“There is no here or hereafter; all is a single moment.”

--Bedreddin, fourteenth-century Turkish mystic

Fair Warnings

We begin with children and magic, but this is not a magical children’s story. Sex will play a part, but this is not an erotic tale. Though diverting fiction was intended, important truths are revealed. Sorry about that.

For reasons to become apparent, some of the characters have multiple names. Your author will help the reader keep them straight.

Will Hilsat is sometimes called Free Hilsat, perhaps because Free is a different person.

Emily Putnam is given many names, but only two others are important, and one of those is Crystal.

Victor Winterbotham calls himself Peregrine Arnold so consistently you can forget the name Victor Winterbotham.

The initial appearances of the Eighth Doll will seem irritatingly enigmatic because she is.

Pronunciations

Beowawe may be pronounced bay-uh-WAH-wee. We are told it is a Paiute word for gate. Or perhaps not.

Cenote the Spanish pronounced suh-NO-tee, but your author prefers the original Mayan dzo-not.

Dzibilchaltun could be dzee-beel-chawl-TOON, although we have heard it spoken differently.

Xlacah begins with a sound the Spanish conquerors wrote as X, possibly to indicate they could not pronounce it. Say EESH-la-kah unless you already know better.

Xerxes, speaking of X, is pronounced ZERK-seez, though KZER-kzees may be correct, so feel free to mix that in.

Nomik Motchk begins like the end of economic. The rest your author pronounces mocked, which is not correct at all.

QiLina your author knows exactly how to pronounce but prefers that you do not. Relax. There will be no oral quiz.

a past

The Old Man initiated his own destruction with a long and mindful walk. The boy and girl had the Old Man’s rhythm down, yet this did not protect them. Though they were serious students, the room was full of distractions. They could not always succeed in having eyes on worksheets when he came through a door.

“Crystal, nothing you require is in the fish tank. Try your assignment. You need to learn those glyphs.” The Old Man would call this over his shoulder as he left the room. Comments had to be brief since it took only seconds to pass through the house. He would not delay the weaving.

North to south, east to west, bottom to top, he spent the morning pacing the dry valley floor and climbing the rocky hill behind the house. Each time down the hill, he was through the kitchen into the main room before the screen door shut. “Free, those fire wheels would leave your worksheet less than ash. Get away from them.”

When the Old Man went out the front door, the children saw him through the window, walking straight past the piñon tree. Where the path came to the road, he would turn a precise ninety degrees without missing a step. Tall and cactus-thin, his pants, skin, hair and broad-brimmed vaquero hat sharing colors with the desert, he blended in when any distance away. But his bright blue shirt with his red and yellow vest stood out as he swung his arms along like some brilliant bird flying low over the dusty road.

After walking the specific distance along that road, he would spin on his heels, march back to the path, turn sharply once more and make his way to the house, enter the front door, with or without comment, through the kitchen, out the back and disappear up the hill. The distance he climbed up the hill, the distance from the hill to the road and the distance along the road were as close to equal as could be managed. The slope of the hill was not a perfect vertical, but you work with what you have.

It was a shabby house, and although it never needed paint, it looked as if it did. Only yesterday the boy had asked, “Why keep such great things in such a crummy place.”

The Old Man had looked around as if he had never seen the house before. Today, he thought as he climbed, Free will see this home is good enough for great things, for a great teacher. Or he will need… The Old Man shuddered away an unbidden image.

The boy knew not to be distracted by devices in the room and might not have been except for the girl. Crystal was younger than Free, so less disciplined. The Old Man rarely allowed her to pass through this room and never let her stay. Now she had the chance to examine objects usually glimpsed beyond a closing door.

She noticed transparent spheres on the top shelf, each with a core like the sun, but the light stayed inside. How could that happen? And what was that long spiral chain with an impossible number of tiny bells on it? Best of all was the oak stick, the Old Man’s staff with its leather cord, soft feathers fluttering in breezes through the window screens, carved glyphs painted in pretty colors, richly detailed and so full of power. How could she ignore such wonders?

The boy knew the girl was not yet ready for these things. Free had not been allowed into this room until he was two years older than Crystal was now. She should be studying in the kitchen as he had at her age. Today, the Old Man wanted them both here, so here they were. Free could see how she longed to touch things. He felt sorry for her. He remembered how it had been when he, too, was just a kid.

Enough time had passed. Both children turned to their work. The Old Man was down again, in the back door, through and out the front. Free watched him walk away and then looked at Crystal. All right, he would show her something small and unimportant, but fun. He would need to activate it before the Old Man got back.

The chain with bells was out of the question. The Old Man would hear no matter where he was in his walking. The tray with translucent colored tiles standing in slots was amazing but took time to get it working and could do nothing exciting before their teacher returned. What of the fire wheels? No! No, that was crazy; the Old Man was right about those. Bad enough to risk himself, but if the girl were hurt, Free would never hear the end of it. Fantastic objects occupied the upper shelves but would be too hard to reach. Ah, on a bottom shelf, the black lacquer disk hanging in its golden frame: the anti-gong.

“Listen to this.”

Crystal said nothing because what she should have said and what she wanted to say were opposites. She watched as the boy, holding his pencil ever so carefully, gave the shiny black disk the smallest of taps. The disk’s fascinating vibration produced absolutely no sound. The boy dropped his pencil on the table, and that made no sound either. The girl opened her mouth and tried to speak. The boy moved his lips but was also silent. He clapped his hands, and so did she, but no clap was heard. Bubbles in the fish tank, buzzing wires on the second from the top shelf, and the always-crackling fire wheels were silenced by the black disk.

So was the wind, though the children felt the breeze. Distraction contracted their sense of time. When the Old Man had reached the house, his boots had fallen silently on creaky wooden steps. The screen door’s rusty spring had not squeaked.

He wasted no effort on speech. Without missing a step, he took the anti-gong and put it on a top shelf. Did his arm actually grow longer to reach it? Looking through the kitchen, the children saw, as he went onto the back porch, how hard he slammed the screen door. It made no sound. They both laughed silently at that. By the time he got back down the hill, the vibrations of the disk had stopped. As he walked through the house, his words inspired Free and Crystal’s serious return to study.

The Old Man took no break until he sent the children outside for their midday meal. They sat on the bench in the shadow of the piñon tree, their feet on soft, dry, fallen needles. “Do not wander off when you are through. I need you both.”

The Old Man did not eat with them the way he usually did. Instead, he took his rock hammer and safety goggles and went up the hill once more. They heard distant metallic whacks. When the Old Man came down, he carried a large rock. Soon the hammer could be heard inside. After each whack, the Old Man muttered a word. He came to the door. “Free, Crystal, come in.”

“I have not finished my orange,” said Crystal.

“Now!” When the Old Man smiled or laughed, he looked as kind as could be, but when he was not smiling or laughing, he looked like a man who had never smiled in his life. Crystal did not finish her orange.

The boy and girl came into the room and sat in hard seats, pencils and fresh paper laid at their places. Four rocks sat upon the table. The Old Man had broken the big stone into these pieces. Any fragments had been swept away.

“Count the rocks you see before you. When you are sure how many, write that number down in the middle of your paper. This is important. Be careful. Be certain.”

Counting four rocks did not seem a challenging task, but both children counted; the girl because the Old Man had said it was important, and she wanted to show him she could do things right; the boy because he had been with the Old Man long enough to know things were not as simple as they seemed. Each wrote the number four.

“Imagine a shape with the rocks at the corners. Draw that shape on your paper so the number is in the middle.” The children were used to taking instructions from the Old Man and knew to follow them exactly. Each drew a square around the number four.

“Fold your papers in half.”

They folded papers as the Old Man turned away, crossed the room in five steps and took the staff from its peg on the wall. The children exchanged surprised glances while the old man held the staff, his eyes closed. They did not speak until he opened his eyes again. He had explained to them often enough that wizards should not be disturbed during the moment when the staff is taken up.

“Are you going to do magic?” asked the girl.

“Do you want both of us to stay?” The boy was very much aware he had been twelve years old before the Old Man let him see the staff in use.

The girl knew it too. “He decides if I am ready, not you.”

The Old Man spoke gently but firmly. “Quiet.” Children’s voices stopped. Various objects continued to make their various sounds. The Old Man rested the end of the staff on the floor, took a ring from his vest pocket and handed it to the boy. “Wear that on the thumb of your right hand.”

The ring was woven from brightly colored metal wires, their pattern so intricate it was difficult to see it all at once. The boy slid it onto his thumb. It fit perfectly.

“And me?” asked the girl.

The Old Man took down a small bottle from a shelf. “You hold onto this. Grip it tightly until I say to let it go.” She took the bottle and clutched it as if she thought it might struggle to escape.

“These rocks have names.” The Old Man lifted the staff and held it over his shoulder, using it to indicate each rock in turn. “This one is Anansi, this one Bricriu. Here are Coyote, and Daucina.”

The Old Man swung the staff, fluttering its feathers. His face twisted in pain, but it was the boy who let out a yelp. The girl frowned at him. The boy was suddenly pale, trembling, panting. His eyes were big and round, as if he had seen a ghost. She wondered what had happened. She had never seen the staff used but knew it would not do magic just because you swung it. Magic was more complicated. So why had Free yelled? The staff had not come near enough to hit him. Why did he look like that?

The Old Man’s face lost its pained expression. He was pointing the end of the staff at the boy. “What number have you written on your paper? What shape did you draw?”

The boy seemed unable to answer. He looked at the floor and then up at the Old Man again, eyes still wide. The girl wondered what was wrong with him. At last the boy spoke. “F-five.” Words came with difficulty. “P-pentagram.”

The Old Man swung the staff toward the girl. “And you?”

She looked at the rocks on the table, wondering what she had missed. The boy was almost always right. It was a fact in which they all took pride, yet which she sometimes found irritating. She saw only what she had seen before. Writing hidden on the folded paper committed her to her answer, but she saw no reason to change it. “Four. I wrote the number four and drew a square around it.”

The boy stared at her as if she were crazy. Then he looked at the rocks on the table. “What the hell? What’s going on?”

The girl winced. She knew the Old Man would not tolerate such language.

“What is going on, Free. Not ‘what’s.’ A wizard never slurs a syllable. Do you think I would be alive today if I lacked respect for is or for any verb of being? No contractions!”

The boy nodded his head. “I am sorry, sir.”

“Open your paper. Tell me again what you wrote.”

The boy unfolded his sheet and examined it. The girl began to wonder how long he could keep his eyes bugged out. She looked at his page and saw a square around the number four. “He has the same thing I have.”

“Crystal, go outside now.”

She could tell from the Old Man’s voice it would be wise to obey. “Do I take the bottle?”

“Bottle? Oh, no. Give that to me.”

She handed the empty bottle to the Old Man. “Is Free OK?”

The Old Man smiled. “He is fine. Now go outside and play. You have done enough work today.” Once Crystal was well out into the front yard, the Old Man turned to the boy.

The boy opened his mouth but did not speak.

The Old Man commanded, “Tell me what just happened.”

He is a good-looking kid, the Old Man thought. Free was almost fifteen. Though still a child, one could see the man coming along in him. He had his mother’s coloration but with the strong Native American features of his father. Always a graceful lad, he was now getting some muscle on him. His face was formed of fewer curves these days, more angles. He would be handsome. Still, with his eyes bugged out and his mouth hanging open, he looked as if he belonged in the fish tank. “Are you going to speak?”

What the boy was going to say was, tell me what just happened, but the Old Man had already said that, so he closed his mouth.

The Old Man adopted a richly confident tone. “All will be explained, but first you will describe to me everything you saw and everything you heard from the moment I called you into this room. You will include each detail. It is important. You can do this.” His voice was so reassuring it calmed the boy who could now talk.

“We were eating. You called us into the house. When we came in…”

“Wait. Do not leave out anything. What did Crystal do when I called you in?”

The boy considered. “She was eating an orange. She said she was not done yet. You said to come in anyway, so we did. She left the orange on the bench.” He glanced out the window to the bench as he spoke of it. In the shade of the piñon, Crystal was finishing her fruit. Being the Old Man’s apprentice, the boy had learned to attend to detail.

“When we came in, you told us to sit. We did. Then you told us to count the rocks on the table. You said to be careful and get it right. I saw five rocks. I counted them. So did Crystal. We both wrote our answers on our papers. I was not cheating or anything, but she was right here. I could see she wrote a five just like I did.” The Old Man, peering into the fish tank, indicated nothing, agreement or otherwise.

“You told us to think of the shape the rocks made and draw that shape around the number on our paper. I drew a pentagram. So did Crystal. I remember noticing hers had a short side, but it did have five corners.” Although his master appeared inattentive, the boy knew each word was being evaluated.

“You told us to fold our papers in half. We did. Then you took your staff from the wall. When you opened your eyes, Crystal asked if you were going to do magic. You always told me kids her age were not ready for big magic like what you do with the staff, so I asked if you wanted both of us to be here. Crystal said it was up to you. I was going to explain she was too young, but you told us to be quiet. Then you told us the rocks had names.”

The Old Man raised his eyebrows, turned and looked.

“No, wait. Before that, you took this ring out of your vest pocket.” The boy held up his hand. “You told me to wear it on my right thumb. It felt solid and like it was too big for me, like it would fall off. When I put it on though, it pulled tight, like it was made of elastic. Then it was hard again.” The boy reached for the ring with his left hand.

“Stop!” The Old Man’s tone was commanding. “Keep the ring on for now.”

“OK.” The boy noticed for the first time that the Old Man was wearing an identical ring on his left thumb. Was that because he was left handed?

“Go on.” The Old Man’s voice was calming again.

“You said the rocks had names. The first one was Anansi, like the spider. The second had a strange name. I do not remember what it was. The third rock was called Coyote. The fourth was another hard name, but it started with a D. The second one had started with B, so I remember thinking they were in alphabetical order. The name of the fifth rock sounded like a sneeze.”

“Eshu,” said the Old Man.

“Right. Are the names important?” The Old Man was looking back into the fish tank. The boy waited, but getting no response, continued his recollection. “Then you moved your staff, really complicated, like you were going to do a spell. You started chanting. I knew some of the words. I was mostly watching you, but I looked at Crystal, too. She was excited she was going to see real magic. She is just a kid.” The boy’s voice quavered. “Why did you do that to her?”

The boy waited for an answer, but the Old Man appeared only interested in fish. “Everything started to get kind of…” The boy was searching for a word. “Longer.” The Old Man nodded his head. Or maybe he was watching a fish go up and down. Free could not be sure.

“Everything was smeared out. It was hard to look at. I was worried about Crystal, but she was just happy to be seeing magic. It was happening to her, too. She was kind of stretched on her chair and strung back and forth to the doors. You were everywhere, but especially this wall of you through the room. It went out into the yard, thick along the path and road. Was that from the walking you did this morning?”

The Old Man nodded for sure this time. After so much confusion, the boy felt good to have figured this out. “I heard sounds and voices, like you and Crystal and me all talking at once. I think I smelled food cooking. You touched the last rock with your staff, and you said its name, Eshu, really loud. You moved the staff like you were trying to pry the rock off the table. I thought something was going to happen to it, but what happened was to you. You exploded.”

“Be specific.”

The boy closed his eyes, struggling to face the memory. “It was like all the things in the room were connected to each other, and you were bending them by moving the rock with the staff, and the thick part of you between the doors held you so you could do it.” He opened his eyes. “I heard the loudest sound. It hurt, and I thought of the anti-gong. I looked for it on the bottom shelf where it was supposed to be, but I remembered you had moved it. It was gone but kind of not.”

“Did you try to hit the anti-gong?”

“No.”

“Too bad. Might have been interesting. Go on.”

The boy felt the Old Man was not taking this seriously enough. “Everything was moving. You came apart into a bunch of pieces. Then all of a sudden, things were in one place again, not all stretched out. Everything was normal except you. Pieces of you were on the floor. I tried to find your head, but the pieces were torn so small I could not tell which was what. So much blood!” The boy was trying to keep his voice steady, but the memory was too strong.

“Crystal was shouting. I told her to be quiet, but she would not stop. She was crying and running around. She was so scared. She had blood on her. I think we both did. She screamed you were dead. She said I had to do something, but I did not know what. I tried to think, to find anything I could use. It was horrible. I had to fix it, but what could I do?”

The Old Man shrugged.

“I ran into the kitchen, but Crystal screamed my name, and I came back in here. I grabbed her hands and pulled her out into the front yard. She was crying and shaking so hard. Then, without coming back through the door, I was in here again. And then…” The boy looked at the Old Man, who smiled and nodded encouragement.

“Then you asked me what I had put on my paper. You were standing in one piece, looking perfectly normal, with no blood anywhere. I could not believe it. It was hard for me to talk, but you sounded like it was important, so I told you I had written five rocks and drawn a pentagram. You asked Crystal what she had. She said four rocks and a square. She said it like nothing had happened. She was just sitting on her chair. She looked at me like I was the one who was crazy. You told me to unfold my paper and look at it. I had a square and the number four, but that is not what I wrote. I wrote five and a pentagram. I know I did.”

“You forgot the bottle.”

“Bottle? Oh, yeah. When you gave me the ring to wear, you gave Crystal a bottle and told her to hold it. I forgot.”

“So did I,” said the Old Man. “We have been through a rough experience. You did well remembering all that.”

“Is Crystal going to be OK?”

“Of course. Why would she be anything else?”

“I mean, after seeing that stuff. She is just a kid. She will have nightmares.”

“Crystal did not see anything. I did not explode.”

“It was an illusion?”

“No,” said the Old Man. “An illusion happens, even if only in your head. What you have is a false memory. You are remembering events you never experienced. You never saw me come apart. You did not see me cast a spell. You never saw five rocks nor drew a pentagram. When you came into the room, the table held four rocks. You saw four rocks. You drew a square.”

The distinction between illusion and false memory was new to the boy but not beyond his abilities. He spoke exactly. “So, I remember seeing five rocks, but without a time when I even thought I saw five rocks.”

A grin spread across the Old Man’s face. He had been worried if Free were ready but now saw he was right to have had faith in the abilities of his pupil. “Exactly! Tell me, what harm have I done to Crystal?”

“None?” The boy sounded uncertain.

“Right. No harm to her because there never were five rocks, so no spell was cast against the fifth, and no wizard exploded to give her nightmares.”

“You and Crystal remember four rocks,” said the boy, “and with my false memory, I am the only one who remembers five.”

“Oh, I remember five rocks, all right,” said the Old Man. “I remember breaking the big rock into five pieces, and I remember naming them, and I remember casting the spell against Eshu, and I even remember how it felt being pulled apart.” Here the Old Man shuddered.

“If you and I both remember five rocks,” said the boy, “and it is only Crystal who remembers four, there really were five rocks, and she is the one with the false memory.”

The Old Man knocked his staff on the table. Four rocks bounced. “Reality is not decided by majority vote.” He held up his left thumb with the ring on it. “You and I share a false memory. There never were five rocks.”

“Then what is all this for?”

“The first question is, how are you? Was this too much?”

“No, I am fine.” The boy made himself mean it.

“I thought you would be. A good thing, too. You are going to study that spell I never cast until you understand it inside and out. You will spend years learning it. When you are ready, we are going to not cast it again, and this time, you will be the one holding the staff.” The Old Man smiled. It was the boy’s turn to shudder.

Later, when the Old Man went out to the yard, Crystal was using the bench under the piñon tree as a house for her dolls, or perhaps a school, or store, or temple. She did that often. The Old Man strolled over and sat on the dolls’ roof, which he often did.

“What is Free doing?” the girl asked.

“Studying. He has new things to learn.”

“Is he going to be OK?”

“He is fine.”

“What happened to him?” Crystal’s voice mixed concern and curiosity.

The Old Man pulled a ring from his vest. “This trinket gave him a false memory. It frightened him.” He carefully replaced the ring into its pocket.

“What is a false memory?” She was standing now, leaning against his knees.

“It is when you remember a thing that never happened.”

“Why did you do that to Free?”

“It was part of his lesson.”

“The bottle was nothing. Just to shut me up, right?”

The Old Man looked at her. Though difficult to be certain, Crystal might someday have the kind of looks that could get a woman into trouble. He was glad she had come under his care. Other possibilities existed.

“That is right. The bottle was to shut you up.” He tapped her gently on the nose with each of the last three words. “You figured that out because you are so sharp.”

“That is why you called me Crystal.”

“Too sharp for an Emily. Not to say an Emily cannot be intelligent, you understand. I am sure the world holds many fine Emilys.”

“But not like me?”

“No, not like you. I never met anyone quite like you. I know it is difficult, but you will not have to wait as long as Free. You will be learning real magic before you know it. Not this year, but soon.”

