Harry hadn't understood back then, and which seemed even murkier as he tried to recall them now. But he had understood what happened next. “The Scattering,” they had called it.

The family had broken up, his father sending them off across Europe to wherever there might be hope for them, which in Harry's case had meant ending up in the hold of a ship sailing across the Atlantic. Four weeks the voyage had lasted, four weeks of filth, hunger, and sickness. But even so, nothing had prepared him for his arrival in New York and his new life as a shoeshine boy in this cold, hard city where he knew no one.

Harry stared up at his fingers flashing in the light.
These skills
, he thought,
they are what changed everything
. Without them, he would still be that shoeshine boy, nothing more. Without them, he would never have met Billie and Arthur, the two best friends he had ever had. Yes, life in New York would have been grim indeed, he thought, if he hadn't picked up these extraordinary tricks.

And
that
was
all
thanks
to
Herbie
Lemster.

Harry sprang up and slid his feet into his boots. A splash of water and he clattered down the rickety stairs and pushed past the shadows of the other lodgers rising from their beds—laborers, travelers, ne'er-do-wells. Passing a murky mirror by the stairs, he glimpsed himself and saw smudges of shoe polish on his face. But there was no time to rub it clean, not this morning.

Help
Herbie
.

He shot out through the rickety front door. Heading off through the Manhattan streets, he swung west to Grand Central Station, where men of business were pouring off the morning trains. Here Harry quickly did a couple polishing jobs, crouching over the proffered shoes, wiping them clean, and shining them up. The cold sidewalk hurt his knees and the polish stung his fingers, but he reminded himself he needed to eat to be able to concentrate—today of all days—and so he kept shining until enough coins had dropped into his palm.

Then he hurried to a pastry stall, handed the money over, and stuffed a pie into his mouth. Gathering up any pastry flakes that dangled on his clothes, he ate them too and walked away from the station. He threaded through some alleys, crossed a market square, slanted along another alley, and arrived at a large hulking factory with gray fumes spooling from it.

“Mawkin's Glue Factory,” a sign said on the front. Harry checked a clock in a nearby shop window and ran to the factory's front door, which was firmly locked. He listened and could make out raised voices on the other side, one deep and growling, the other high-pitched and familiar.
Billie
. The voices grew louder, and something smashed—
Time
to
carry
out
the
plan
.

Harry hurried around the back of the factory. Spotting a hay cart on the nearby cobblestones, he tugged it across to the factory wall and, with a quick swivel, positioned it correctly. Hearing scrabbling sounds from the other side of the wall, he propped an arm against the cart and tried to look casual in case anyone should pass by, but already something was blurring over the wall's top. The cart wobbled, bits of hay flew, and Billie landed right in front of him, even more spattered with glue than usual. That deep voice bellowed from inside the factory, but already racing off with his friend down the alley, Harry couldn't make out the words.

“Guess that's it for the whole ‘stirring gray gloop for two cents an hour' racket.” Billie tossed her cap into a bin. “Can't say I mind.”

“You asked him for the day off, I guess.” Harry glanced back.

“Asked him at eight o'clock exactly, just like we agreed. And obviously he said no. Not even when I said it was an emergency, which helping poor Herbie most surely is. Said it was his right to make me work the rest of the day, in return for having given me paid work and a bed for so long! And when I told him his pay was nothing and his bed stank of poisonous glue—well, that's when he started chasing me with the broom. So I decided to go for our little plan and ran for the back wall, tipping a pot of slippery boiled-up bones in his path as I went.” She jerked a thumb back toward the factory, which was already far behind. “Crummy job.”

“Crummier than all the others?” Harry asked.

“Well now, that's a good question.” Billie slowed down and a frown appeared on her face, just for a few seconds. “It's true, I've ended up doing a fair number of tough jobs on the way up from New Orleans. Cleaning drains, sweeping floors, picking through garbage heaps, you name it.” She looked back again.

“Can't say that was the crummiest boss I've had or the first broom I've had to dodge. Still, it's not the sticky situations you get into; it's how you get out of them, that's what I say.” She shrugged and ducked around a corner. “Somehow or other, I've managed to get myself unstuck—one way or another. Why, I even managed to get unstuck from a glue factory, didn't I?” Her smile was back. “Not a bad escape. The Glue Pot Scramble, that's what I'll call it. You did well with that cart business too.”

“Thanks, Billie.”

“Sort of makes up for you being so crazy last night.”

Harry felt his face grow warm, even though they were no longer running, just walking along. He looked away and tried to think of different ways of putting it but decided in the end just to say what he had before.

“I'm sorry. I just needed to help Herbie—couldn't think of anything apart from that. And it happens sometimes, you know that. When I—”

“Get swept up in stuff, can't think of anything else. It's how you do your tricks. I know, I know.” Billie speeded up, burst out of the alley, and looked around. “The thing is, this isn't just a trick, is it? It's way more important than that! And we're all friends with Herbie, so we're in this together, yeah?”

“Of course.” Harry's pace quickened.

“Anyway, there's Artie. Come on!”

She jumped over some railings and ran across the park. The bright white house towered nearby, and Harry followed Billie to the same rhododendron bush as the day before. Waiting behind it stood Artie, his pocket watch ticking in his hand. He looked up at them, jerked his head toward the house, and nodded.