This was both satisfying and unsatisfactory for the girl, but pursuing the issue would be pointless. “So why was I even in there?”

“Perspective. Free and I had the same false memory. We needed someone to recall what really happened.”

Crystal nodded approval. “Good idea.” She looked at the doll in her hand. “Did Free have another name when he came here, like me being Emily?”

“He did. His parents gave him another. I am the one who called him Free.”

“Because he is free?”

“No. So he will always remember he is not.”

“Why not?”

“None of us is free, not in the way his name suggests. It is a joke. One I can never tell you.”

Crystal would have to think about that, so she went back to playing.

The Old Man looked toward the house and then into the desert. He enjoyed the breeze on his face until Crystal held a doll in front of him. One of its arms had come loose. The Old Man thought of things that could have gone horribly wrong today but had not. Feeling not so old, he slid off the bench onto the ground and set to work repairing the doll.

The girl has seven dolls. The Eighth Doll notices but does not think much of it. The Eighth Doll sees enough coincidences not to mistake them for important events. She likes coincidence though. It adds sparkle to the universe.

What she particularly likes is the expression on the boy’s face as he looks at the table and sees four rocks. This makes her laugh. The Eighth Doll enjoys his expression forever.

the future

The Magical Individuals’ Collective Authority

Second Annual Convention

July 13-15

Atlanta, Georgia, USA

Keynote Speakers

Concurrent Presentations

Magical Device Exhibition

Spell Workshops

Poster Sessions

Division Meetings

Election of Officers

Social Gatherings

Register with the enclosed form

or online in the MICA virtual world.

Join us for a magical time!

--------------------------

“Everyone who is anyone . . .” said Jinasu. She was watching the man fussing with the projector at the front of the conference room.

“. . . comes from someone.” Abigail completed her friend’s favorite phrase. Jinasu had espoused it years before during a stroll through a garden on the grounds of the Arnold castle. In the case of Abigail, daughter of that castle’s wizardly master, the principle was extraordinarily accurate. For Professor Hilsat, currently struggling with lines of text dropping off the bottom of the screen, it was especially untrue, but could they possibly have known?

In that distant garden, Jinasu Mao had explained that her dozen years in the shadow of a sacred Tibetan peak left her with a brand of magic as full of fire as that of her mentor, the mountain’s witch. Yet despite Abigail Arnold’s English upbringing, Jinasu’s exotic background linked the friends through a human chain. Abigail had had the unique pleasure of studying under her own father. As Jinasu had pointed out, Peregrine Arnold’s spells displayed a specific mixture of magic accumulated from places visited in his long career.

Peregrine had studied in a famous workshop in Japan overseen by a mistress of the magic of the seas while Jinasu’s mentor had lived three decades with an Arabian wizard at the House of Fire and Wind. But the fire wizard and sea witch had, at different times, been students of the venerable Inamata Taniman, and that was why Jinasu and Abigail both used gardening spells from India, where Inamata had maintained a living magical herbarium.

Jinasu’s head and the books she had written were full of this stuff. With it, she connected everyone with everyone else, which she could do in the limited community of true magicians. Dr. Hilsat, the presenter being frustrated by non-magical technology, was a personal location not yet pinned onto Jinasu’s map of the world. This, she had explained to Abigail, was the primary reason she was sitting in on his session.

If there would be a session. A member of the conference staff was working at the podium. “Get that leefer out of here,” said Jinasu, “and we can fix whatever the problem is with a Spell of Something-or-Other and get started.”

Among those gathered around computer and projector, it was the leefer, the one with no magical skills, who was actually making progress. Soon, thanks to a trick involving font selection on the master slide, the absent lines of type were back on screen. A round of thanks exchanged included gratitude for those whose suggestions had been of no help at all. At 10:50 a.m., only five minutes late, the facilitator introduced Professor Will Hilsat, author of a number of articles on the subject about which he would now speak.

“Not much revealed there,” said Jinasu.

With a click, A Multicultural Mathematical Approach to Temporo-Spatial Metamagical Structures was begun. Additional clicks swept slides onto the screen via transitions that were aesthetically pleasing and, if one paid attention, in harmony with the graphics. Elegant technical diagrams and delightfully few bulleted lists made the whole thing rather pretty, though dense with information.

Jinasu peered at a slide. “Very Western.”

“We are all western to you,” said Abigail.

“New World.”

“Anyway, you are not supposed to call us western.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason we are not supposed to call you Oriental. It is offensive.”

“To whom?”

“To people from the Orient. From Asia.”

“My apologies to me, then.”

“While we are at it, you are not supposed to say leefer anymore. Nomik said so. Remember?”

“Since when do you take guidance from Nomik Motchk?”

“Shh. I am listening to Professor Hilsat.” Examining the projected image, Abigail recognized glyphs resembling a carved stone her father had brought back from Mexico. She sketched the symbols into her notes, knowing Daddy would want to hear of this in detail.

Daddy had insisted on her attending this session. In fact, this one had almost, but not quite, pried him out of the castle to come to MICA. When she returned home, she would chat with her parents about the people she met, the hotel, restaurants, sightseeing and shopping, but Peregrine Arnold would expect a professional report on this presentation.

Professor Hilsat was explaining. “Wizards of the Americas, isolated beyond oceans for millennia, developed different ways to represent structures of mystical power. Here is a jaguar, a pebble, the sun; there is a fish, a flower, a human face. The ways they go together have deep meaning. Pictures mean sounds, sounds words, words a poem with a theme unrelated to the pictures, yet the scribe’s careful selection and design of each glyph contributes in complex magical ways to the overall result.”

Abigail saw this would have her thinking long and hard. Talking it over with Daddy would be useful for them both.

Click.

“Goodness!” whispered Jinasu. A slide held more Central American symbols but organized into forms of higher mathematics. “Calculus with jaguars? Who is this guy?”

Abigail stifled a laugh but not entirely into silence. In the otherwise quiet room, this caught the attention of the speaker. “Is there a question?”

Was the presenter asking or scolding? Abigail was not sure. “Yes. Could these slides be made available online?”

Dr. Will Hilsat seemed pleased with this show of interest. A handsome smile appeared upon his face. “I’m not prepared to post them publicly. Not yet anyway.” Heads around the room nodded. “But for those who feel the need, I’m sure an accommodation can be made. Remind me after the session.”

It was Abigail’s turn to be pleased, since her question had covered for her amusement, since his answer would make her note taking easier, and since she was enjoying smiling back at this man.

Jinasu noted that Will and Abigail maintained eye contact longer than necessary before he resumed his presentation. They were both attractive people. Of course, all real magic users were if they chose to be, and most did. This one was somehow special though. As Jinasu pinned Professor Hilsat onto her magical map, she suspected Abigail would want to know whatever she learned.

Sitting on the far side of the conference room, another woman also caught this budding connection between Will Hilsat and Abigail Arnold. She, too, was smiling. Her smile perfectly echoed that of the presenter in a way that could have been disturbing to anyone who noticed, but no one in the audience noticed her at all.

At the 10:30 break, Lalo Kabrak had hit one of those moments he always encountered at conferences where he had not decided which presentation to attend. He had some minutes to flip through the MICA Events schedule and make a selection. That or go for coffee.

The technical track offered a recognized expert speaking on Improved Devices for the Measurement of Magical Energies. This would be of interest to those who were interested, but Lalo had no use for such toys. The administrative track had a panel on The Planning and Development of Joint Magical and Non-Magical Projects. Lalo was glad to see such progress and that the word leefer was nowhere in the title, but it would be awkward showing up, having turned down an invitation to be a panelist.

The research track had somebody Lalo had never heard of presenting A Multicultural Mathematical Approach to Temporo-Spatial Metamagical Structures. Even if a dear friend was facilitating, the title slowed Lalo’s pulse. The practical application track offered Zippity-Zap: Tips and Tricks for Speeding Spells. Lalo was a fine kitchen magician whose spells were fast enough. He flipped through the rest of the schedule but the more he thought of coffee the less appealing the presentations looked.

Coffee and a pastry. Lalo was always charmed by hotel luxuries like the coffee maker in the bedroom, so of course he had taken his first cup there, but no real breakfast. Anyway, he had not yet run into enough old friends at this conference. Perhaps people he could chat with were thinking as he was.

When Lalo trotted down from the mezzanine, despite lack of excess fat on his mid-sized frame, anyone watching might have the impression they were seeing a bouncy little man, his steps enlivened by a narrow escape from spending time in a useful manner. Not quite true since, in his line of work, each restaurant visit was professional research.

At the lobby level, he made a sharp right turn and found himself at the entrance to the coffee shop. Like everything in this hotel, it had more elegance than charm, but it had what Lalo wanted: a glass-fronted counter full of donuts and rolls, and in the distance, a table with a friend. Lalo waved. He broadly cocked his head toward the pastry case. Intentions were understood.

The man behind the counter had the look of a rebellious musician cleaned up for his day job, neat but with suspicious tattoos peeking from his uniform. This was fine by Lalo. He got along with that sort and often hired such young persons. They did well in food service if you gave them the chance. 

Lalo asked for advice on pastry selection. The young man, Jake, suggested the house bakery did a good fruit roll. Yes, Jake was a musician; his band was playing tomorrow night. Certainly Lalo hoped he would find time to catch a set. Jake knew enough of the restaurant business to be impressed when he realized who Lalo was.

Xerxes Golyam approached, glancing at Lalo’s fruit roll as he sat at the counter. “I gave up waiting for you.”

Lalo looked back to where Xerxes had been sitting. “So you did, but were you there in the first place? According to the schedule, you are facilitating a presentation upstairs.”

“Two presentations. I do Joint Magical and Non-magical as well as Multicultural Mathematical Metamagic.” Xerxes kept his eye on Lalo’s roll as he spoke.

Lalo sat, placing elbows on the counter and cupping hands as if, Jake thought, to protect his breakfast from the other man’s gaze. “Have you somehow divided yourself?”

“Can he do that?” asked Jake. “Is it magic?”

“Of course not.” Xerxes grinned. “A trick I accidentally picked up running last year’s convention. I double-book myself for a session. I arrive early in one room and locate someone in the audience who should have volunteered to facilitate. I open the printed schedule and indicate my predicament.”

Lalo was mumbling, moving fingers oddly over his plate, ignoring Xerxes, who pulled a device from a jacket pocket.

“People volunteer if they are already in the room and if it is a personal favor to a fine fellow like me. Now I pop over to the other room, locate another potential volunteer and do the same thing. With two substitutes taking my places, I am free to go for coffee.”

Lalo raised his hands in a puff of aromatic steam. “And some of this roll, if Jake will allow us another utensil.”

“Sure.” Jake inhaled a delicious whiff as he produced a fork from under the counter and placed it before Xerxes.

Xerxes did not touch the fork. “There is your real magic.”

Lalo smiled modestly. “I also picked up tricks at last year’s convention. This was inspired by a workshop on molecular alchemy.”

“A waste of magic.” Xerxes was looking at his device. “This restaurant has a microwave.”

“As do I.” Lalo cupped his hands over the roll again. “But I apply more than simple heat. Conservation of magical energy was part of the workshop. The key is putting just enough in the right places. I am satisfied with my investment.”

Jake nodded acknowledgement that the fruit roll’s aroma was excellent. Although it was the second day of the convention, this heating of the roll was Jake’s first opportunity to see magic in action. He had been rehearsing nonchalance, but following withdrawal of the suggested two-places-at-once spell, it was easy to underreact to magical food preparation.

“I should not complain.” Xerxes turned the device so Lalo could see its face. “Zero point zero one three mages.”

Jake’s interest in the gadget was greater than Lalo’s. “You have a meter with swinging needles? Old school.”

“The latest, actually.” Xerxes offered Jake a closer look. “Introduced at this convention. Thousandth mage accuracy.”

“I meant everything you see these days is digital,” said Jake. “And what’s a mage?”

“A magician,” said Lalo.

“Or in this case, a magician equivalent,” said Xerxes. “A unit of thaumaturgic energy. The devices are new, manufactured by a joint magical and non-magical company.”

“Good for them,” said Lalo.

“It is not digital because it is not electronic. They tried one with batteries, but current interferes with millimage accuracy. Power moving the needle comes from the magic being measured.”

Lalo offered his plate to Xerxes. “Try the pastry.”

“Already have. Delicious.”

Lalo turned the plate and found a piece removed in such a way he had not seen it. “So you did.”

“When did he do that?” asked Jake. “Was that magic?”

“Sleight of hand.”

“What? You mean like the card player?”

“Card player?” asked Xerxes.

Jake tipped his head toward a table near the center of the cafe, a man sitting with cards spread in a game of solitaire.

“Is he performing?”

“Just playing.” Jake leaned close over the counter. “But I think he cheats.”

“No real magic?” asked Lalo.

“He has no badge.” Jake tapped the MICA name tag hanging around Lalo’s neck. “He doesn’t go to any of your sessions. Just sits at that table playing cards. Started coming here the day before you all arrived.”

“He does not look familiar,” said Xerxes. “What makes you suspicious?”

“He always wins.”

Xerxes stood and crossed the cafe, chatting with conventioneers at one table or another. He came back across the room, pausing at the game to suggest relocation of a seven of hearts onto an eight of spades. The card player complied. While Xerxes worked the room, so did Jake with a coffee pot. They returned to Lalo simultaneously.

“He has to cheat if he wins playing as badly as that,” said Xerxes. “Nobody here from MICA knows him. Sitting in a room full of fascinating people and playing cards by himself.”

“Fascinating?” asked Jake. “When I heard the hotel would host a convention of real magicians, I expected more.”

“How so?” asked Xerxes. “What did you expect?”

“Not sure. I guess when you wanted refills, I thought the coffee pot would fly around on its own.”

Lalo shook his head. “Waste magical energy to put a fine young man out of work?”

“So we are a disappointment?”

Xerxes picked up his fork. He waved his hand, and the fork vanished.

“Stop that,” said Lalo. “You will confuse him. Jake, that was not real magic. Our friend here is a stage magician. Well, these days a theatrical agent—in fact, he should join me when I go to see your band—but for years, Xerxes the Great performed traditional magic throughout Europe.”

“You were a magician without magic?” Jake was finding Lalo’s effort to prevent confusion ineffective.

“Had to be,” said Xerxes. “Public display of real magic would have been impossible back then. Believe it or not, at one time, I amazed the crowds with my old fashioned sleight of hand. And what is this about a band?”

“Jake is performing tomorrow evening,” said Lalo. “We shall hear him.”

“But you’re a real magician,” said Jake. “Must have been ways to work real magic into your act.”

Xerxes swallowed another bite of fruit roll no one had seen him take. “Magic and real magic do not mix. One spoils the other. As a kid, I thought if I was going to be good at one, I should be good at both. Nonsense, but I did it anyway. And the band sounds like a good idea. If I can find the time.”

“Xerxes excels at both kinds of magic,” said Lalo. “Damned difficult being his classmate, I can tell you.”

“You two studied together?” asked Jake.

“Under Vidkun Drolin. Drolin of the Musical Memory Spell and the Cantrap of Lost Identity. But of course, you would not know of those.”

“And this teacher approved your studying leefer magic?”

Lalo winced. “Jake, we avoid that word.”

“Not all of you. But seriously, is it normal to study real and fake magic together.”

“Oh, hell no,” said Xerxes. “Vidkun insisted it was the craziest idea he ever heard.”

“The problem for Vidkun was Xerxes was his finest student,” said Lalo.

“Not true,” said Xerxes. But he did not mean it.

“And this teacher never tried to stop you from going into theatrical magic?” asked Jake. “Wouldn’t that be a big step down from what you guys do.”

Lalo and Xerxes shared a knowing smile. “Vidkun tried,” said Xerxes.

Lalo launched into a favorite story. “Vidkun had us staying with him at his summer place. Lovely spot, south of France, quite near the sea. In the evenings, Xerxes was sneaking into town to perform.”

“Lalo was telling me I was good,” said Xerxes. “I wanted to try my stuff in front of real audiences. After dinner, Vidkun would spend time working on his own projects and thought we should do the same. Not like I was disobeying.”

Lalo gave Xerxes a disapproving look. “Card tricks in nightclubs, hardly the sort of project our master had in mind. Anyway, one evening Xerxes invited me to see his act.”

“Patrons were praising my work. I wanted to show Lalo he had been right.”

“On the train into town, Xerxes alternated between being modest and telling me how wonderful the audiences thought he was.”

“Was I that bad?”

Jake laughed when Lalo shrugged and nodded. “We got to the club, which was a respectable place. Good wines and cheeses. Fine pastries. I took a table in a dark corner.”

“All the corners were dark in that joint. Made sleight of hand easier.”

“You did not need it. You were already a professional.”

“I move from table to table doing close-up magic. Cards. Balls. Coins. Things appearing and disappearing.”

“All with no actual magic?” asked Jake.

“Right,” said Lalo, “but while he was doing this, I look over and see Vidkun Drolin has come into the club. And Vidkun, unlike Xerxes, feels no obligation to avoid real magic so long as patrons do not detect it. With what he has in mind, they will suspect nothing.”

“I palm a ball and hide it under a cup the people at the table think is empty,” said Xerxes. “When I lift the cup to reveal the ball, it is gone. Or I flip over the card I forced on someone, but the wrong card comes up.”

“At first, he assumed it was me interfering. He gave me such a look.” Lalo’s face was suddenly stern, but his face was not made to be stern, which only made the story funnier. “I kept waving my hands and rolling my eyes toward the other side of the room.”

“When I finally looked,” said Xerxes, “I saw our mentor giving me this sweet smile. So now, I knew what was up.”

“That is when it became amazing.” Lalo put much emphasis on the word amazing, while imitating Vidkun Drolin’s smile.

“Vidkun was not moving things great distances,” said Xerxes. “Everything was still at the table. Cards were in the deck. Balls and coins were popping back into my pockets or sometimes other people’s pockets. It was damned hard to follow what was happening at first, but I caught on.”

“He started using it,” said Lalo. “Xerxes would move a coin with sleight of hand, and then Vidkun would move it magically, and then Xerxes would locate it and move it back into the act. I feared I would die laughing. It was marvelous to watch. Here was this group of non-magic users . . .”

“Remember,” said Xerxes, “this was before Nomik Motchk blew the lid off everything. No one in the room except us knew real magic existed.”

“Right,” said Lalo. “These people were watching what they believed was a good sleight of hand magician, not knowing they were seeing a great sleight of hand magician pushing his skill and his wits to do a good fake magic act despite the efforts of a real magician to disrupt the act with real magic.”

“And if you can follow that, my real audience was Lalo. He was the only person who knew what I was going through to keep the act alive.”

“And Vidkun of course,” said Lalo. “The best part was the stories Xerxes told to cover it.”

“Patter,” said Jake.

“Yes,” said Xerxes, “the patter. I made it up on the fly, sorting out Vidkun’s modifications at the same time.”

“He did it so well, no patron questioned what was going on,” said Lalo. “And Vidkun never again questioned Xerxes’s decision to do stage magic.”

“He wasn’t upset?” asked Jake. “It sounds like a student challenging his master in a wizard’s duel.”

“Goodness no,” said Xerxes. “Vidkun knew I was not fool enough to try that.”

“Vidkun was a wonderful teacher,” said Lalo. “Once he saw the skill with which Xerxes solved his problems, even without real magic, well, Vidkun Drolin was not a man to begrudge an apprentice success.”

“Never be another like him,” said Xerxes. “We were damned lucky to have that man.”

“Sounds like it,” said Jake. “Hey, our card playing friend just won another game.”

Xerxes looked around to see a silent victory celebration. “Who gets that worked up over solitaire?”

“He does. Every time.”

“Speaking of time, I need to be in a couple of places.” Xerxes reached into Jake’s apron pocket and produced the vanished fork. “Lalo, go nowhere. Or if you do, come back. I will return for lunch with someone you should meet.”

As Xerxes walked away, the busgirl came by and suggested Lalo was done with his plate. “No . . . Oh yes! Apparently I am.” Jake, seeing the plate was empty, added Xerxes’s clean fork to the busgirl’s plastic tub.

Lalo took the opportunity to retrace Xerxes’s wanderings around the room, chatting with old friends, meeting new ones, pausing in passing to consider games of solitaire.

Jake took the opportunity to divide his mind, half for work, half for important matters, his usual state when manning the counter, a job not requiring his full brain. He listened to the music of the cafe: flatware on plates, cups on tables, shoes on floors. Scrapes, hisses and low level chatter drifted from the kitchen. High level chatter was out front, those levels being volumes, as Jake did not believe in upper and lower classes. Not yet anyway.

He heard snatches of tunes from the dishwasher’s distant radio and looped music playing for customers. He nodded when these offered an opportune note. He heard cards being shuffled, shuffled, shuffled and laid. He heard Lalo Kabrak greeting, chatting, and slipping away to greet again, and a dozen other conversations. Last week it had been English teachers. The week before, helicopter pilots. Magicians were not much different. Occasionally someone mentioned a wand or staff, but never fairy dust, and not once the devil.

Jake’s listening became composition. Disjointed sounds slid together. Mood shaped tone. Words accumulated. Songs precipitated. Meanings would arrive later.

Jake’s mood now grew from the presence of Lalo Kabrak. Lalo of the restaurants: Your Place to Mine, where customers control ingredients; the art-film memorabilia franchise, Brick-Kabrak; and that new one in New York, the Laloteria with, Jake was sure he had heard somewhere, promise of live entertainment.

Lalo was watching the card player. Jake wondered if wizards used magic in their successes. They must. Some magicians cheat at cards and some at business? Lalo seemed nice enough. Probably make a good boss, and with his friend Xerxes the theatrical manager, good people to know. Words and tones in Jake’s mind began to form a song on the theme of talent and opportunity.

Will Hilsat’s talk had gone from challenging to baffling. He did his best to make the subject understandable, but the audience had to be knowledgeable in too many areas. A few managed to stick with him all the way. The rest got pretty pictures and charming personality, but to Jinasu Mao’s disappointment, no personal revelation.

Will had taken questions and provided answers while his last slide, a Central American waterfall in an endless loop, provided a pleasant backdrop. Abigail noticed shadows in the dancing liquid subtly forming themselves into glyphs that had been part of Will’s presentation. Cute.

Following “you have certainly given us a good deal to think about” comments, came questions clarifying points in the presentation. Jinasu asked for origins of Will’s ideas but got only a suggested reading list in response. Will seemed prepared to interact forever, but the originally scheduled facilitator returned and brought things to a close. The more interesting questions came after most people had left the room. A small group gathered around the podium as Professor Hilsat packed away his presentation.

“What you are proposing, in sum, is impossible,” said a gentleman with a nose like an eagle’s beak. “On the other hand, I would love to go over it with you in detail. The time and consciousness interface might lead down interesting paths. Have you considered mental resonance cycles in thought amplification spells? Their temporal component is not fully explored.”

“I understand what you mean about impossibility,” said Will. “I like that you propose solutions anyway. The relationship between physicality and mentality in magic is an area where I could use guidance.”

With a luncheon meeting scheduled for this room, hotel staff needed time to lay things out. The facilitator suggested moving the discussion to the coffee shop. The group, including Abigail and Jinasu, started down together, but along the way people remembered commitments. Business cards were exchanged, hands shaken, and by the time the coffee shop was reached, only the presenter, the facilitator, Abigail and Jinasu remained.

The women had made arrangements to meet people here, and when they did, those others had decided they should eat elsewhere. Abigail had barely a moment to catch Professor Hilsat’s arm and insist she needed a copy of his slides for her father. Will suggested they connect that afternoon in the lobby or the coffee shop. He would manage it then. Abigail liked that idea. Jinasu was not surprised.

As the women left, it was Xerxes Golyam’s turn to grab Will’s arm. “If you are free, I know people you should meet. They will find you interesting. It might be mutual.” After a round of table-hopping, Will found himself sitting down with Lalo Kabrak.

Will expressed interest in locating a magical metallurgist for a project. Xerxes was sure he knew just the fellow. He would check schedules and see what could be arranged.

“But before business,” said Lalo, “lunch.”

Jake arrived bearing menus. Will looked his over. Xerxes, having dined with Lalo before, did not bother. When Jake took Will’s menu from him, Will was surprised to realize he no longer needed it. Lalo had skimmed the bill of fare and, in rapid consultation with Jake, enlightened by a series of quick queries around the table, ordered for everyone.

Xerxes’s hands-on knowledge of the organization of MICA’s first and second conventions provided stories associated with nearly every table. It took him a while to bring his attention around to their own. “Dr. Hilsat here has just presented an enlightening review of his research on a multicultural approach to metamagical structures.”

“Sounds fascinating,” said Lalo. “Sorry I missed it.”

“He is being polite, Will,” said Xerxes. “If you cannot use it in the kitchen, he is not interested.”

“Multiculturalism was born in kitchens,” said Lalo.

“I suppose it was,” said Will, “though my research may not have cooking applications. I’m currently focused on connections between time- and space-related spells of pre-Columbian magicians, and theories of spacetime developed recently by leefers.”

Lalo winced. “We avoid that term now, do we not?”

“Which term? Leefer?”

“Yes,” said Lalo. “I know you meant no harm by it. None of us do. Yet when we use it, harm is done. We have distinguished between ourselves and the rest of the race for uncounted generations, but the word does more than differentiate. It has built-in derogation.”

“I suppose so. People don’t like to think of themselves as being left behind.”

“No,” said Lalo, “but leefer predates left and carries worse connotations. Both derive from an earlier word, one meaning weak or useless. Left insults a hand and leefer a whole person.”

“I’d no idea.”

“Most people do not, Dr. Hilsat, but these days it is wrong to think of the rest of the race as even left behind. They are not behind us anymore, as Nomik Motchk has pointed out.”

“I’ll be more careful in future. And please, call me Will.”

Food arrived. Lalo’s attention was redirected, ending linguistic discussion. Rather than placing plates before the patrons, Jake handed them first to Lalo who examined each, made gestures over it and then passed it along to the appropriate diner. Jake was clearly fascinated. He asked Lalo quiet questions. After all was distributed, Jake and Lalo engaged in brief discussion while Will and Xerxes savored aromas. When Jake returned to his counter, Lalo turned back to the table. “Please, enjoy!”

They did. Will was impressed by how delicious lunch could be. He was eating a salad of greens with onions and orange slices drizzled with a fiery dressing. He would never have ordered anything like it for himself, but somehow this complete stranger had arranged a dish that brought back memories of Will’s childhood. No, wait! Not of his childhood in Utah. These were memories of another childhood. Will took a serious look at Lalo.

The neat, dark man with laughing eyes was now speaking for some reason on the topic of cards. “Jake tells me our solitaire player has been here since dawn. The layout of the cards changes, so he plays different games, but Jake says he always wins. And when he does, he . . . well . . . does that.”

Will followed Lalo’s glance and saw a casually dressed man, younger than Will, waving his hands over a spread of playing cards and smiling broadly as he looked around the room. “Associate of yours?”

“No,” said Xerxes. “None of us know him. Jake is right. He was playing Klondike earlier. Now it is Pyramid.”

“The question,” said Lalo, “is why. The gestures after each victory seem calculated to some purpose. He wants to draw attention to himself.”

“Playing solitaire and wants attention? Maybe he’s lonely,” said Will. Heads nodded uncertainly. Perhaps. Each man returned to his food.

“So, Will,” asked Xerxes, “why seek a metallurgist?”

“I’m working on spells involving modifications of time, or more accurately, spacetime. A physical component is involved.”

“Modifications of time?” asked Lalo. “Could these be small modifications?”

“Yes. With spacetime, smaller is usually easier.”

“I am already thinking of practical applications. Time is critical in a restaurant kitchen. People do not realize how difficult it can be to bring a variety of dishes for a group of guests to perfection all in the same moment. I use magic at my establishments to assist in the process, but the ability to step back in time to fix missteps could be useful.”

“Possible in theory, but . . .”

“Difficult?” asked Lalo. “Dangerous?”

Will nodded silently. Yes. Difficult and dangerous.

a past

“Name three potential casting failures of a Spell of Unweaving, with their consequences.” The Old Man had no trouble keeping up with Free as they scaled the hill again. In fact, whenever they were on the uphill portion of the walk, he liked getting ahead of the younger man and looking back down to ask a question.

“One: failure to absolutely identify the target could lead me to cast against an indeterminate entity. Consequence: undesired changes in the past, present and future.” The young man spoke rhythmically, emphasizing words not because of their meanings but because they happened to be spoken at the moment a leg was straining to lift him up the hill. “Two: failure to cast correctly could leave me in an indeterminate state. Consequence: I could become insane or appear so to others.” Free put a crazed look on his face.

“Not funny,” said the Old Man.

The crazed look vanished. “Three: failure to cast successfully could result in my own removal from past, present and future, also leading to undesired changes.”

“Assuming you have ever had a positive effect on anything,” said the Old Man. “Why can you never correct a failed unweaving by casting it a second time?”

“It may not be the second time. You could be in a loop, casting a third or fourth or fifth without knowing. You could cast second times forever. For this reason the structure of the spell forbids repeat attempts.”

“Why did those who designed the spell make the ring essential to the process?”

“No ring would mean no memory of the casting. You could loop again. Say you decided to unweave a grain of sand from a beach. You could cast first times until it occurred to you to wonder why the beach had such a deep pit in it.”

“What is the indicator of success?”

The young man stumbled on a loose rock but kept himself upright. “My own physical destruction.” He glanced down the steep hill at the house below.

“Keep moving. What is the danger of success?”

“Failure to correctly anticipate results.”

“Which is called unintended consequences,” said the girl as she caught up to them with a series of lunging steps.

The Old Man ignored her. “What is the imaginary product of a successful casting?”

“A time stub,” said Free. They reached the top of the hill.

“What is the perceived duration of a time stub?”

Nobody hesitated as they turned and began down again, though Crystal spread her arms to pretend descending flight. Free answered. “The time from the creation of the target to the casting of the spell plus one twelfth of that time.”

“Why the additional twelfth?

“The temporal redistribution wave travels slower than the speed of time. The time stub is unwoven as the wave passes over it, and rewoven into the new reality. This concludes when the leading edge of the redistribution wave reaches the leading edge of the time stub.”

“Why one twelfth? Why not some other fraction?”

“It is an observed phenomenon. No one knows why the redistribution wave travels at that rate.”

“What is the actual duration of the time stub?” The Old Man had not asked this question before. Free kept walking while he thought.

“There is no actual duration,” said Crystal. “The time stub, once unwoven, never happened.”

“Good!” said the Old Man. “But be quiet. Who first observed the phenomenon of the time stub?”

Free answered quickly. “Utafiti Kutatas.”

“What is unusual about Utafiti Kutatas?”

“He never existed.” They had reached the bottom of the hill, went into the house through the back door, the young man, the Old Man, the girl, walking through the kitchen, the front room, and out into the yard.

“He does not need to know all this stuff to cast the spell, does he?” asked Crystal.

“Did I neglect to mention your keeping quiet?” asked the Old Man.

“Sorry.”

The three walked down the path in a single file until they reached the road where they turned together and marched side by side. “But why do I need to know this stuff?” asked Free. “Crystal is right. It is not part of the spell. If it is not real anyway, I should be able to cast without knowing anything about the time stub.”

The Old Man looked at him with mock astonishment. “Have I never told you the first principle of education?”

“No,” said Free and Crystal.

The Old Man’s expression became serious. “People who try to learn only what they need to know in order to succeed will fail because of things they did not learn but could have.” The Old Man was the one reciting from memory now. “It is the obligation of the teacher to teach more than the student needs to know. It is the duty of the student to learn it.”

“That,” said Crystal, “does sound like a principle you would agree with.”

“It is not a matter of agreement. It works. Stick around long enough in this world, and you will see.” The Old Man reached out to tap her on the nose, but she pulled her head away before he could. She always did that these days.

“I am not saying it is wrong, just that you do teach that way. I am glad you do. I like learning things.”

“There, Free. You see?”

Free was not sure how it was he had become the outnumbered party in this discussion. “I like learning.”

They reached a particular rock. All three spun about and returned down the road.

“Still, a review of the actual spell would be good. Begin.”

The young man recited from memory the details of a spell he had studied over a period of years, in parts and whole, in principle and practice, until it was as familiar as his own name. The three passed through the house and climbed the hill multiple times before Free was done reciting. The casting, he knew, would take only moments. This was the reason he had to know his lessons well, so he would not need to think when the time came.

Crystal was far enough along in her study of the spell to recognize many of the terms in Free’s recitation. In particular, her gift for understanding the ancient writing was, the Old Man had admitted to her, truly amazing. If she kept up her studies as she had so far, she would cast the spell for the first time at a younger age than Free would now. Perhaps even younger than the Old Man had cast such powerful magic, and the Old Man had been a great prodigy, or so he said. She was already doing some of the magic Free had not attempted until he was sixteen. Prodigy was a word she liked.

When they went up the hill the final time, taking the rock hammer, the Old Man had Crystal wait in the house. She figured this was so he could talk to Free about whether or not they wanted her to witness the spell casting. They must have decided it was all right, since when they came back down with Free carrying a heavy stone, nobody suggested she should leave.

Free put the stone on the table in the front room and pulled the rock hammer from the loop on his belt. “The exact number of pieces is not important,” said the Old Man. “It is the naming that matters.”

Free carefully broke the stone into four pieces and laid them out on the table. He named the new rocks, calling them Anna, Ben, Crystal and David.

“Follow me outside.” The Old Man led them to the bench beneath the piñon tree. He had one of the rocks with him. “Naming this one Crystal may not have been a good idea.” He tossed the rock far away from the house into the desert.

“That was not the one I was going to cast the spell against,” said Free.

“I understand. I am being overly cautious, but if you had decided at the last minute to cast the spell at that rock, having two Crystals in the room, having anything that might produce confusion between targets, is unnecessary danger.” The Old Man did not sound upset, merely reasonable.

“Can you cast the spell against a person?” asked Crystal.

“Oh yes, although it is not easy. You must clearly define that person in your mind. You should know the person’s name from birth.”

“So you cannot cast against someone if you are not sure what their real name is?”

“It is not impossible,” said the Old Man, “but it is harder and much less likely to succeed.”

“Is that why you gave us new names when we came to live with you, to protect us from someone casting against us?” asked Free.

“That was one reason.”

“Is that why we do not know your name?” asked Crystal.

The Old Man smiled. “As I said, I am overly cautious.”

“Does Free have to break a new rock?”

“No. This is a spell, not a ritual. As long as he has a named rock, he can go back any time and cast against it. The longer we spend out here chatting, the longer the time stub. We could sit awhile. Let David grow deeper roots in time. Give Free a stronger target to test himself against. Let him be torn into smaller pieces.”

“But the rock is already very old, like all rocks, is it not?” Crystal sounded worried. The Old Man looked to Free.

The young man recognized the look of the teacher. “No. The rock I named David is an entity that came into existence at the moment I broke it away from the larger rock. The material making up the rock is old, but the named entity is not. Everything is made from older substances. It is not the age of the substance but the age of the entity that determines the temporal origin of the target.”

“Exactly,” said the Old Man. “You recently turned thirteen. Free is eighteen. I am older. We are entities of certain ages made from tiny particles that are themselves ancient beyond imagining. Understand?”

Crystal nodded.

“Still, we do not want to put too great a strain on Free his first time out. Let us go unweave young David.”

They went back into the house. Crystal and the Old Man sat at the table while Free prepared. The Old Man told him to take his time.

Free went over a series of pictures in his mind. The pictures were sounds, the sounds words, the words a poem that was a spell. When he was ready, he took his staff from where it hung on the wall. He held it, eyes closed as it told him its story. This was the Grandfather staff, the slightly spiraled birchwood stick the Old Man had used when he was apprenticed as Free was now. The Old Man said the Grandfather staff was as good a teacher as any man could be. In Free’s experience, this was almost true. He was not sure how it happened, but no amount of study could bring him to understand a spell as he would once he cast it with the Grandfather staff.

Free opened his eyes and began the conclusion of the spell, affecting the world outside his mind. The pictures were spoken aloud. The staff was moved. Every position was important. The velocity as he moved it and the durations of the pauses when he stopped, each counted for something, defining a great curve in space and time. As he cast, he knew it was working. He could feel it. He could see it. The staff changed. He changed. Everything changed. Objects revealed themselves as they truly were, not thin now-shadows perceived within the illusion of time, but in their full extent, past, present and future. There was no past or future. There was only everything.

Free felt the power as he braced himself against himself, against the structure he had woven, was weaving, through the walking. The Grandfather staff, with bends that felt so right in his hands, gave him leverage. The weaving gave him strength. He had cast the final word against the stone, cast its name against it. “David.” He had touched the staff to the stone to pry it out of reality.

It had worked. He felt this by the strains and stresses in his hands and his arms, in his legs, his back, his shoulders and his mind. The staff was the tool, but the magic was all from Free, and the stresses were all on him. It was a struggle with only two possible outcomes. Either the stone or the man would be unwoven from time and space. The winner would be torn to pieces by intensity of forces involved, but the loser would be torn from existence altogether.

It was an easy battle. Little David was a short tale in time. Free was long, the Grandfather staff much longer. Their victory was never in doubt. Free tried to remember, as his flesh began to shred, that this was a good sign. Although beyond the illusions of past and future, so all his thoughts existed together, those thoughts still existed in a sequence. His second to last rational thought was that now he truly understood why the glyphs of the spell were written the way they were. His last rational thought was that all the preparation had not prepared him for this pain. He had additional thoughts, but they were not rational.

The Old Man examined the Grandfather staff and the pile of bloody chunks that had been Free Hilsat. “This looks good.”

Crystal did not look good. She had known what was coming but only in principle. In fact, the Old Man recalled, she had never seen this before. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket, wiping scarlet drops from her face and his own. “We should go outside now.” He took her by the hand. She allowed this. He led her to the door. On the way out, the Old Man pulled something off a shelf.

“What is that?” asked Crystal.

“Nothing shakes you enough to quench your curiosity. I love that about you. This is a fine Cuban cigar I bought to celebrate Free’s success.” Taking an intentionally dramatic stance in the yard, without benefit of flame, the Old Man lit the cigar with a couple of puffs and a long draw of air.

“I did not know you smoked.”

“I do not.” The Old Man exhaled a sweet cloud. “I cannot. Terrible for me. I only do this in time stubs, and I get damned few of those.”

“Could you make it safe somehow?”

“No. We can make things safer, make ourselves last longer, but what is bad for us is ultimately bad even for us. The reaper gets us all, magician and leefer alike.”

“We have no magic way to live forever?”

He took another draw, held stimulating smoke in his mouth and blew it out with words. “We cannot live forever. We cannot raise the dead.”

The girl had initially liked the sweet smell of the cigar but now found it unpleasantly strong. She turned away from him and toward the house. “But Free will be OK?”

“Free will be fine. He only died in this illusion.”

She touched a piñon branch. “This seems real.”

“It is real for us now. Once the time stub runs out, this will be a false memory, the last thirteenth of a time that never happened. The target, David, is sitting on the table, but David never existed. The material that makes up David was never broken from the rock called Crystal. The time of David’s existence never happened. Thanks to his ring, Free will remember everything up to his death during the casting. As I will with mine. This part . . .” He waved the cigar, leaving a thin trail of smoke in a broad arc. “. . . only I will recall. A fine time to do things one should not.” He took a draw.

“I will not remember any of it. Why could I not have had one of those rings?”

He blew out another cloud of smoke. “I only have the two. They do not sell these in town, you know. There is no place to order them.”

The Old Man gave Crystal an appraising look, as he was careful never to do these days. She was going to be a splendid woman. In fact, she was pretty nice right now. He reached out and gave her cute little bottom a squeeze in a way that could not be mistaken for a fatherly gesture. He squeezed harder, enjoying how she felt in his hand. Crystal spun around sharply with a look on her face that would have told him things he did not know about her. He never saw the look because, in that instant, one wave overtook another.

Free was screaming. The Old Man stood to put an arm around the shoulders of his apprentice. “It is all right. It is false memory. The pain was not real.” The Old Man’s voice was rich with confidence and calmed the young wizard.

“Did it happen?” Crystal was looking at the rocks on the table. “Did Free do it?”

“Yes,” said the Old Man. “He did a fine job. Although technically, he did not do anything, but he did it well.”

“Sorry.” Free was gasping. “It hurt . . . more than I . . .”

“One of many good reasons to cast that spell only in extreme necessity.”

“Wait,” said Crystal, “did Free really cast or not?”

“Do you remember a rock called David?”

“No.”

“David would have been Free’s target if it had existed. Since David never did exist, no spell was cast. It is a bit of unweaving trivia.” As he spoke, the Old Man pulled an object down from a shelf. “Nobody has ever successfully cast the unweaving.” He threw the object into one of the fire wheels. “Because if you do . . .” The object vanished in a flash of smokeless flame. “. . . you did not.”

The object, a fine Cuban cigar, left no sweet aroma.

the future

Reentering the cool of the lobby felt like returning from another country, a sensation Jinasu could not let pass without comment. “We forget where we are in international style hotels. The decor is vaguely European or Asian or African, but mostly vague. The signature restaurant is Moroccan, a sure sign we are not in Morocco. We have Philippine coffee in the lobby, an Italian sandwich shop downstairs, but when we go outside for lunch, how did Georgia get there?”