“Thanks, guys. Head over there now. You'll be right on time.”

Harry and Billie set off. They left the park, crossed the street, and reached the sidewalk just as the front door of Arthur's house opened. A servant trod down the stone steps. He wasn't as tall as Lord Trilby-Roberts but every bit as stiff and with a stare every bit as cold. That stare was fixed on the small iron mailbox a few yards down the sidewalk, and he headed toward it, a collection of letters fluttering in his hand. But he never managed to deliver them because Harry had let himself be pushed by Billie, straight into the servant's path.

“Watch out!”

Harry toppled into the servant. The letters flew everywhere, but Harry snatched them out of the air and, with a swoop of his arm, helpfully posted them in the mailbox.

“Ever so sorry, sir! My friend, she's always doing that… Come back here!”

He ran after Billie before the servant could reply. But a flash of his hand had done the trick. As the letters spun in the air, he had spotted one with a particular address, and it had slid into his jacket as the others vanished into the mailbox. It rustled there now as he followed Billie down the street, back into the park, and behind a tree. They waited until the servant had vanished back into the house and slid across to the rhododendron bush again.

“Nice work,” Arthur said, taking the letter.

“We just did the snatch.” Harry shrugged as they walked off. “How'd you know the servants would be posting the letter to the school at that exact moment?”

“Father gave them instructions yesterday, and they always act immediately. They always post the day's mail at ten o'clock, so it stood to reason the letter to the school would be in with it.” He turned and looked back at the house. “Father left for Chicago at dawn, by the way. Obviously, he didn't bother to say good-bye.”

Arthur's eyes narrowed again. His jaw clenched, and a row of teeth bit down hard on his lower lip. Harry glanced at Billie, worried again. Artie tapped the letter in his hands, swung around, and kept marching away.

“So what's the next step, Artie?” Billie asked as they walked out through the park gates and cut across the street. “We've got the letter, but how are we going to keep you from ending up at this boarding school? Bad enough, your father acting like you don't exist, but we definitely can't have him sending you 452 miles away. How are Harry and I supposed to cope without our best pal?”

“It's all right, Billie.” Arthur slid the letter into his jacket pocket. “Now that I've got this, it'll all be easy. I've been borrowing books from the library about forgery, copying signatures, that sort of thing. All that research will come in useful now.”

“You're going to write to the school calling the whole thing off?” wondered Harry.

“Cleverer than that.” Arthur led them around a corner. “Look, I'll let you know how it goes, but don't worry—I'm staying around.”

“That's good,” said Harry. “I agree with Billie—we don't want you disappearing anywhere, especially now there's this stuff with Herbie to sort out.”

“I'm glad you feel that way, Harry,” said Arthur. “After the way you were last night, I wasn't so sure.”

For the second time, Harry felt his face grow warm. Arthur had turned away, so Harry couldn't quite see his expression, but his friends were talking about something—he could hear their mutterings even if he couldn't quite make out the words.
Think
of
something
to
say, something that will make it better
, he told himself, and he tried to do just that, but it was difficult, and it grew even more difficult the nearer they came to the destination where they would start work on their vital task. Hadn't Billie herself said, just a few minutes ago, that nothing mattered more than that? Harry thought again of that left-behind walking cane in the dressing room, surrounded by a few wisps of purple smoke.

“It's all right, Harry. I know you didn't mean it.” Arthur tugged his friend's sleeve and swerved to the left. “Anyway, it's time to get started.”

They walked a few blocks, and then across the street was the New York Library. Pillars towered at the top of wide marble steps, and Arthur led Harry and Billie up them, through a pair of huge bronze doors, and into the enormous entrance hall. It dwarfed his tiny tweed-suited figure, but there was something impressive about the speed with which he marched across the hall, his fingers clicking at his sides, his tie flapping over his shoulder.

“I dropped in here earlier actually, checked a few things, made a good start. But I'm going to need you to draw that mustache again, Harry.”

“No problem, Artie.” Harry followed his friend.

“The snake and sword design too. Maybe you'll remember something else about it this morning. Every detail counts if we're to find out who he is…”

Arthur led them into the reading room, with its high windows and hunched figures scribbling at desks. A swerve to the left and he pushed through a door. Scampering down a corkscrewing staircase, he led them to the library's musty basement and started weaving his way through its maze of corridors, each one lined with thousands of books. Fingers still clicking, he didn't hesitate even slightly as he found his way through.

“You sure do know this library well, Artie,” said Harry.

“Certainly spent enough time here. Remember, before I met you guys, there wasn't exactly much else for me to do.” His voice had gone quiet. Harry peered at him in the gloom and knew that the quietness had nothing to do with the various signs saying “Silence” and hanging nearby. “Anyway, who cares about that? We're here.”

“I'll get drawing,” said Harry.

They were at the end of the corridor. A desk stood covered with carefully stacked piles of books and papers, and Harry immediately sat down at it. Pinned to the wall behind were the various drawings that he had sketched for Arthur the previous night, different attempts at the curling mustache and silver brooch. Immediately, he grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil, and started drawing again.