Abigail laughed and agreed. Abigail agreed with most of the things Jinasu said. It was one of the reasons they got along so well.

“I suppose you will be wanting to connect with Professor Hilsat now?”

Abigail scanned the lobby. “We should take a peek into the coffee shop.”

“Should we?” asked Jinasu. Abigail’s face displayed serious concern. “Well, yes, I suppose we could.”

The coffee shop’s decor hinted of the South Pacific. Abigail spotted Will sitting with the facilitator from the morning. “He is by the windows.” She was surprised to hear in her own voice how glad she sounded at finding him.

“What on earth?” asked Jinasu.

“Problem?”

“He is with Xerxes Golyam.”

“So?”

“Xerxes is in the room, but Lalo Kabrak is sitting by himself? That you never see. Come on.”

Abigail’s eyes went back to Will’s table, but she let Jinasu pull her to a seat at the counter.

“Lalo, have you and Xerxes had a falling out?” Jinasu’s tone indicated she knew it could not be so.

“No.” Lalo’s voice was hushed, serious, but he had a small grin. “We are being spies.”

“Oh! On whom are we spying?”

“Center table.” Lalo cocked his head to indicate a man sitting alone. Abigail and Jinasu took turns surreptitiously glancing. The man was casually dressed, youngish, not shabby, not an ugly person, but not so attractive he was likely to be a magic user. He had spread a complicated arrangement of playing cards and moved them with exaggerated gestures.

“What is he up to?” asked Abigail.

“He is playing cards,” said Lalo.

“What makes you think so?” asked Jinasu.

Lalo frowned. “It is not that he is playing cards; it is how he does it. He has been at solitaire the whole day, but he never loses.”

“Gosh!” exclaimed Jinasu. “Could anything be as boring as sitting alone cheating at cards? Oh, yes, wait. Watching someone else cheat at cards. Come now, Lalo. I know you better than that. There must be more to it.”

“We believe so. Observe the server with the coffee pot. He is with us.”

Jinasu frowned. “You have involved the hotel staff?”

“A friend. Observe.”

Jake was moving from table to table, topping off coffees. After refreshing a cup, he stopped behind the card player’s chair, pulled a black box from an apron pocket, checked it, adjusted it with his thumb as cards were moved on the table, checked the box again and put it away. He went back to serving coffee on a roundabout course toward the counter.

Lalo looked to Xerxes, who was watching the card player intently. Jinasu waved. When Xerxes finally noticed her, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head to let them know he had no revelation.

“No magic,” said Lalo. “Is that not right?”

The young man with the coffee was back behind the counter. “Right. Lalo’s friend says he’s not using any card tricks. He’s shuffling, dealing, playing by the rules, no palming cards, no fooling around.”

“Ah,” said Jinasu, “and Xerxes the Great would know.”

“Indeed he would,” said Lalo. The four of them were now looking at Xerxes’s table, although Abigail gave greater attention to Will, who was for some reason showing Xerxes his hand. The way Will moved fascinated Abigail, his every gesture conveying graceful confidence.

“And this thing says he’s not using real magic either.” The server slid the box onto the counter.

“This thing?” asked Jinasu.

“A meter. It measures real magic.”

“Does it?”

“It does,” said Lalo.

“And didn’t,” said Jake. “Xerxes says it’s the best available. He said I had to get it close for it to work.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“Oh, do forgive me,” said Lalo. “Jinasu Mao, this is Jake Blake. Jake, this is Jinasu and . . .”

“Abigail Arnold,” said Jinasu.

“Peregrine’s daughter?” asked Lalo. Abigail nodded.

“Who’s Peregrine?” asked Jake. He was, Jinasu noted, at least trying not to stare at Abigail. Jake was a reasonably handsome, muscular young man, but with multiple tiny physical imperfections, clearly not a magician. He would not be used to chatting with women whose appearance had the benefit of magic. Jinasu had a round-faced beauty western men sometimes failed to appreciate. She toyed with the thought of modifying her facial structure to see how this would affect Jake, but even in this age of magical openness, leefers still found that sort of thing disturbing.

Abigail had enhanced her appearance at some point in the last few minutes. Her eyes were stunning now, larger, with irises in graduated shades of green not often seen outside Japanese cartoons. Almost lit from within, they went perfectly with her shimmering hair. Poor Jake was going to stare whether he wanted to or not. Too bad the show was not for him.

“Peregrine Arnold is a great scholar who has studied with magic users the world over,” said Lalo. “He is a man interested in everything, one who put me on to excellent English dishes at a time when I doubted such things existed. He has that effect on people, broadening their views.”

“He does,” said Jinasu.

“Miss Arnold, I am Lalo Kabrak. Your father and I have dined together often, but always when we were both traveling. Our domestic lives are . . .” Lalo spread hands wide apart. “Peregrine assures me you are his finest pupil.”

Abigail smiled modestly.

Jake said, “So your folks went for alliteration and mine for rhyme.”

Abigail looked up at the man behind the counter. “Pardon?”

“Abigail Arnold. Jake Blake.” He smiled.

“Jake is your actual name?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Jake spoke proudly but wondered then what in his own name was making him so proud, and this made him look puzzled.

“Magic users generally avoid the use of their real names,” said Lalo.

“Oh?” Staring into Abigail’s amazing eyes, Jake was now pretty much unaware of his own topic of conversation.

“Mr. Kabrak,” said Abigail, “you must come and see us. Daddy would make a splendid host in his own castle, but no one visits him.”

“Call me Lalo, please. It has been some time since I last saw Peregrine.”

“What is he doing now?” asked Jinasu.

“Dealing with a Mexican puzzle,” said Abigail. “That is why I am interested in . . .”

“No, not your father. I mean what is that fellow doing?” Jinasu indicated the card player, who was making sweeping gestures with his hands and looking around the room with a broad smile.

“He does that whenever he wins,” said Jake.

“Why?”

“That’s one of the things we were wondering.”

“Has anyone thought to ask him?”

Lalo looked startled and shook his head. Jinasu got up decisively and maneuvered between tables until she reached the card player. “Excuse me. I could not help noticing you play a lot of cards.”

“Yes, and I always win.”

“So we have seen.” Lalo had come up behind Jinasu. “You are a lucky man.”

“Only with this deck,” said the card player. “It’s magic.”

“No, it’s not.” Jake was out from behind the counter, this time without coffee. “This is a highly sensitive magic meter. We were checking you. The needle never budged from zero.”

“Please forgive the intrusion,” said Lalo. “We have no right, but your behavior aroused our curiosity.”

“Far from intrusion,” said the card player. “My behavior served its purpose. I’m here to catch the attention of people who know magic and can help me understand these cards.”

“You are not a magic user yourself?” asked Lalo.

“Before today, I never met one.”

“It does not take real magic to manipulate cards, does it?” asked Jinasu.

“If he is doing card tricks, he is the best who ever lived.” Xerxes had now joined the group gathering around the table. “And if he was the best, I would already know him.”

“No tricks,” said the card player. “I lack that skill.”

“Then why do you keep winning?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Puzzled looks were exchanged. “Does a story go along with this?” asked Lalo.

“Yes. A bit long. Would you be willing to hear it?”

Jake returned the magic meter to Xerxes. “I’m at work. You guys fill me in.”

“Please join me,” said the card player. “My name is Dexter Toole.”

Lalo, chuckling, seated himself at Dexter’s table.

Jinasu sat between Dexter and Lalo. “Is that funny?”

“He is a leefer named Dexter.” Lalo’s use of the word leefer surprised Xerxes, who looked at his friend curiously. “Leefer means left. Dexter means right. Please forgive me, Dexter. I hope you are not offended.”

“Should I be?” asked Dexter.

Abigail sat on the other side of Lalo. “I thought sinister meant left.”

“True, in Latin,” said Lalo. “We mix languages of origin in order to enjoy the humor.”

“Lalo loves words,” said Xerxes, “especially their histories.”

“Etymology carries information. Knowledge of such origins is useful to kitchen magic. One need never wonder where to seek the earliest tangerine recipes.”

“Useful to all magic,” said Will. “Vital in my work.” He sat next to Abigail. They exchanged extremely pleasant smiles.

“Dexter,” asked Lalo, “what is the story of these mysterious games?”

“You may have heard of my uncle, Alexander Gaius Toole, a wealthy man with interests in dozens of businesses. He told me I was his favorite relative and could look forward to a nice surprise in his will. We lost him a few months ago. It was unexpected, a tragic accident in his swimming pool.”

Lalo shook his head. “Dear, dear.”

“At the reading of the will, the surprise he promised me turned out to be equally unexpected. The other relatives got large sums of cash or shares in income producing properties. I got . . .” Dexter waved his hands over the cards spread on the table.

“Only the cards?” asked Xerxes.

“And the box they came in.” Dexter held up a packet.

“May I?” Xerxes took the box, which was not empty.

“I carried my inheritance home in my shirt pocket. Aided by a magnifying glass, I examined it. In the next few days, I studied it over and over, thinking I’d find the key to a treasure. What I found was fifty-four playing cards, jokers included.” He indicated the pair Xerxes had extracted from the packet.

Xerxes flexed the jokers. They felt like normal pasteboards, the colorful harlequins not of any standard design, one with the face of an ape, the other a reptile. The backs of the cards were pale green with a shiny silver border. They had a drawing on them of a monkey juggling a rocket, a comet, a crescent moon and a star. The cards looked brand new, the print quality excellent. The empty packet had the same picture on it and showed no sign of wear or identity of manufacture.

“I was at the kitchen table looking the cards over a thousandth time,” said Dexter. “I guess I’d become bored with the task. I’d played solitaire when I was a boy, so I dealt a set up without even thinking. I won the first game. I recalled from childhood I didn’t win often. This made me suspect I was playing incorrectly. I tried again and won again. Now I was certain I must be doing it wrong. I went online to look for rules. The game I thought of as Solitaire was actually called Klondike. It turns out there are many different solitaires.”

“Is that right?” asked Jinasu. “I wonder why.”

“Any card game played alone is a solitaire,” said Xerxes.

“Klondike is the most popular,” said Dexter. “At first, I found not rules but versions of the game to play online.”

“How does that work?” asked Abigail.

“Yes, how does it?” asked Will. “Good question.” 

Abigail smiled at Will. Jinasu noticed both of them were now almost too attractive.

“You click and drag images of cards on the screen,” said Dexter. “I played a couple of games to be sure I had the layout and rules right. I lost online. I played again with these cards and won. The hairs were standing up on the back of my neck. I’d been looking for a secret, something valuable in the deck, but not something impossible. Still, the news the last few years kept saying real magic exists. So I said to myself, here some is, an actual magical deck of cards.”

“Or not.” Xerxes held up the meter.

“What is it then? As long as I was online, I looked up other solitaires. I tried a variety: Aces Up, FreeCell, Pyramid, Scorpion, Montana, Clock, Three Blind Mice. Some are supposed to be easy to win, some difficult, but for me with these cards, losing was impossible. I located another deck and set up games side by side. With the normal deck, I usually lost. With this deck, never.”

“Did you try other games,” asked Xerxes, “not solitaires?”

“My next thought. I invited friends in for poker.”

“Oh, ho!” said Lalo. “Your fortune was made?”

“Well, I never lost, but that’s no way to make money.”

“No,” said Xerxes. “They do not allow you to bring your own deck to poker tournaments.”

“Still, a friendly game now and then.” Lalo grinned.

Dexter gathered his cards and shuffled. “Play for pennies. We each draw a card. High card wins. Ace is high. Ties carry over. The game ends any time you wish.” He placed the deck between himself and Lalo. He drew a card: the eight of clubs. “Now you draw.”

Jinasu watched Lalo reach hesitantly for the deck. He drew the five of diamonds.

“Eight beats a five. You owe me a penny.” Dexter drew again. This time he had the ten of spades. Lalo drew the two of clubs. “Two cents.” Dexter next drew the ace of diamonds, which beat Lalo’s seven of clubs.

“May I go first?” asked Lalo.

“Be my guest. It will not matter.”

Lalo drew a king of spades and smiled until Dexter drew the ace of hearts. Lalo drew the four of diamonds, and Dexter the four of clubs. “A tie,” said Dexter. “Penny on the table.” Lalo then drew the five of hearts. Dexter drew the nine and won the next four pairs as well. “You are down a dime.”

Lalo now turned the ace of spades.

Dexter looked at Lalo’s card. “Let’s make it exciting. Instead of pennies, a thousand dollars on each draw, including this one you’ve already started. We can stop whenever you like. Do you accept?”

“Nice,” said Xerxes. “Three aces already revealed. Lalo, if the next card is anything other than the ace of clubs, you win a thousand bucks.”

“Thirty chances in thirty-one,” said Will. Abigail gave him an astonished smile as if to praise his calculation.

“You can quit then and take your cash,” said Dexter.

“No,” said Lalo. “I think we stick with pennies.”

“You see the problem with always winning.” Dexter turned the next card, the ace of clubs.

“Nobody puts down big money until they have reason to think they can beat you,” said Xerxes.

“Exactly.” Dexter caught Jake’s eye at the counter and gestured him over. “The gambler’s dream was revealed to be a nightmare.”

“What was the meter telling us?” asked Lalo.

“No magic,” said Xerxes. “No fancy card work either.”

“So, what is it?” asked Jinasu. “Is Dexter just lucky?”

“Or unlucky,” said Lalo. “What Dexter’s uncle has left him initially seems like a great treasure, but despite it, he could starve.”

Jake placed Dexter’s check on the table in front of him.

“No.” Dexter slid the next card off the deck. Without turning it, he placed it on the restaurant check. Jake looked at the back of the card with its juggling monkey.

“Jake, do not let him talk you into anything,” said Jinasu. “He is not a good man to bet against.”

“No bet,” said Dexter. “Turn the card over.”

Jake turned it. It felt thicker than a playing card. It was a credit card with a pale king of diamonds as a background image. He flipped it back. The monkey was now faded and obscured by text, a signature and magnetic strip.

“You can imagine my surprise the first time that happened,” said Dexter.

Jake certainly could. Lalo looked to Xerxes, who raised his eyes from the meter and shook his head. No magic.

“Go ahead, run it. It’ll be approved,” said Dexter. Jake looked to Lalo, who nodded. Jake took the card and check to the register.

“Who gets the monthly bill?” asked Xerxes.

“My name is on the card. I’ve called the company. Everything is handled online, always paid up, drawing automatically from a numbered foreign bank account. That’s the entirety of what they can tell me.”

“Then you’re rich,” said Will.

“Maybe,” said Dexter, “but like I say, my name is on the card. Is the bank account mine? I’ve no idea and no access. How much is in it? What are the limits? I’m afraid to charge heavily until I understand. And anyway, am I looking for a fortune? I was already financially comfortable before my uncle died. He could’ve left me money, but he didn’t. He left the cards for some purpose. I have the magic deck, but what’d he want me to do with it?”

“It is not magic,” said Xerxes.

“Forgive my doubting your meter, but it looks like magic to me.”

Will and Abigail had been exchanging a whispered conversation. Now Will spoke up. “Xerxes is right. You said you’re not a magic user?”

“Absolutely. You people are the first I’ve ever known.”

“Well, there you go. Even if the deck was magic, it wouldn’t do magic for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Repetitively magical devices are not magic by themselves,” said Abigail. “They channel the magic of the user. I have a magic wand, but in the hands of someone who is not magic, it is merely a stick.”

“That’s correct,” said Will. “An object can enhance, or temporarily hold, but only a person can actually be magic.”

“Is that right?” asked Dexter. Xerxes and Lalo nodded. “I didn’t know. But if that’s true . . .” Dexter looked at his cards. “What the hell is this?”

“What the hell is this?” The engineer examined a sheet of numbers dropped over plans on his drafting table.

“Motchk’s specifications.” Unlike most people, the salesman pronounced Motchk correctly, easily handling the difficult possessive.

“They make no sense.”

“They come from the client.”

“Still nonsense. These numbers say he wants to hear back tens of millions of years.”

“Maybe he does.” The salesman walked across the engineer’s office to look out the window at the city below.

“That is nuts,” said the engineer. “Not possible, and even if it was, why would anyone want to listen back that far?”

“Nomik Motchk works with the petroleum industry. They work with materials buried underground for millions of years, which suggests a possibility.” The salesman frowned. “Did you say it was impossible?”

“Yes.”

“I told Motchk we could listen back as far as he wanted because you said we could.”

“In theory you can hear back without limit, but . . .”

“But what?”

“This extreme scale never occurred to me. The longest anyone has asked for was three thousand years.”

“Which we managed. Mrs. Hoolbruke was delighted. She was the one who recommended us to Motchk.”

“Quite a difference between thousands and millions.”

“Even those of us in sales can do arithmetic. It’s in our job description. You said we can listen back without limit.”

“In theory.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You remember how we put the apparatus under the ocean to keep it hidden on the three thousand year project?”

The salesman nodded.

“Because it was so big,” said the engineer. “No other place could hide it.”

“Motchk hasn’t asked to keep his project hidden.”

“No danger of that. The size of the set up is directly proportional to time. Listen back twice as far, the apparatus is twice as big. This is more than twenty thousand times longer.” The engineer did the math in his head. He was not showing off. It was just his way. The salesman was used to this by now and knew not to question numbers. “The three thousand year apparatus was twenty kilometers, the width of a city. This would be four hundred thousand. That is thirty times the width of the earth, give or take.”

“And we can’t do that? Wrap it around the planet?”

“It must be straight.”

“Maybe with spaceships?”

“You leefers control the space program.”

“Señor Motchk and I would prefer you say ‘non-magical fellow human beings.’ We can work with them.”

“Leefer is more efficient. Anyway, it is not just distance. We cannot simply send satellites to endpoints. The apparatus must be rigid. No substances are strong enough to keep their shape on that scale. Even if they could, there would not be material enough to construct it or fuel enough to send it into space. The entire human race working together for the next hundred years could not do this.”

The salesman collapsed into a chair as if his bones had suddenly vanished. The engineer knew him well enough to know this signaled acceptance of unpleasant truth.

“I am sincerely sorry.”

“You want to tell Motchk that?”

“Should I?”

The salesman looked at the window and sighed. “No. Talking to the client is my skill. If you told him, we’d both be dead before you got to the part about fuel.”

The engineer recalled whispered rumors of Nomik Motchk’s methods. “You are serious.”

“Oh, yeah.”

It was Will who suggested, after Xerxes and Lalo left to attend presentations, that he, Abigail, Jinasu and Dexter continue their discussion at the counter. “Since the cards aren’t magic, Jake’s ideas may be as good as ours. I say we sit where he can participate.”

Jinasu was not surprised by how quickly Abigail agreed to this, even though it meant they would miss a session of MICA events. This afternoon, Will was clearly the focus of Abigail’s attention.

Jake, however, had no more ideas on Dexter’s magically non-magical deck than anyone else. While Jake was busy with his job, conversation shifted to Professor Hilsat’s presentation. Will and Abigail exchanged contact information. He promised a copy of his slides for her before the conference ended. She explained her Daddy, Peregrine Arnold, was interested in Mexican and Central American magic.

“Do you know if he’s doing anything related to time?” asked Will.

“He usually is. I am sure I will find out when he and I discuss your presentation.”

“Abigail,” said Jinasu, “as a witch, you are certainly fortunate to have a father who is a wizard.”

“Yes, I guess I am.” This was an odd topic for Jinasu to emphasize in front of strangers. Among magic users, the nature of the Arnold family was not universally approved. Abigail wondered what her friend was getting at.

“Most magic users do not have that advantage.”

“Magic doesn’t run in families?” asked Dexter.

“No,” said Jinasu. “It appears in children quite rarely and by purest chance.”

“Are you saying any family could have a magical child? How could that’ve been kept secret for so long?”

“Magic users seek out magical children. When they find them, they . . .” Jinasu realized certain elements of magical apprenticeship might be disturbing to a leefer.

“They what?”

“Arrangements are made. Details vary in each case. It is possible a number of potential magic users go undiscovered in every generation.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Will.

“A real pity.” Jinasu struck a thoughtful pose. “What would have become of me if my mentor had not passed through my village when I was a child? Would someone else have discovered my talents, I wonder? Would I have studied other magic under another teacher? Would I have learned of my gifts at all?”

“Your life might have been very different,” said Will.

“Yes, I imagine so. And we certainly know you are knowledgeable in your particular branch of magic. Professor Hilsat, who gets the credit for mentoring you to this high level? Who passed through your village, Will?”

Now Abigail saw where Jinasu was going.

Will was playing idly with the ring he wore on his thumb. “Most of my knowledge of magic simply came to me.”

“Is that right?” asked Jinasu. “In my experience, that seems unusual.”

“I know. I’m an anomaly, Miss Mao, out of line with the thesis of your books. I’ve done a lot of study with skillful magic users in the last few years, and they’ve added much to my knowledge, but the truth is, no one in this world gets the credit for discovering me. Or the blame. As you may have noticed, I use contractions through force of habit. No good mentor would let me get away with that.”

“However did you get into magic in the first place?” asked Abigail.

“It just sort of happened.” Will smiled a smile that was humble and charming. A woman sitting at a table in the corner of the coffee shop smiled in exactly the same way. No one noticed her.

“Well, well,” said Jinasu, “a real self-made wizard.” She sounded skeptical. Abigail shot her a look of disapproval. Jinasu decided to shift the subject. “After your presentation, a questioner said what you were proposing was impossible.”

“I get that sometimes,” said Will. “As soon as you suggest a means of modifying the past, someone gets all grandfather paradox on you.”

“Grandfather Paradox?” asked Abigail.

“I know that one.” Dexter Toole was a reader of science fiction, and unlike magic, this was a topic he felt he understood. “A time traveler goes back in time, finds his grandfather as a young man and kills him before the time traveler’s father is conceived.”

“And people think you want to murder your grandfather?” Jinasu asked.

“No,” said Will, “there’s more to it.” Hush said a silent voice in Will’s head. “You tell them, Dex.” Abigail thought it was awfully sweet that Will took care to let Dexter have this opportunity to be an expert.

“Since the time traveler killed his grandfather, his own father was never born. So, the time traveler was never born. He couldn’t have gone back in time and killed his grandfather. Since the grandfather wasn’t killed, the father was born, and so was the time traveler, so he did go back and kill his grandfather, so he wasn’t born and didn’t go back . . . and so forth.”

“So back and forth,” said Will. “Well put, Dex.”

“You get stuck in some kind of endless loop,” said Abigail, “and that is the danger.”

“Right,” said Dexter.

“Yet wrong.” Will now flashed an expression clearly indicating he was knowledgeable but not in any way condescending. This was echoed on the face of the woman in the corner, a fact that again went unnoticed.

“Why wrong?” asked Abigail.

“Do you know that one, Dexter?” asked Jinasu.

“I might.” Dexter was thinking aloud now. “I suppose you don’t get stuck in a loop because it never happens. Time travel can’t happen, right Will?”

“Yes and no,” said Will. “One does not travel in time, but one can affect the past.”

“If you can affect the past, kill your grandfather and such, it is exactly as bad as if you time traveled,” said Abigail. “You still get the paradox. You still get trapped.”

“No, though it’s understandable one would think that. A paradox can’t happen. People imagine time travel leading to a paradox so conclude that affecting the past is impossible. What’s impossible is the paradox.”

“You said there was no time travel,” said Jinasu.

“But not because it’s impossible. The limitation is that time travel is far too complicated.”

“How so?” asked Abigail.

“The first thing you need to know is time isn’t what we think it is.”

“Time is an illusion,” said Dexter. This was another fact he had picked up from his reading.

“Is that what your Central American wizards thought?” asked Jinasu.

Confirm, said the silent voice in Will’s head as Jake came back to the counter to take payment from a couple of young women waiting at the register.

“No,” said Will. “They didn’t understand that part. They had a feel for it, but nobody understood it until recently, Albert Einstein and that crowd. And time isn’t an illusion, Dex. It’s the way we perceive time that’s illusory. We see time as being past, present and future. We see it as if it was separate from space. Those are both illusions. When you understand it, it’s one continuous spacetime.”

“And you understand it,” said Jinasu.

“I do.” Will picked up his coffee. “You see this cup?”

“Yes.” Jinasu and the others nodded.

The customers had stopped to count their change. Waiting for them, Jake held the cash drawer open.

Confirm! Despite being silent, the voice inside Will’s head managed to be louder this time. He put the cup down. “We’ll be meeting at the Observatory Lounge to hear Jake’s band.” Jinasu was still looking at the coffee cup. “It’s the Observatory, right, Jake? Tomorrow evening?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jake.

“And how do we get to the Observatory?”

Jake had no problem answering as he made change. “You go up the stairs in our lobby and look behind you. You‘ll see the skybridge. In the tower across from this one, ride to the top of the elevators.”

“Skybridge to the next tower, elevators to the Observatory. Got it. Jinasu, Dexter, Abigail, you’ll attend, right? Maybe Lalo or Xerxes will have an insight by then.”

“We will be there,” said Abigail. “You had any new ideas on the cards, Jake?”

“Nope. Have you?”

“None.”

Satisfied with their change, the customers left. Jake closed the drawer.

“I guess we have a date,” said Jinasu. “Got it. Now, you were telling us about coffee cups.”

“Coffee cups?” asked Jake.

Will lifted his coffee again. “This cup has extension in space, up and down, front to back, side to side. You see that. But it also has extension in time, past to future. What you are seeing is a thin slice of what the cup actually is. We see the now of the cup. We’re missing its past and future.”

Jake nodded.

“When you see objects for what they really are, you don’t think of them in terms of where they are now, where they were then, where they will be.” Will waved the cup from place to place as he spoke. “They’re shapes in spacetime. Changing the past doesn’t involve going to then and coming back to now because then and now are illusions. Changing the past is changing the shapes.”

Abigail was watching the woman bussing tables as she took a tub full of cups and dishes back into the kitchen. “Those shapes must get tangled around each other.”

“Yes!” said Will. “Exactly! That tangle is what makes time travel impractical. Our brains aren’t built to sort it out. If we see time as it actually is, we’re lucky to track a single cup, much less search through a complicated city to assassinate a grandfather.”

“And how does this view fix the paradox?”

“You reach into time and find the shape that was your grandfather. You change it so your father was never born. When you do that, everything changes, not only your grandfather and your father. Everything! Because those guys are both fantastically complex shapes, interconnected with a multitude of other shapes. Everything is connected and everything changes. The result is a whole new reality. In this reality, your father was never born. The fact that you’ll also never be born means nothing. The old reality, the one where you went back to change things, isn’t still hanging around somewhere waiting to be restored by the power of paradox. That reality is gone. That reality never happened.”

“So,” said Abigail, “no paradox, no loop, no danger.”

Although it was forbidden, Will glanced at the woman sitting at the corner table. On her face was a smile that, had it appeared on Will, would have given Abigail a warm feeling of pride in her own intelligence, and pleasure in Will’s appreciation of it. But the smile did not appear.

In the De Soto conference room, panelists reorganized to accommodate additional experts at the head table for the second part of the afternoon’s discussion. Xerxes Golyam took the opportunity to pop in and speak to a huge, bald-headed man sitting in the back row. The man had a name tag reading, “Hello, I’m Willy.”

“I have a problem that may interest you, deGaeth.”

The man indicated by a widening of his eyes that he would listen.

“Fellow showed me a magical ring today. Wants a copy.”

The listener turned his head a fraction of an inch.

“Damnedest thing you ever saw. Looks solid, but it is an extremely fine wire mesh, multitude of different materials, no kind of regular weave, complex as hell.”

The listener pursed his lips a bit.

“If we get a look at it, I am sure you can ID the metals. Manufacture will be a challenge, but it was done once, eh?”

The listener tipped up the corners of his mouth.

“Problem is, he will not take it off.”

The listener raised his hands a couple of inches and tugged a finger on one hand with the other.

“Not cannot. Will not. Says it has to stay on his thumb for magical reasons.”

The listener shifted his grip from finger to thumb.

“He needs an exact reproduction, but it absolutely must not be removed.”

The listener turned down the corners of his mouth.

“He says money is not a problem. Think you can do anything for us? Give him a good look at it in situ?”

The listener contemplated his thumb and turned the corners of his mouth up again.

“Thanks, deGaeth. Knew I could count on you. Oh, they are back on. I have an event upstairs. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”

The listener nodded his head slightly. Xerxes left the room as the audience participation section of the afternoon’s panel discussion began.

The salesman had made a promising contact while walking across the lobby. In the elevator, he adjusted his tie, his sleeves, his hair. This might yet be a good day if he could somehow stay alive to the end of it. The elevator opened onto the top floor. The salesman walked the corridor past recessed double doors, the entrance to the Presidential Suite. Here the president of MICA would be hosting small but important events. The salesman had some idea who might be inside right now. How he wished he were with them. Lots of opportunities. Nothing he would get an invitation to, though. Today’s business was elsewhere.

He walked around a shallow bend and down to the end of the corridor, the corner suite. With no hesitation, he knocked on the door. If he had hesitated, he might not have knocked. A man in a dark grey suit, Motchk’s personal secretary, ushered him in. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

He knows, thought the salesman. The entryway lacked character, but its materials were expensive. It did not take long for the secretary to return, indicating with a gesture the salesman should continue inside. The suite of rooms maintained the style of the entryway.

“Ah, here is someone I have looked forward to seeing.” Nomik Motchk lifted a bottle and poured the salesman a drink. “What good news have you?” When Motchk brought the bottle down, it produced a barely audible thud against some rare wood.

The salesman received the glass from Motchk’s hand and took a long sip. Excellent whiskey. He needed it. “I lied to you.”

Motchk sipped lightly at his own drink. He waited silently for the rest of the salesman’s revelation.

“No deceit was intended, but I gave you an incorrect assurance. I failed to communicate properly with our engineer. He told me the time we could probe was unlimited. His statement was theoretically correct, but practicalities interfere. My error was in not making him understand early enough the full scope of your interests.”

In the salesman’s experience, Motchk’s facial expressions often seemed crafted, but the displeasure apparent now looked natural. This did not disturb the salesman. This part was inevitable.

“What is the gap between theoretical and practical?”

“Vast,” said the salesman. “The realistic limit is so far below your needs we can offer no hope of success.”

Motchk took another sip from his drink. The salesman did not join him. Motchk swallowed with conviction. “I want contact information for that engineer.”

The card was already in the salesman’s hand and then in Motchk’s. The engineer’s home address and phone number were penciled on the back. “Although he can’t help you, he’s still providing excellent service to others.”

“Others like Mrs. Hoolbruke?” asked Motchk.

The salesman said nothing, did nothing in response, in the spirit of client confidentiality.

“I intend the man no harm. I want to confirm with him what you have told me. Not that I doubt you.”

“Under the circumstances, your doubt would be fully justified.”

“Drink up,” said Motchk. “Everybody makes mistakes. I made one once.”

The salesman took a deep breath, chuckled appreciatively, but not too much, and sipped his drink. Motchk turned and crossed the room. His limp was almost unnoticeable. He stepped through a sliding glass door onto a balcony. “Join me.”

The salesman followed him out. The view from the corner balcony was spectacular. Lights were coming on throughout the city. “A worthy prospect.”

“I love this time at the end of sunset.” Motchk waved a hand. “Look at the windows on that building, indoors and out equally lit, two worlds, ordinarily one or the other in shadow, come together for this special moment.”

The salesman had seen this effect a thousand times, thinking nothing of it. “It’s beautiful.” As he said the words, he felt them to be true. The air, too hot in the afternoon, was cooling nicely. He sipped his drink. The atmosphere, the view, the excellent whiskey, if this were to be his last moment, it could be a worse one.

“Go to the end of the balcony. Lean out as far as you can.” Motchk savored the salesman’s hesitation.

The salesman realized how silly it was to think he could do anything to save himself if Nomik Motchk intended to kill him. He would be no safer in a fortress than hanging off that balcony. He stepped to the railing.

“Look to your right. Tell me what you see.”

“Another balcony.”

“Do you see people?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Motchk finished his drink. “That is the Presidential Suite. If they are outside, their meeting is over and the reception has begun. We can go in now. Do you have time to join us? A couple of folks I know might profit by your acquaintance. And so, of course, might you.”

“I suppose I do have time.” The salesman finished his drink as well.

Motchk examined the penciled notation on the business card, smiled, and slid it into his pocket. “You had this whole conversation completely laid out before you came here.”

“Of course,” said the salesman.

“Professionalism. This is why I enjoy working with you.”

Motchk led the salesman back through the rooms, out into the hallway and down the corridor to the Presidential Suite. Lots of opportunities inside. It was a good day.

“So far, so good, anyway.” Will Hilsat was sitting on the edge of an overstuffed chair in a space known to the hotel staff as the prefunction lobby, a wide hallway where doors opened out from meeting rooms. Here were tables with carafes of iced water. People constantly came and went, particularly now as the day’s final sessions were concluding.

“What’s this about playing cards?” She sat in a chair next to Will. She was attractive, but the way she dressed and moved, the poses she adopted, caused people flowing past to fail to notice her. She could do it that way when it suited.

“Dexter’s cards? No idea. Awfully handy, though. Gave us a topic of conversation.”

“You were certainly focused on conversation. You ignored me when you got onto your favorite subject.”

“That was intentional. Are you sure about this group event tomorrow evening? I’d think your part of the job would be hard enough with just the two of us.”

“None of this is hard, Will. This is what I do. Groups are easier. Their swirling currents open options. We’ll make you her anchor in that flow and channel it down to two when the moment is right.”

“It changes the plan a bit. Are your girls ready?”

“Count on it.”

“I do.” Will settled back into his chair.

“In the coffee shop, what happened at the end?”

“Abigail was already hooked. Even I could see that.”

“Such confident bait.” She brushed at his sleeve. “Remember, I’m the expert. I prepared the perfect smile.”

“Sorry. What she said brought up a memory. It distracted me.”

“An old memory?”

“Yeah.”

“No room for distractions, big boy. You want things to go well tomorrow night.”

“Should be an evening full of distractions. I’ll keep the memories under control.” Will absentmindedly played with his ring. She had known he would.

Unavoidably, the Eighth Doll also knows. Her attention is everywhere, though especially on Will and his companion. She also maintains focus on Nomik Motchk, since that is why he made her. She enjoys awareness of him. Nomik makes her laugh. She particularly likes the places where he laughs too. The rarity of those locations makes them precious gems.

a past

She depended on him to help with the surprise. He had doubted it was a good idea, but they both knew she would convince him. “We can do this, Free. We are the best.” Crystal took the Grandfather staff down from its peg and tipped it toward him, toward herself, and toward the door. “You, me, the Old Man. The best!”

After breakfast, the Old Man had gone into town. Free looked out, hoping he might see their returning teacher on the path, but no. Crystal was already on her way out through the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder. “The Old Man is the best, and we will be as good as him.”

“You could be better. The Old Man always says, ‘If she lives long enough, Crystal will be the best there ever was.’” Free followed her through the house and out onto the porch. “We should wait for him to come back.”

“What part of surprise do you not understand?” Crystal jumped over the steps, laughing. She was beautiful when she laughed. Also intimidating. He wondered if she knew that.

He joined her on the patch of flat ground between the porch and hill. Crystal wanted to try her new spell in the open desert out beyond the road, but Free had insisted upon someplace sheltered. The house was set into a depression in the side of the hill that wrapped around the backyard like hands cupping a flame. Free preferred this constricted space to limit the range in which things could go wrong. Crystal went along because she needed help. If she had demanded another location, they might have spent the day in debate. She intended to spend it in the air.

“We are going to make history,” Crystal said. “And you were right; this is a good spot. The Old Man will come down that road, turn the corner onto the path and see me hanging over the house. He is going to know in that instant what we have done. Crystal Putnam and Free Hilsat will be the magical world’s Wilbur and Orville Wright. Better, because wizards have been trying longer.”

“So, we will be a bigger success because we have a longer history of failure behind us?”

“Exactly! I must be up before the Old Man gets back.”

“Let us see if we can hop you onto the porch. We will hang you over the house after a few test flights.”

“Whatever you say, copilot Hilsat.” She marched to the center of the yard. “Take your position.”

Crystal held the Grandfather staff. It was hers now that Free had carved his own. For Free, as for the Old Man before him, the Grandfather had passed along understanding of existing skills, but once the gently twisted stick came into Crystal’s hands, it found greater purpose. Crystal carved and dyed fresh images into the birch wood. She developed ideas and methods, whole new spells. The Old Man had always said she was a prodigy but now pronounced the word with awe. At first he had meant a talented child; now he meant a wonder for the world and perhaps an omen.

Free’s hands were empty. For the spell Crystal had designed, he would use the ground as his tool. This was not a new technique. Crystal had found it during research into Central Asian wizardry, but the way she would have him apply it, coupled with her own staff-driven spell, was a method never seen before.

“Powering up.” Crystal struck a designed pose and began to chant both in her mouth and in her mind. The Grandfather staff was moved through a series of positions, creating invisible surfaces, driving and focusing forces, setting up the overall structure of the magic.

Free was impressed. How did she come up with this stuff? He knew he was becoming more creative simply through his association with her. At the key moment, she nodded to him. Though still doubtful of her plan, he could not let her down.

He stretched out hands, dropped to his knees and placed his palms on the ground. He chanted images into his mind. His hands vibrated, as did the soil beneath them and the air above. Vibrations spread around him, first in expanding circles and then in directed channels running through the soil like giant writhing snakes, turning desert plants root-side up.

Crystal swung the Grandfather staff back and forth in front of her. It looked as if she were trying to row herself into the air, but then she gripped the staff firmly in both hands and twisted it down against the quaking earth.

Most of her childhood, Crystal had worn Free’s hand-me-downs without complaint. She continued as a young woman to favor practical pants but had chosen for this historic occasion to wear her dress. The beige fabric was rather stiff, the Old Man having insisted on an opaque and durable material, but now it flowed in ripples around her legs. Those magic-driven ripples extended up into her hair. Coupled with rising dust from stirring earth, the effect was to make visible, from within the soil to above her head, the waves of force around her.

Free began to think nothing else was going to happen, but then the soles of Crystal’s bare feet lifted off the dirt with a growing separation visible between her toes in air and shadows on the ground. The end of the staff still touched soil. Then that also rose up and away from the earth. As she went higher still, he had no doubt. Soon-to-be-famous Crystal Putnam was flying.

Now came the part where Free would guide her. He knew how it was supposed to work, but this was still an experimental process. His hands went down into dirt that shook so hard the magically loosened particles were up well over his knuckles. With tiny gestures, he moved her a meter or so back and forth and from side to side.

Crystal was laughing in pure joy. For thousands of years the human race had longed for the power she had today. Leefers had managed it before magic users but only with machines, lacking this feeling of absolute freedom.

Free was laughing, too. He was getting a feel for the magic, for how to control earth and dusty atmosphere. He felt her in air above the soil, guided by power in his hands. He was ready to move her to the porch and with simple gestures had her gently sliding toward the house. The speed was good. He had her under control. As she came closer, her skirt began to fade in rising dust, with her upper body floating over it. She looked magical, not in the way of real magic, but like the illustrated cover of a book of fantasy.

She also looked like she was thinking. Crystal decided a trip to the porch, which she could have done with a simple jump, was not enough. Anyway, the porch floor was starting to disappear in dust. “The roof.” She was passing close by him yet had to shout to be heard above the noise of churning earth. “I am going for the roof.”

Free wanted to object, but before he could, she had turned the Grandfather staff through a magical twist and was rising higher. Her head would be well above the porch roof before he got her to the house. Fine, Free thought, the roof it is. Why not?

“You are next,” Crystal said. She rose beside the wooden posts supporting the old structure.

“Absolutely! No way you are keeping me on the ground after this.” Free was not sure if she heard. He choked on dust and worked hard to keep his hands steady.

Crystal was so elevated she could almost see over the building. She gave the Grandfather staff another twist, moving above the rooftop to where she could see much of the front yard, the road, and beautiful desert beyond. Wind came off that desert, a gust blowing back her dress. She felt the force in it and imagined how she must look, high above the house, skirt and hair flying, a true prodigy for the world.

Down below, Free also sensed the wind. Though sheltered behind the structure, he detected force through her, felt it in the soil. He was not expecting it, not even sure what it was. Looking down at the ground to see what was happening to his hands, he saw nothing except churning dust that got into his eyes. He tried to blink them clear since he could not wipe them with hands controlling Crystal.

If they still controlled Crystal. He heard her shout. His eyes hurt, but Free looked up and forced them open in time to see her flying backwards over the yard, caught in a gust of desert wind, heading for the hillside. He struggled to restore control. It would work. Dust thickening the air would make it possible. She would have to hit the hill kind of hard though.

This was a new plan, and Crystal knew nothing of it. She heard Free shout but, farther away now, could not make out his words above the roar of their private dust storm. Trying to avoid the impending hillside crash, Crystal twisted the Grandfather staff forcefully, driving herself upward. The cupping of the hill was not holding wind away. Rather, it was concentrating the force of air coming over the house, adding to Crystal’s upward momentum.

Her skirt flying around her, Crystal shot up the slope. She was doing her best not to land on the hill, while on receding ground, Free was doing the opposite, desperately trying to put her down, hard landing or not, before she got beyond his reach and ability to keep her direction under any sort of control. Crystal, the Grandfather staff, and the wind won out. They shot up the hill together and into the sky.

Free could not feel her in the soil now. Looking up from his dusty vantage point, Crystal was a nearly invisible speck. How could she possibly have gotten so high so fast?

Down here, he had no control. He pulled his hands out of the earth. Soil collapsed around him. He tried to rise, only to find his kneeling legs partially buried in settling dirt. He struggled and kicked, flopped out of balance onto his feet and immediately fell again. He yanked himself up and ran clumsily to the hill, struggling through loose ground offering no solid footing. Most of the energy of each step was lost in deep, soft earth, like running in a nightmare. Now that the noise had stopped, he could hear the faint sound of Crystal so high above him, laughing, shrieking, and calling his name.

Free reached the base of the steep hill and ran up as fast as he could, finally on solid ground. He had a magic running spell, quick to cast, and used it to rush higher. This he would later regret. If he had been lower when she came down, he might not have heard the sound.

Without the stability she had counted on, Crystal was spinning wildly in the air and then suddenly falling with the force of magic behind her faster than gravity alone would have brought her down.

Free saw it coming, dropped against the hillside and tried to get his fingers under dirt, but the soil was too thin over the rocks. Hands would not sink in. He scratched frantically at hard ground. Too late. When she hit the outcrop at the top of the hill, Free heard the scream cut short, the breaking of a body on stone. Sound alone told him.

Despite absence of hope, he rushed up the hill. Here the Grandfather staff had fallen unbroken. Hope? He continued running to the top. Before he reached it, Crystal’s life was gone, her wide eyes staring blindly into endless desert sky.

He gently lifted her head. She must have died instantly. Her neck was broken. In his hands, her skull unnaturally flexed. Her flesh could not sustain her: a prodigy lost to a gust of wind.

The Old Man had always said it. We cannot live forever, and we cannot raise the dead. Free knew nothing anyone could ever do would fix this.

Then he realized he was wrong.

The Old Man turned off the road onto the path. It was relaxing to be home. Small as it was, poor as it was, the place looked mighty nice coming back to it. He walked past the ancient piñon tree, enjoying a breeze at his back. Must be a storm coming. Good, he thought as he entered the house. Settle some of this dust.

When he hung his staff on the wall, he saw the pegs for Free’s and Crystal’s staves were empty. He wondered what kind of magic they were up to. Some new spell, if he knew them. Especially Crystal. That girl was amazing, even to an old master like him. She was a true prodigy.

In the kitchen, he poured a drink. He considered iced tea, but it was late enough. He poured a beer instead, always good on a hot, dusty day. He liked it in a tall glass, with a head on it. He took it out onto the back porch.

“Oh my!”

The back yard looked like someone had tilled up the whole thing, but it was too late in the summer for gardening. And the tilling was strange, with great swirls and swells as if enormous spoons had stirred the dirt.

“What have those kids been up to?”

Dirt did not answer.

The Old Man called their names. He looked around. In the disturbed earth, he saw a well-worn path leading to the hill. High up on the top, he saw beige fabric flapping in the breeze. He recognized it, and it worried him. Then part way down the hill, he noticed a spot of an unusual pink color. He felt a churn in his belly. Was that what he thought it was?

He stepped off the porch. The soil was loose, but the deep path was beaten firmly down. He feared he knew why it was so solid. He crossed the backyard and started up the hill at a trot. When he got to the pink spot, he stopped. It was what he had anticipated. Free’s staff was lying in the pile of shredded flesh.

“What the hell have you been up to?” He walked around the spot on one side, working his way carefully uphill, trying not to step on slippery matter blocking the easy path. “What have you unwoven?” He had to pick his way among loose rocks in order to avoid stepping into what was left of Free Hilsat. “How long will the time stub be?” He paused above the spot and looked down. “Most importantly, can I get to town for a cigar before this stub is over?”

He turned and looked up. The churning in his belly got worse. He had an idea of what he might find at the top, but he did not run. Why bother? Anything done in a time stub would have no purpose. Without a ring on his thumb at the moment of casting, nothing he learned would even be remembered.

Near the top, he saw her. He closed his eyes. The phrase shattered crystal entered his consciousness. He did not want it, but there it was. He waited for stomach churning to subside, opened his eyes and went up.

“I suppose I can see why Free would think this called for an unweaving.” He looked around. She held no staff. Her feet were bare. She had nothing except the dress she wore. He looked back down the hill. From here, he could see by its color the earth had been churned up from the house to the hill, out on both sides of the house and even up the hill a ways. He spoke slowly, loudly emphasizing each word. “What the hell were you two doing?”

What he saw next briefly stopped his heart. Half hidden under scrubby brush beside the spot he had avoided on the way up, it was poking out. He whispered in a voice so quiet he nearly failed to hear himself. “Grandfather?”

Then he ran down the hill, screaming the word “No!” each time his foot hit the ground. When he reached the spot that had been Free, he searched frantically. He made gestures with his hands and then held them tightly over his eyes, chanting a rapid spell. When he pulled his hands away, his eyes were huge and dark. Nothing could hide from him now. Something must be here, something else Free had cast against. It could not be the Grandfather staff.

But there was only the Grandfather. That and Free’s own staff where it would have fallen as he cast, bits of Free’s clothing and of Free himself. The Old Man was now aware Free was present in the form of an extremely fine paste. What could do that? What could put that kind of force on a man? Yanking an object as old and active as the Grandfather staff out of reality might do it. The Old Man was sort of proud of the boy. He was not sure he could have done that himself. It was an astounding achievement.

Then the Old Man cursed. Unlike the ineffectual expletives leefers used when they were angry, the Old Man’s curse was potent, words unfamiliar to almost anyone alive, phrases not spoken thrice in a generation, sentences that cut his tongue as he spit them out. The storm had not yet arrived. No matter. The Old Man made his own.

Lightning filled the sky. Every bolt hit the same spot. The material that had been Free Will Hilsat began to move. It bubbled and glowed. Smoke and steam rose from it in a gray cloud, and when moisture had boiled away, black smoke alone. The vapor writhed as if in pain. When the Old Man was done, only a dark char remained. He kicked furiously at that and stamped his feet upon it. He sat down in it. It was rather warm for sitting, but he did not care.

The Old Man reached out his hands. He picked up the Grandfather staff. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes.

They had gone out five times during the seeking. The young wizard traveled more in that fifteenth year than he had in his whole life before. Some thought he was too young, but his teacher, and the teacher of his teacher, knew he was ready. He was a prodigy.

They went far north, seeking materials produced in such climates. The first journey, the coldest winter the young man had ever known, was a trip to select likely branches. The locations of the trees, the types of wood each species produced, the shapes of limbs, their strengths, masses, flexibilities, the textures and continuities of surfaces, the characteristics of twigs springing from them, all must be evaluated. They could spend whole days in a forest finding no acceptable branch, but in time, branches were found. The teacher of his teacher, the Grandfather, had insisted on their identifying what seemed to the young wizard like a huge number of possible candidates. “I hope you remember every one of these fine structures, boy. I doubt I will be able.”

Yet when they went out in spring, they had no trouble finding every one of them again. Having so attended to each place, each tree, each branch, they were recalled like old friends. Spring growth made everything different, but underlying forms were unchanged. Except some candidates were no longer on trees. They had broken under weight of snow and ice. They now lay on the ground. These could not be considered. A branch must still be living to be used. On those remaining, they examined growth, buds and blossoms. Most boughs must be rejected. “In spring, we seek perfection. You now see why I made you choose so many.”

When summer came, evaluations were of leaves and twigs, of fruit and growth. Some branches were downed by wind. Some were unbalanced in their production, too much fruit or too much leaf. Some grew in ways that spoiled the structure for which they had been originally chosen. The young wizard had never realized how much change went on in a tree in a year and began to worry if they had enough left from which to choose. “The strength we have identified will now protect itself.”

The Grandfather was right. With a couple of exceptions, one that fell under excess of fruit, another damaged by an animal, their few remaining candidates survived into the autumn. Now they were evaluated on qualities displayed by turning leaves. Often the magicians had to return to a tree three or four times to catch it at the peak moment to judge the color’s flow along the branch. It was pleasant work, hiking on fine fall days. Some branches might have been good but had to be rejected because the weather this year was not quite right on their tree’s particular hill or hollow. Not fair perhaps, but necessary. The qualities sought now were esoteric: beauty, harmony and glory. After this examination, few candidates remained. Yet the boy was not ready. In such an important decision, what if he chose wrongly? The Grandfather did not insist. They returned home, where the young wizard would continue his studies. They would wait for winter.

One day, the Grandfather came back from a long journey. “While I was traveling, I passed one of our trees. I am sorry to say the branch we liked is broken.”

“Not the birch?” asked the young wizard. “Not the birch that grows among the maples?”

“No. Not that one.”

They began their trip the next day. They went only to one tree, the birch among the maples. The young wizard cut the wood with a spell used solely for this purpose, one that left the severed branch forever living. After they brought the branch home and took it inside, he asked, “Is it too small?”

“No,” said the Grandfather. “We will make it a teaching staff. It will be perfect. Someday, you will have another.”

“What will I do with this one? I could never give it up.”

“You will keep it. Even when you no longer use it, it will serve you well.”

So it had. First it had taught him. When he became the teacher, it taught his pupils. It had formed each of them, made them what they were, and they had made their world.

The Old Man opened his eyes, a natural size again, their normal desert color and filled with tears. “I suppose you think it wrong of me to weep over a stick.” The char on the ground did not reply. “Since I did not weep over you nor over her, but when this time stub ends, the two of you will still exist. I may never know where or in what condition, but you will be. And this . . .” He looked at the stick in his hands, pulled it to his lips and kissed it tenderly. “This never was.”

He jumped to his feet, shouting. “What will I be, or either of you, in the new world you have woven? Did it not occur to you that we were doing important work? Idiot!” He screamed the last word as he threw the Grandfather staff away. He stared after it, watching it bounce on the rocky hillside, waiting for it to come to rest. It vanished into a patch of brush.

“Where did I leave my beer?”

He never found the beer, had no recollection of putting it down, so took another tall glass from the kitchen cupboard and poured himself a fresh one. Sipping slowly because it stung his tongue, he went back outside and looked at the yard again. He tried to imagine what they had been doing but could not figure it out. Eventually he poured himself another, took it back up the hill to the charred spot and sat on a rock nearby.

“Sorry, kid. Guess I lost my temper. I should have told you what I was up to. My grand plans. I would have soon.” The Old Man took a sip and looked up at the beige cloth still flapping in the breeze and back down at the char. “I suppose you are wondering how I would have handled this. Well, I sure as hell would not have unwoven the Grandfather staff!”

He took a calming breath, another sip, and considered the massive rock on which the girl had broken. How old that rock must be. How deep its roots sank into time, much deeper than any stick of wood. Unweave that nameless rock? Was that possible? He thought it was, in theory. Would it have helped?

“How would I know? I was not here, was I? My fault, I suppose. Should have known better than to leave you two . . .” He thought a moment. “It was Crystal, yes? Whatever it was, she talked you into it?” He looked down at the churned earth around the base of the hill. Yes. It was Crystal. He was sure of that. No matter. He stood and threw his empty glass as far as he could toward the house. It fell on rocks below and shattered. “Short. No matter. Nothing matters, does it, boy? Not here in your time stub.”

He calculated the age of the Grandfather staff and mentally divided it by twelve. “Plenty of time for a cigar. Time for a whole box.” He kicked at the char and then looked up over the house into the desert beyond. “Hell, I have time to go to Cuba and buy them fresh. Smoke them there. I will have one every day for years. If they kill me, who cares?”

On his way through the house, he picked up his staff and put a few things in his vest pockets. One ring of false memory sat upon the shelf. The other was missing. “You are going to remember us, are you? Good luck with that. You will find it confusing, I suspect.” He left the remaining ring, having no reason to take it. Too late. No use. One cannot reach back out of a time stub, and nothing inside a stub counts for anything because none of it is real.

The serving girl found the knife uncomfortably large. What she wore offered no good hiding place. She tucked the hilt into the band of glittery material around her waist, but gravity twisted the knife free, so she knotted her scarf around the hilt and tied that onto the band. She hooked the other side of the band over her opposite hip. When the time came, she would yank the knife hard enough to break the band if need be and then plunge the blade into the throat of El Diablo. It was what the Devil deserved for ordering his servants’ uniforms from a company specializing in clothing easily torn off.

She had purposely chosen a long scarf today. She flipped the rest of it over the hilt of the knife and hung it so the cloth covered the blade lying cold along her bare thigh. She picked up the tray with the bottle, took it out of the liquor pantry and across the kitchen. The staff was so busy preparing dinner that anyone who missed the knife would assume someone else was using it. She had heard those arguments before.

She carried the tray up the narrow servants’ staircase. It was a long climb. She held her hip thrust out to keep the weight of the knife from dragging off her thong. She had to stop a couple of times to readjust. Rum sloshed in the bottle, but she had carried such bottles often enough. She would not let it tip.

The channels through which servants silently flowed were not to be seen by anyone except the servants. When closed, the door onto the roof blended into the wall. She began the long walk across stone pathways of the rooftop garden. She knew she had time, knew how long it took him to drain a bottle and that he still had a few sips left.

He drank one of those last sips now. His chair was placed so he could look out over the landscape, down the slopes of the mountains to the green, productive country. “Cocoa, coconut and coffee,” he mumbled, taking another sip of rum. He knew farmers down below would be looking back up the mountains, up to the castle he had built here, up to him, to El Diablo Nuevo Mexicano, the New Mexican Devil. They had gotten his origins confused, but that did not matter. Nothing mattered.

When he had first arrived in Cuba, he had been El Viejo Triste, the Sad Old Man. Naturally, he was drawn to La Habana Vieja. He had done a lot to cheer himself in Old Havana. He found the cigars he had come for. That first one, a lovely perfecto smoked in the street outside the tobacconist’s shop, had been a real treat. He had not purchased a box. The shop, the city, the whole country would be his cigar box.

He acquired a two-tone DeSoto automobile lovingly maintained in that manner for which Cuba was famous. In it, he made daily excursions to the countryside, getting to know the island he adopted as his homeland. In evenings, he returned to Old Havana for more cigars and intoxicating drink. Rum had not been his beverage before, but once in Cuba, it felt right. The delicious food was of an even finer variety than he had anticipated, as were the charming women whose job it was to entertain. And the music! Delightful Old Havana was especially filled with music. He gave himself up to pleasures, and why not?

He located those bright little places full of good people found only when one had time to look for them. Time was the gift of a life without meaning. Also the curse. He remained the Sad Old Man.

One evening, he found a narrow cantina where the barman made fun of his sorry looks. He instinctively wanted to cast a vengeful spell against the barman but was not sober enough to decide which one. He asked the barman to make a suggestion, but the barman simply growled and threw him out of the place.

He stumbled to another bar down the street and went in to consider the question of revenge. He found a friendly, helpful crowd. They knew the barman from the narrow cantina. None of them liked him either. He was indeed quick to judge his customers and also strict about payment for drinks. They offered the Sad Old Man advice on his problem, much of it predictable, fire or poison or gunshot, none of it serious or useful. Then one gentleman said, “Arrange for him to become a dead hero. That way, the whole country will be ready to offer him a helping hand on the day he cannot take advantage of it.”

This gentleman and the Sad Old Man fell into private conversation. They drank and laughed together, enjoying each other’s bitter views of the world. They discovered other things they had in common. This man became, briefly, the guide of El Viejo Triste, and with his help, the Sad Old Man found the dark little places and the people who were not good in any detectable way. He found new pleasures, forbidden joys. As he went deeper, he found new guides as well, each willing to go further than the last, and why not, in this world that had no meaning.

The government had grown corrupt, its leadership hereditary. When faced with the choice of doing the right thing for one’s country or one’s family, it helps to have the example of nepotism at the top. Yet this corruption proved unreliable. Cuba was no North Korea, not a people’s kingdom. Many in power still held to ideals, still wanted to follow the rules, do what was right for society. As the demands of his pleasures became greater, the government got more in the way, so he destroyed it and made another.

They called him El Libertador, the Liberator, because he liberated them from the government of their old liberator. Looking over his new domain, he was disturbed by an obvious flaw. No one else should rule even a bit of his island, yet a military extension of the United States squatted on his lovely Cuban soil. So, he and his new army drove the gringos from Guantánamo. This act was popular but also frightening. Now many were calling him El Demente, the Crazy One. How did he expect to defend against the overwhelming retaliation certain to come? When they asked, he laughed.

He was the master of the subtle defense, minimal use of magical energy for maximum effect. Retaliation was delayed. It tried to come, but things kept going wrong. His enemy’s messages went astray. Essential machinery broke down. Armaments were found to be faulty, vital parts defective or missing, repairs impossible. Key people became ill or distracted. Politicians tangled each other in debate. Funding fell through. Everyone on both sides kept expecting retaliation to arrive, but day after day, week after week, month after month, nothing.

The failures became a subject of humor and, in the United States, of anger. The American president, who initially had wanted a measured response, eventually became so frustrated he launched the missile he was certain he would never launch, the ultimate destroyer. It sputtered and fell with no explosion, almost harmlessly crashing through the roof of a narrow cantina in Old Havana. The single casualty was a barman who was struck dead by the defective shell and immediately became a national hero.

Now the Liberator became El Conquistador, the Conqueror. He kept the company of beautiful, powerful, ambitious women who appreciated a man of action. It was mostly for their sake he launched the attack against the mainland. His ships left from the Bay of Pigs, a location chosen purely for dramatic irony. The world press said his fleets took Miami and New Orleans as if by magic. His succeeding military victories were rapid and astounding. At its greatest extent, his empire included most of the former Confederate States of America, from Texas to Virginia.

He offered to restore a flag of the old Confederacy, with stars and bars, but the people would have none of it. They demanded stars and stripes, so he adopted the flag of his enemies to fly over the New Confederacy. This proved acceptable to the masses, whose love for the flag itself was greater than their understanding of what it stood for.

The primary freedom they demanded was their right to bear arms. He encouraged it. They eagerly bore arms for him in battle after battle. As for lovers of other freedoms, many shut up when taxes were eliminated. For the rest, he built re-education camps. How the camps were funded was a mystery.

An old friend visited him, an English wizard known since childhood, their mutual mentors having been friends before them. This Englishman came as a representative of reason, suggesting perhaps the Old Man had gone too far. Mention was made of crimes against humanity and inordinately large casualty figures. The Old Man replied he had his purposes and everyone should trust that he knew what he was doing. He did not bother to explain his reason was to fool around in a meaningless time stub. Why spread his misery to a friend?

He was so trusted among those who counted that they gave him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, when he applied himself, he really was the best. His fellow magicians knew what they would be up against if they opposed him. The friend returned to England. Magical society, already in the habit of staying out of politics, left him to his pleasures.

He might easily have conquered the rest of the United States, but he came to realize his ambitious women were exactly that. Their ambition was not toward a goal; ambition was their state of being. No victory was victory enough. Nothing would ever satisfy.

One day, while wandering the back streets of a recently conquered city, he came across a beautiful young woman. Very beautiful. Very young. A girl, really, and not an especially ambitious one. He took her back to Cuba with him and discovered others like her there.

His generals continued their efforts with much less success. Things began to work normally again. When the United States retook Virginia, he contemplated striking back in fierce retribution. But why bother? He had lost interest. When he heard news of a ceremony in which they had torn down one stars and stripes so they could raise another, he smiled and nodded as if that were to be expected. Other losses followed month after month, disaster after disaster.

Now, besides the island, his forces held only a small part of Florida. Even Miami’s love for El Libertador was fading. Everyone could see he was losing. Everyone knew this was the end, and every disaster was his fault. They did not deserve this fate, but he did. Now he was El Diablo.

He did not care. He had built this castle for himself with its wonderful views, its wonderful kitchen and its wonderful harem full of wonderfully unambitious girls. He spent his days sitting in the rooftop gardens, looking out over the mountains, smoking, eating and drinking. He spent his nights with his girls. It was killing him. He did not care. He had done the calculation as best he could. He was pretty sure it would be this week. Maybe cigars and rum would get him first.

He looked down over the world. “Where will you be, Will Hilsat? Will you look for us?” He spoke some questions quietly, shouted others. “How would you even guess our names? Where will Emily Putnam be? Where will any of my students be? Or any of the vital work they have done? What will this new world of yours be like? Without us as we were, without my plans, is it doomed?” He swallowed the last of the rum. He felt a burning, but he did not think it was the alcohol. “What will I be in your doomed new world? Can I save you? Will I even know to try?”

He looked up to the sky. It is an odd thing when someone who never prays decides to do so. If he picked any specific faith, more than half the world would believe he had chosen wrongly. Even if a majority could agree, reality was not decided by majority vote. He did not pray to anyone in particular, yet his prayer was sincere. It came from the core of his being, where his soul should be if he had one. Lips slightly parted, he whispered to someone, anyone. “Please do not let it be like this. Let my life have meaning.”

Did prayers count in a time stub? If they count at all, why not here?

Then she arrived, one of his beautiful Cuban girls with more rum. She had a cute little nose. He loved little noses. She had a big knife. That was cute too. The way she walked while trying to hide the blade was sexy, a helpless kitten unable to retract its claws. His prayer was forgotten.

He could not blame her. He had always known the reasons not to abuse women, particularly the young ones. He knew the things he had done to this one would leave permanent emotional scars. Even if she could kill him, she would still spend decades wrapped in the drama of her own misery. Much the same things he had done to her, he had done to her country. Whether her motive was political or personal, he was looking forward to this fight. She underestimated the remaining strength of a dying wizard. The anticipation of their battle warmed his blood. It would add excitement to the day.

Only it did not, because one wave overtook another. Monstrous crimes were undone in what could not technically be called an instant. Such an instant never was. The conquests of the New Mexican Devil never happened. The Sad Old Man never smoked that first lovely perfecto.

now

In the midst of a derivation, Professor Hilsat screamed. This was not as unusual as one might think. He relied on the unexpected to hold his students’ attention. In mathematics, where tomorrow’s learning would build on today’s, students had to focus always. The professor used tricks to wipe the glaze from his pupils’ pupils.

In a class like Applications of Advanced Differential Geometry, he would fill the air with a popular song and relate it to the day’s topic. He might use video to project the ghost of a long dead mathematician or to interview a live one. He could whip out a water pistol from behind the lectern and prowl the classroom targeting anyone who seemed to need refreshment.

These strategies sometimes appeared in undergraduate courses, but Professor Hilsat, recently a graduate student himself, understood how the finest minds could wander. He was a good teacher, and his students appreciated him. On this particular occasion, the strange thing was not so much his scream nor the twisting of his face into a believable agony. It was the way he ran from the room shouting, “I did it! I did it! I did it!”

Stranger still was the fact that he did not come back. After fifteen minutes, even his most loyal students drifted away, but they understood. Mathematicians at Professor Hilsat’s level could be like that. He may have solved a problem long fermenting in his mind. A journal article might soon appear, perhaps bringing another award to brag of in the alumni newsletter.

When unweaving undoes its own casting, particularly with a complex target, the rebounding energy is amazing. Free was unable to stop running. Overwhelming relief contributed to this effect. He paid no attention to his surroundings, thoughts fixed on the task he had performed.

When it had occurred to him it was within his power to undo Crystal’s death, Free had run down the hill, slogged across the torn up yard and practically ripped the screen door off its hinges. He had jumped through the kitchen, into the main room, taken down his staff while spinning back around and was already out of the house before the door closed. As always when a magic user takes up a staff, Free had to wait impatiently on the porch while that staff greeted him with their history. He managed better crossing the yard this third time, ran up the hill and stood looking at Crystal and the rock on which she had been broken.

Now what? He had to find some object of crucial importance to the recent disaster and extract it from existence so what had been done would be undone. But what object? He saw only Crystal and the rock. Unweave that ancient nameless stone? Was he capable of such a thing? Would it help? When Crystal had come down, if not the rock, what would she have landed on? Another rock. Undo the rock and he would find himself standing beside a dead Crystal on a slightly shorter hill. The real problem had been a gust of wind, but where was that gust now. He looked uselessly into the sky, the master of a nearly godlike power finding no way to use it.

Then he remembered, halfway down the hill, the Grandfather staff. That was it. Without that staff, there was no flying spell, no out-of-control aerial spin, no life-ending plummet. He knew what must be done. Start by weaving an anchor of himself. Down the hill, through the house, down the path, up the road, down the road, up the path, through the house, up the hill, over and over again he walked. Each time he passed the Grandfather staff, he doubted this plan. Each time he came to Crystal lying broken on the rock, he overcame that doubt. This would be difficult, might have unintended consequences, but had to be done.

He should have walked for half a day but felt he must undo this disaster before their master’s return. When convinced he had woven a decent framework, he paused by the rock and looked down at Crystal. His feelings toward her had consistently confused him. She was a partner and a rival. She was difficult at times, impulsive, pushy, but she was his best friend. She was not a sister, but they had been students together for so long that she and the Old Man were his family. They had always taken care of each other.

“I will not let this happen. You will not have died.”

Free climbed down to the Grandfather staff. Movements difficult on the rocky slope, he slipped at times and once almost fell, but through force of will he performed the spell. 

At the point in the sequence for the calling of the target’s name, he looked out over the house and beyond. It was hard to comprehend everything at once: past, present, and future. He had never experienced the Spell of Unweaving from such a vantage. He saw the Old Man. Was he here? He saw Crystal still alive, walking, flying. He saw himself everywhere. He wished he could hold this image, examine it long enough to understand, but in this timeless moment, there was no time. He had already called the name, “Grandfather.” He was already struggling, his own staff prying the older one up out of time and space.

He was aware of the horrible mistake he might be making. His few practice sessions had involved objects whose existences were measured in minutes. Once, without the Old Man’s knowledge, he had tested himself against a fragment of broken glass two weeks old and was happy with the result. But this thing, this piece of wood, went back into time beyond any hope of following, and it went everywhere. Pull this out and everything attached had to change as well, the lives of everyone the Grandfather staff had taught, the objects they had touched after coming under its influence, the things they had done, the people they had influenced in turn, and so on and on and on. Seen this way, the Grandfather staff not only stretched back a century, it wrapped a web around the world. This unweaving could not succeed. Free was not going to save Crystal. He was going to add his own death to hers.

Actually, that would work. Both he and the Grandfather staff had been crucial to the flying experiment. If the staff survived, but Free was undone, that too would save Crystal. He had not intended to exchange his life for hers, but so be it. Exactly what he deserved, since his failure caused her death.

But that was not what happened, because he had one great advantage: Grandfather. The name defined his target. It gave him a grip running the staff’s full length in time and all directions in space. It let him reach back, in and around, wherever anyone had said or thought the name of the Grandfather staff. It let him reach back to before he was born, into a forest of maple and birch where the Old Man was a young man. Somehow, Grandfather was there at the very instant when the branch was cut. Was not cut. The cutting never took place. Magic broke magic. The spell that would have severed the branch brought down the whole tree instead. The Grandfather staff never existed. Free felt the force of his victory upon him. As he was torn apart by that force, he screamed.

And screamed and shouted, “I did it,” over and over, and ran and danced with joy, and now where was he? This was not the desert that had been his world. This grassy space between brick buildings was no place he had ever seen. Where had he been after the spell casting? He recalled a classroom with students. How would he get back? Should he? Did he care? Who was he now in this new reality?

He examined himself. He was certainly someone who dressed differently, with none of the trappings of an experienced wizard about him, no charms, bands, chains, feathers, staff, hat, or rings except the intricate wire mesh on his right thumb. He was wearing the clothing people wore in town or in movies. It was nice stuff. Cleaner, in better repair than he was used to. Less colorful.

He had pockets. His pockets held things. He had a wallet with money and a Virginia driver’s license. His name was Will Theodore Hilsat, his real name, the one Anna and Ben Hilsat had put on his birth certificate. Here in Virginia, he was not Free Hilsat. Perhaps the Old Man had not renamed him. Or even met him?

He had an address. He stopped people passing by. So many people! He asked for directions. It was a long way. The walk took more than an hour.

The lawn was green, with trees and shrubs glowing softly in late afternoon sunlight. The mailbox had the name “Hilsat” printed on it. He had a mailbox. The concrete walk ran between raised beds of flowers bordered by low rock walls. He had flowers. The windows were wide with a bay sticking out in front and three narrow slits on the door. He had the key on a ring in his pocket.

The main room looked nice, although kind of empty compared with the clutter he was used to. The furniture was amazingly comfortable, broad and soft. The kitchen had shiny appliances and drawers full of gadgets. In a wooden bowl on the counter, he found fruit. His fruit. No oranges. He took a banana and ate it as he looked around.

The hallway was long, so many doors. The bathroom was pleasant, with an enclosed tub and shower. He had nice thick towels. A bedroom with a big bed seemed unoccupied. Too tidy. Little used. A framed photograph on the wall showed him with two others. He knew those people, Anna and Ben, his parents. They looked much older than he remembered. In this reality, he must still know them. This was the room they slept in when they came to visit, was it not? He would see his parents again! How long had it been since the Old Man had taken him from them?

In the hallway, another door opened into a dining room through which he returned to the kitchen, this time passing by a breakfast nook. It was dimly lit now but would be sunny in the morning. A sliding glass door opened onto a patio and a grassy backyard with more beds of flowering plants. Here was another door. It was locked. He had the key. He went into a garage. Lots of things were in here and empty space for a car. He probably had a car somewhere. How was he ever going to find it?

A door inside the garage took him back into the hallway. Here was a staircase. Upstairs was a bedroom used as an office with a computer and lots of books, primarily mathematics he believed, although he could not make much of any of them. They might as well have been in a foreign language. He found photographs in the office, framed on the wall, printed on paper: photos of him, of others, of him with others. He recognized himself but none of the others. He whispered to the photographs. “Who are you people?”

A larger bedroom, his he supposed, held a bed only roughly made. Books cluttered the nightstand, the dresser and the floor. Mathematics again. Physics. Philosophy. No fiction. He continued through another bathroom—very nice—then a large room with furniture shabbier than the stuff downstairs but still comfortable. This room held equipment, tools, toys and a television. He examined everything, was fascinated by everything.

“This is my house.” Saying it out loud gave him a feeling of ownership. Yet this house had a problem, an absence. He could not put his finger on it at first. Then it hit him. There was nothing magical in the building. Nothing. The weight of the truth pushed him down onto the couch.

“Holy shit! I am a leefer!”

Commander Alexander Gaius Toole, U.S. Navy (retired) merchant, banker, industrialist, sat in front of his fireplace. He sipped fine brandy from a crystal snifter he then rested on a highly polished wooden table. Beside it sat a crystal decanter and a cut crystal bowl glittering in firelight. He lifted the bowl, full of expensive nuts with a sweet crystalline coating, and offered it to his wife. “Nuts, darling?”

She looked up from a scrapbook into which she was placing a photo of their dear nephew Dexter, currently attending college. “No, thank you, dear.”

Commander Toole returned to making notes on a yellow legal pad. The pad’s cardboard back was tucked into a slot on a pewter legal pad holder that was encased in a leather cover with the initials A-C-T hand-tooled in a floral pattern. He used the middle initial C for Gaius because that was how the Romans did it. The Romans were men of action and so was A. C. Toole. He liked seeing the word ACT on everything he owned.

He was writing with a pen that had been a gift from a board of directors. The pen was a work of art, as handsome as its case, also a work of art. The mechanical pencil still inside the case was, needless to say, another work of art. Each was engraved ACT. They stood beautifully alone, magnificently as a set, although they did not compare with the silver and pearl inlaid ACT on the table, which truly was a masterpiece. His wife—ACT engraved inside her wedding ring—was also a masterpiece. Their home, though a simple place for a man of such wealth, held many beautiful things.

Every evening, A. C. Toole filled his legal pad with plans. He did his best thinking at this hour, sitting in front of the fire, his mind released to wander, inspiration free to ignite his thoughts. An idea might be so timely he had to put it into action immediately. Usually they would keep until morning. It was best to write them down. When he was not writing, he picked up a deck of playing cards and shuffled it against the legal pad.

The cards had silver-bordered pale green backs with a drawing of a monkey juggling a rocket, a comet, a moon, and a star. Rather frivolous, he knew. This was not the deck he had taken with him, a young man on his first trip to sea, but it was the one he had found when he opened his duffel bag. Someone must have switched cards with him as a joke. An excellent joke that turned out to be. Decades later, he was never without them. He often took them from a pocket and shuffled idly when he was alone and wanted to think, particularly at the end of the day. He never played cards with them. That was why they looked brand new.

From time to time he would flip a few cards off the top of the deck onto the pad. He would slide them around, look at them and put them back. Then he would make notes. Things were going to happen tomorrow.

One of the cards slid off the edge and fell to the floor. Mrs. Toole saw it was the three of clubs. At least she thought it was. The design of the card was stylized almost to unrecognizability. It made her think of Africa or South America. Before she could get a closer look, he had picked it up and put it back in the deck. She had seen those cards often before and knew their artwork was not so foreign. A trick of firelight, no doubt.

She changed her mind and took some nuts. He poured himself one more brandy before bed. He sipped and shuffled, shuffled and sipped. He appreciated the brandy. She appreciated the nuts. The cards appreciated the shuffle.

Peregrine Arnold, flying back across the Atlantic after a fruitful visit to Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula, was drinking mineral water while preparing to enjoy the appetizer. He had two problems. The first was that his beverage was not as effervescent as he liked. Taking care he was not observed, he cast a spell learned from a friend in the restaurant business. This produced a large bubble in the center of the glass. Rather than rising, the bubble dispersed into now finely fizzing liquid. He must remember to thank Lalo for that spell.

Peregrine had no plan for dealing with his second difficulty. His steak was already sitting on the tray, aroma of beef filling his nostrils, yet he was preparing to start with smoked salmon crostini. Much as he enjoyed airline food, and he truly did, courses are served in sequence for a reason. Still, this was superior to what they would have in coach. Did they serve food back there? He hoped they did.

He was thinking about the salmon with beef aroma, and the inequities of the class system, and also the stone in his carry-on bag. His possession of it violated Mexican antiquities law, which was why Peregrine had disguised it. The stone currently looked and felt like black socks. Under those technological examinations one encounters in airports, it registered as nothing. Hiding it was necessary because he was not ready with a clever smuggler’s lie. He could think one up, of course, just never deliver it convincingly.

The English wizard was not in the habit of stealing artifacts, but the writing on that stone promised power he must study at leisure in his own studio. The stones he had left behind were powerful as well, but one cannot stuff a whole temple into a carry-on bag. Perhaps someone could. In fact, Peregrine knew people who had that ability, but none he could get to Mexico on short notice, so he had left the rest of the temple where he found it. He took notes instead, lots of notes. Before departing, he improved the temple security system, which had not been updated in five hundred years.

Peregrine would take the stone back someday. The security was fine, but the rest of the temple might not work without that stone. Then again, this could be for the best. He would not be sure until his studies were complete.

A swirl of clean air arrived in time to clear olfactory senses before he took up the fish. It was a near thing, and Peregrine appreciated it. In fresh atmosphere, he enjoyed the salmon, took a moment to enjoy the memory of the salmon and with a nod let the attendant know he was ready for another wine to accompany the steak.

Free ordered another beer. He had retraced his steps back as far as a bar he had passed while seeking his house. The last few years, he had enjoyed sitting on the porch with the Old Man after dinner, having a beer, discussing magic and life. Crystal had usually joined them. She would have water or sometimes soda, rarely a beer. If any one of them had come across some difficulty during the day, this was a chance for all three to hash it over. It was a system that worked well with many a knotty problem unraveling under the influence of conversation, beer, and sunset.

This was the effect Free was after now, only he was sitting so far down the bar from the windows he had not noticed the sun was already down. The warm glow around him now would not fade until the bartender flipped a little chromium switch.

Buying beer with his own money was a new experience for Free. He might have overdone it. He had eaten too many salty snacks, which made more beer necessary. Under its influence, he was talking a lot. Nobody Free was talking to understood his problems.

“So,” said the guy sitting next to him, “you used to know these people but not really.”

“That is right.” Free had been trying to get this guy to understand, but he was not going to, because so much of Free’s story could not be told.

“And now you want to find them because when you lived with them they were your best friends, or your family sort of, only you never met them.”

“Right.” Free had no idea who this guy was.

“You never met them because you’re not the person you were when you knew them, because the time when you were that person never happened.”

“That is right.” This guy was currently Free’s best friend in the whole world. His only friend really, once Free excluded people he had never met or did not remember.

“And the reason you need to find this family is you have this false memory of them, which you know is truly false.”

Actually, Free realized, this guy understood his problem pretty well. “That does not make sense, does it? Why do I need to see them again? I do need to see them, but why?”

The guy took a sip of beer while he thought. “I guess it’s like that thing where you set a meeting place for your family in case the house burns down. You want to see everybody so you know they’re all right.”

“Yeah, that is it. I need to know they are OK. Even if they will not have the slightest idea who I am, and I do not know them either.” Free looked at the guy. “So, what do you think I should do?”

The guy took a long look at Free, studying him closely. “Have you considered the possibility you might be crazy?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“No, I mean I am not crazy. I know I am not. I can do things other people cannot do, things I could not do if the false memory were not true.”

“The false memory is true?”

“Well, it is a true false memory of events that did not happen, but it is accurate, though not true.”

The guy nodded as if that made perfect sense. “All right. And you can do stuff nobody else can do.”

“I can. Not since I got here, but I can. Because I know how, and I am the same person. Am I the same person?”

“The person you were in the time that never happened?

“Yeah.”

“Have you considered that you might be crazy?”

“You already asked that.”

“Oh, then it’s time for me to go home.” The guy swung himself off the barstool. “I don’t remember anything after I start repeating myself, and I hate paying for drinks I won’t remember.”

“I like the way you think. Let me walk you out.”

As they left the bar, they did not lean on each other, although each considered it. Once outside, Free’s best friend who he did not know and would never see again asked, “What kinds of stuff?”

“What?”

“The stuff you can do that other people can’t?”

Will was not sure what answer to give. He looked around. The street was dark and empty. He had had a whole collection of things in mind when they were talking back in the bar, but now the cool fresh air had hit his lungs, and he did not recall them. What kind of stuff could he do that other people could not? “I can think of an equation that describes a curved shape in six dimensional space, and I can visualize that curve. Watch this.”

He did it. This did not resemble anything he had been contemplating back in the bar, but it was beautiful. Of course, since it was only in his mind, the other guy could not see it. Will described it and said, “Most mathemagicians can’t do this.”

The other guy accepted that fact. Will did not recall when he and his new best friend parted ways forever. Will was too busy turning the lovely six dimensional curve around in his mind even after he got home. These fascinating characteristics, why had he never noticed them before? They were obvious enough now.

That night Will Theodore Hilsat had strange dreams. In one he dreamt he was some kind of wizard, and in another he dreamed he was not.

When he woke in the morning, he picked up one of the books beside his bed and was surprised to discover he understood it. Why should that surprise him? It was a book on an arcane branch of higher mathematics. He was a professor of mathematics. This was the kind of thing he studied. Yes, it was challenging, but no more so than most of what he had read in the last few years. In fact, it was extremely absorbing material.

Will took the book with him into the bath, reading from it off and on throughout his morning ablutions. He took it into the kitchen where he made and then consumed scrambled eggs, toast with jelly, and a cup of black coffee. It occurred to him the eggs might be better with salsa, but his kitchen lacked that condiment.

When he realized how late it was getting, he left the book in the breakfast nook, failed to find an orange in the fruit bowl so headed for the garage empty-handed. Halfway down the hall, he remembered the car was gone. No, wait. That was the dream. In the dream he had walked home. In the dream where he had been a wizard, he had walked. Wizards do not exist. Of course the car was here. He opened the door into the garage.

This was crazy. There had to be a car. He made gestures, put his hands over his eyes and mumbled a set of strangely familiar words. When he took his hands away, he saw no car better than he had ever not seen a thing before.

He saw everything in the garage, every box, tool, drop of oil or grain of grit, even the ants in the far corner, each of them individually. Why had he never noticed before how different each ant was? He saw every flaw in the paint on the walls, every tiny bump in the concrete on the floor. He could see each link in the chain on the garage door opener, the rivets holding links together, which rivets were round and which slightly irregular. He noticed an ant walking on the links that looked a lot like one of the ants in the corner, but not so much like the other ants, particularly when he looked at the hairs on the ant’s left-middle leg.

He covered his eyes and turned his back on the garage. That had been too much. Inside again, he risked a glimpse of the hallway to the living room, his view taking in a corner of the sofa, the fabric on it, each thread in that fabric, and the individual fibers making up each thread.

He walked the hallway, seeing absolutely everything. He felt he should have been disoriented but was not. He passed the bathroom and could not resist the opportunity of stepping in to see his reflection in the mirror. He felt he should not have been startled, but he was. His eyes were huge and black, inhuman, but he already knew his eyes were going to look that way because of the spell he had cast, the spell he could cast because he was a wizard.

He went into the kitchen to make more coffee while his eyes returned to normal and his thoughts to abnormal.

What am I going to do? Find Crystal and the Old Man, of course. How am I going to find them? No idea. Why am I going to find them? Because I need to. I burned down our house, and I have to know they are OK.

I? Who am I? If I am Free Hilsat, then every moment of my existence before yesterday never happened. I must be Will Hilsat. Am I a real mathematician or an imaginary wizard? Have I considered the possibility I might be crazy?

Nomik Motchk had begun the day by ordering servants to prepare the Chamber. They would take erasers, cloths and solvents from the box to clean now useless lines off the floor, walls and ceiling of the cubic room. They would set adjustable stands to their lowest levels and place them in a row along one wall with the box at one end and the chair at the other. Neither Motchk nor his secretary would supervise. The servants knew what to do and by what exacting standards their work would be judged.

Motchk spent the morning in his study at the top of the round tower, performing calculations. These were difficult, but he had done them often, a strain rather than a challenge. He was not interrupted when the servants finished cleaning. He would know when they were done. The master would not tolerate interruption. The servants never made the mistake of doing what the master would not tolerate.

When calculations were complete, Motchk came out of his study wearing tight but comfortable clothing that would stay out of his way, brush against nothing and allow his slender frame to move freely. Down a broadly curved stone staircase and then the length of the grand gallery, he went quickly despite his mild limp. The ceiling of the gallery was high and the doors on the east side impressively tall, but not the door at the end because the ceiling of the Chamber had to be within reach. Servants ducked their heads when they entered, and he was taller than any of them.

He had at one time considered calling this the Dwelling of the Eighth Doll, but that was not correct, since she was not here. The New Sunflower Temple? No, what he had once called the Sunflower Temple was already a misnomer; neither that ancient place nor this structure it inspired were truly temples. He had decided on the Chamber of Eternities, which was accurate, but found he could not say it without feeling pompous, so he usually let it go at Chamber.

Light, though lacking obvious source, was everywhere. He took colored markers from the white box by the door and started laying out the lines. In the old days, he used chalk, but he had recently redone the Chamber in translucent whiteboard, which was an improvement. The servants who cleaned it certainly thought so. Behind these surfaces were gently glowing panels, behind them the hidden system that would, when needed, make these things cold, and behind that the magical shielding. The adjustable stands were also white. Only the obsidian blades they held were smoky gray.

Referring often to his calculations, he drew a network of lines and notations on walls, ceiling and floor. From time to time he moved one of the stands, locating it on a mark he had made on the floor or below a point on the ceiling where lines crossed. He adjusted heights using a scale on each stand so the tip of an obsidian blade would be located correctly. He would lock it down, use a calibrated dial for fine adjustment and lock that as well. The heavy stands were rock solid. Blade tips stayed where they were set.

Where pairs of parallel lines crossed perpendicularly on the floor, he placed the chair so its legs sat on corners of the square thus formed. The metal feet came to rounded points, allowing greater accuracy as well as reduced friction. That each of these points could sit exactly on the intersections of the lines confirmed calculations. He drew a red circle in front of the chair. Sometimes the circle was on a wall or the ceiling. Today the calculations placed it on the floor. Nomik Motchk looked things over, a last comparison between papers and walls. Things were right. They had to be. It was nearly time.

Walking back, he looked out broadly arched windows along the west side of the gallery. Visitors would be impressed with the beauty of the views: rock gardens around the house, dry hills with isolated desert plants, and distant mountains. What Motchk sought was not the beauty but the reality of this world.

Once in his study, he removed his clothing and put on a white robe and a pair of thick-soled slippers. This attire was simple, elegant and fireproof. Down from the wall he took his staff, a mighty piece of ebony. When he held it in his hands, he closed his eyes as wizards always do. He saw the incident that had so crippled him, his slow recovery and his teachers’ decision therefore to take him on a long journey to a distant continent. He saw the small grove, half a dozen trees, each a different species. He saw the one tree from which his dark staff had been taken and felt the powerful life of that tree still here in this wood.

Returning, he looked carefully again out each window in the corridor, paying particular attention to the location of the tower above and the red tile rooftop on the single story extension below, which had once housed the classroom where he had been a student a century ago. That memory helped. He needed a strong sense of where he was in space and time. Orientation was easily lost in the Chamber.

He stooped and entered, closed the door and slid the long bolt, triggering air conditioners as well as a sealing mechanism that drew its energy from the Chamber’s occupant. Only a magic user could fully close it. Once one did, no power on earth could pass the shielding until the spell had run its course. This feature was not to protect the occupant. It was to protect the earth.

He sat in the chair. The air was growing cold, but he did not shiver. He held his staff motionless, pointing it straight away from himself, parallel to the floor, his muscles straining, waiting for the exact instant specified in calculations. He began the spell, the chanting and the movements. Without the obsidian guides, he would have failed. The pattern to be created in his mind, and with the staff in space and time, was too complex. Using tips of blades to locate key points, relying on the accuracy of his calculations, only then could it be done.

Massive shielding held in a sound difficult to describe, like everything ever heard in the world, the echoes between universes, pulsing high to low, hitting most of the notes in the scale and a bizarre pattern of tones between, quietest in the mid-ranges, loudest at inaudible extremes. Magical safeguards built into his spell were the only reason the occupant of the Chamber survived. With those protections, what sound he heard made him feel an emotion he could not name, one he never afterwards recalled.

As the spell concluded, he rested the base of the ebony staff against his forehead, pointed toward the red circle on the floor. Vibrating with the din around him, the staff’s tip existed but was not present, as though faded away to misty nothingness. He saw not only with his eyes now but also through the mind of the one his staff touched, the Eighth Doll. He could not perceive all she saw; his mind would not hold it. She could not know what she beheld, not without his guidance. Together, they saw everything. Comprehension was the challenge.

Change was the easiest thing to pick from the web of information before him. Today they detected a shifting of power, magical energies withdrawn, others reorganized. The source was here in Mexico, practically his own backyard, places he knew so well from youth. Funny they had not noticed this power before. Had it been purposely hidden? Was that even possible? This he would need to investigate. For now, he must end the connection; end it or burn.

Sound stopped. As he lowered the staff, he fell off the chair, far from its originally marked location. That always happened. The trick was calculating contacts not requiring the chair to pass through walls. He would lie on a hot floor, on the colored lines, listening to the hum of air conditioners, waiting until he recalled where he was. And who.

He stood eventually and walked to the door, his limp quite pronounced, the indication he was drained. The locking spell released the bolt. He struggled to slide it back. Servants opened the door and helped him along the gallery, past his bedroom, downstairs and through the house to the dining room where a meal was waiting. Gaining strength as he ate, he spoke, pausing between sentences. His secretary, a most competent young man, leaned close to hear.

“I journey alone to Yucatan, a flight to Merida. I will stay two nights and need a car. I have an interest in seeing the Temple of the Seven Dolls again, so will drive down to Dzibilchaltun. Let us keep this quiet. We do not want to hear some local newscaster trying to pronounce ‘Nomik Motchk visits Dzibilchaltun.’”

The secretary acknowledged his instructions in no manner beyond a smile. That was enough. Arrangements would be made.

Nomik Motchk knew it was not his secretary’s fault. Motchk did not employ people who made mistakes, yet mistakes were made. His local flight left early, somehow full although he was not on board. He waited two hours for the next. He was initially surprised.

He was less surprised when he got to Mexico City and the airline did everything in its power to quietly transfer him to a flight to Guadalajara, an interesting city surely, but nowhere near his intended destination. In the confusion, his proper connection was missed, leading to telephone calls, standing in lines, and a long period in a chair among other people in chairs watching travelers more fortunate than themselves flow past. After that, delays did not surprise him.

When he was on an airplane again, it had technical difficulties. Announcements were made. A replacement part for the navigation system was required, almost present, almost ready for installation, almost installed, and in the end defective in manufacture with no other available at this time. He wasted much of an afternoon and evening on the tarmac before a return to the terminal.

Why the hell had wizards never learned to fly?

Spending the night in Mexico City, he called home. The hacienda reservation in Merida must be extended. His secretary was sympathetic but not apologetic. They both knew he was not at fault. They would work on finding out who was.

Motchk did get to Merida the next day. He learned his car had already been picked up due to confusion about the reservation. “Understandable,” he said, “Nomik Motchk being such a common name.” No other cars were available. This amazed everyone except the client. Not a problem. A shuttle ran to haciendas like his. The car could be delivered.

The shuttle’s fuel pump died. The driver spoke of trouble getting parts in the particular size his vehicle used. He had known the pump was failing, but the shuttle company felt it would be spoiling him to provide a new one while the old still functioned.

Along with other travelers, Motchk baked by the side of the road until a second shuttle came. It was half the size of the first. Motchk, the last to board, was not happy with how low to the ground the vehicle rode. People sat in each other’s laps. Motchk had to stand by the door, bent over the front passenger seat. He brushed his fingers against the thinly padded roof, mumbling a spell to protect the overloaded van. Fellow passengers accepted this, taking it for prayer. When they finally arrived at Motchk’s stop, the shuttle driver was amazed to see how far he had gotten with such cracks in the side of a tire. He and his remaining passengers did not get much farther, but they were not Motchk’s concern.

Motchk was surprised when the hacienda reservation was not lost. His room was ready, comfortable, charming, the location lovely with a fine restaurant nearby. Too late for lunch, he opted to dine. The food was delicious, a bad sign. Someone felt his being actually in Merida was not a problem. Night fell with no car yet and Motchk certain he must reach Dzibilchaltun tomorrow.

The next morning, still no car. Calls were made and other arrangements attempted. Nothing worked. Bus service north of Merida was not available. Taxis would not go. Why? Authorities had closed the road to Progreso, the one past Dzibilchaltun, for a special event, a foot race on the road, benefiting a local charity. How could such a major roadway be closed? It was for the children. Everyone understood.

An alternate route, though longer, was offered. A taxi took him as far as Chablekal but no farther. Fascinating place. Interesting trees. Out of gas, though. Both the taxi and the town. Unusual, everyone said, but Dzibilchaltun was only three kilometers, walking distance even with a limp.

Though now primarily an archaeological site, thousands of Mayans lived two millennia in Dzibilchaltun. Over twenty centuries, the cenote Xlacah, a natural pool in the heart of their town, was a popular place to drop things. Artifacts from its depths filled local museums. Swimmers were still encouraged to poke about and see what could be found.

On the burning afternoon when he arrived, Motchk soothed aching feet in the pool, shoes and socks beside him on a rocky ledge. The warm water felt wonderful, as if massaging pain away. The few tourists who managed to be present on such a difficult travel day also found the water pleasant but were startled when that barefoot but otherwise fully dressed gentleman sank from sight.

Cenotes, sinkholes filled with groundwater, were common in Yucatan. A half-circle of them marked an inner ring of the huge Chicxulub crater. Sixty-six million years earlier, a massive piece of space-traveling rock had found the Earth in its way, triggering worldwide climate change and wiping out the dinosaurs. Xlacah cenote, Dzibilchaltun and a few surrounding towns besides, sat well inside the ring on the limestone plateau that covered half the crater. The other half lay beneath the Gulf of Mexico. For thousands of years people lived above the crater, or floated over it, ignorant of its existence.

Xlacah cenote was also half covered, not with limestone but lily pads. Its crystal waters held an astonishing number of brightly colored fish. Being pulled into it was like entering a dream-world aquarium. Having no air to breathe added a quality of nightmare. Motchk went down fast. The grip around the ankle of his good leg was merely a current, a thickening of water, yet he could not kick free.

He did not intend to die so easily. This was magic and so was he, but as soon as the band was dispelled, another formed on an arm. It too dissolved, but again a leg was grasped. Each attack was thwarted, though not before pulling him deeper. He was winning the battles but losing the war. Perhaps this was one of those traps where your own struggles make things worse. He forced himself to relax. Quick sideways tugs put him into a tunnel. Groundwater in cenotes often arrives through such passages. Light now came not from above but behind him. The pressure of suffocation was in his chest. Relaxing was not the answer.

If he did not escape quickly, he would not escape at all. Light in the distance dimmed and not only because it was getting farther away. Lacking oxygen, he lost ability to perceive. Which direction was up? One blows bubbles to watch which way they go. He had no bubbles. He could not watch. There was no up. Now stronger forces grabbed him. He tried to resist but, with no remaining breath, was pulled helplessly along.

Then he knew light again and precious air. Gasping. Coughing. Where was he? Blinking water from his eyes, his vision cleared. Socks and shoes sat on a rocky ledge.

The men who had pulled him out were concerned. Was he all right? Yes, yes he was. Why had he done such a foolish thing, swimming into the tunnel so deep in the cenote, wearing all his clothes? He had slipped, he explained, had become disoriented. He was fortunate that strong and brave swimmers were among the tourists here today. He spent more time than he wanted, convincing his rescuers and a small crowd of other leefers drawn to the excitement that he was fine now and could be left alone.

Leefers. That was how they rescued him. The trap of the water extracted magical force. When he touched it, he gave it power. Any true magic user who came within its grasp would be taken. Leefers, lacking magical energy, could swim all day and notice nothing. He nearly died because he was powerful. They were able to rescue him because they were weak. They did have help, of course. Nice trap, he thought. Nicely flawed. Good work, my Eighth Doll.

Places like Chichen Itza and Uxmal were better known tourist destinations because time, aided by the European invaders of the sixteenth century, had done a fine job of ruining Dzibilchaltun. Its primary claim to fame, besides the cenote and some modern museums, was El Templo de las Siete Muñecas, the Temple of the Seven Dolls, so named for curiously distorted clay effigies found buried beneath its floor. Eventually, Nomik Motchk escaped his crowd of rescuers and made pilgrimage along the sacred white road out to that temple.

Though many decades since his youthful studies here, he could never forget this place. He knew the thousands of local ruins around it, knew more about them than any tour guide, knew every stairway, platform and stone, magical or not. How could he be ignorant of the recently modified energy the Eighth Doll had shown him? Guided by memory of a barely comprehensible vision, he sought a thing without knowing what it was, a mystery in his own backyard.

The sun was approaching the horizon when he turned from the path and into the forest. He saw what he expected, trees, ruins and open spaces. What he was looking for would not be obvious. Not a problem. Motchk was used to working with the unseen. As sunlight dropped through branches, he found not a ruined temple but tree-covered ground between those ruins. One of the trees was not real. It was enough to fool a passerby, a boy who might climb its limbs, a bird who perched upon its twigs, but not enough to fool Nomik Motchk. Despite fading light, he saw glyphs hidden in the structure of its bark. He was looking, he realized, at the Mayan glyph for bahlam: the jaguar.

Then bahlam looked at him.

“Oh, no,” said Motchk.

Oh, yes, said the jaguar, not in words but in form, the artful curve of the sudden, unexpected, leaping attack, offering barely time to perceive flashing eyes in spotted fur, muscles, teeth, claws and power. Yes, I am here, said bahlam.

Motchk was not. He was moving now, not like an old man with a limp, but like a jaguar himself. The big cat expected easy prey but found no difficulty changing expectations in mid-leap. Motchk was a wizard, but the jaguar was magical as well. The chase picked up speed with each second, flying through branches, over stones, between clumps of tall grass. Tourists felt it as they exited closing museums. A child insisted it was kitties, but papa knew it was a gust of wind.

That gust blew from one side of Dzibilchaltun to the other, through a dozen ruins from as many centuries. Motchk found what he needed, a large open space covered in short grass, and lunged ahead. He worked another spell. The jaguar took advantage of the pause to catch him. Motchk spun around, reaching out a hand, fingertips brushing between the animal’s ears as if scratching the cat’s head. As he spoke the last word of the spell, blood vessels burst in the jaguar’s brain. It died in mid-leap but not quite soon enough. A claw caught Motchk. Driven to the ground, he was bleeding from a deep gash on his cheek below his left eye. This was an injury he could repair. But not yet. Instead he worked a cosmetic spell to hide the wound. It would be of use. The Eighth Doll was with him always.

He sat up and looked around. As expected, once the spell was broken, the jaguar was no more. Unexpected was perfection of the grass on this broad space. What was this object? A staff with something flapping at its top, and at the base a small hole. The 14th.

Nomik Motchk was limping badly, his clothing torn, but he had the manner of a gentlemen. Other gentlemen at the Golf Club of Yucatan kindly called for a taxi to take him into Merida. The foot race was over, the road open again. Back at the hacienda, he explained he had decided to enjoy another day here and would need the room another night. Yes, that could be arranged. The staff was so helpful.

Once in his room, he collapsed. What a day! The bed was comfortable. He was exhausted but managed to drag from himself energy for one additional spell. He had to cast it while a residue of magic remained in the wound under his eye. It was the Spell of Visual Identification. He would see the human face behind the jaguar.

The image soon floated over him, a glowing balloon in the darkened room, looking blindly down where he lay upon the bed. It was a countenance he knew well, not one he welcomed, associated with aristocratic condescension and imperialist arrogance, the head of a most unnatural family, a former friend reduced to the level of bitter acquaintance, but not, until today, a deadly enemy.

Peregrine, he thought, you dare turn a spell I taught you against me. Why? What are you up to in my backyard?

Before Motchk could think again, he was asleep.

“I’m going to take this ring off someday.” Even before the mysterious jewelry arrived, Will Hilsat had held conversations with himself when driving alone at night. Talking helped him stay awake. He was not really going to take the ring off. Will was going to see if a person could keep his sanity despite hosting two complete sets of memories. It was a crazy experiment, but the alternative was unthinkable. Still, he did think it from time to time.

“I’ll take off this ring, and Free and Crystal and the Old Man are going back where they belong.” Will was not exactly sure where that was. He knew where Free Hilsat thought it was, the unwoven stub of a time that never happened, but Will was unsatisfied with that concept. “Your problem, Free, was lack of intellectual rigor. You accepted explanations because someone you trusted gave them to you. You didn’t take the trouble to work things out for yourself.” Will slowed the car as he approached the interchange. “Although to be fair, you lacked the skills you would have needed.”

Will was working a lot of things out lately. He had his education and the added knowledge that came with the ring. The time-related magic Free had done in his imaginary existence constituted experimental work in the geometry of spacetime. Will could bring the temperament of the theoretician and the skills of the mathematician to examine those experiments. Free’s data, gathered in the secret world of magic, gave Will a huge advantage over anyone in the field. He would need to rework the concepts into pure mathematics, of course. Magic would not pass review in academic journals.

But the magic was nice, like how much easier it was to drive at night when he could do the big-eyes thing. It had taken him a while to understand that he could not do it too often, and not just because of how it looked. The magical energy a person could use was limited. He could run dry and have to wait for magic to reaccumulate inside him. Still, it was handy when trying to read road signs in the dark. Things were not bad on Interstate 80 between Elko and the interchange, so he had not needed it this evening, but as he began the dim drive south on Nevada Route 306 to Beowawe, he was glad to have power in reserve.

Will had practiced the seeing spell often enough. He was sure he would be able to do it without the ring now, but Free’s recollections offered magic Will had not yet tapped. No telling what he would lose if he took off the ring. Once removed, wearing it again would not restore the memories. Best to keep it on.

Anyway, he did not want to lose Crystal and the Old Man. He was curious about them. He knew they would know nothing of him or of the time that never was, but he felt meeting them might give him insight into this Free Hilsat stuff. If his amateur detective work were correct, though he had reason to doubt it, he might meet Crystal tonight. That idea pleased him quite a lot. “Of course, she won’t be Crystal, will she? Crystal never existed.”

She would be the woman who had been Crystal in another reality. It had been a challenge in his research that Free had not exactly known her name. The person Free had known as Crystal Putnam might not even recognize that designation. The Old Man had never told his students each other’s given names, but when Crystal was a little girl, she had sometimes said to Free, “I am too sharp for an Emily. That is what the Old Man says.” Assuming the Old Man had used her original surname, as he had with Hilsat, her real name might be Emily Putnam. They had celebrated birthdays in the Old Man’s house, so what Will had needed was to track down a girl named Emily Putnam born on the right day somewhere in the Four Corners region of the American southwest.

With the direction of Will’s research taking such odd tracks, he had let the university know he would not be returning in the autumn, freeing him to work on the Emily Putnam problem. That the Emily he found chose to live under a series of aliases had complicated things. She now worked for a business presenting a limited face to the public, adding to the problem. This might be related to keeping magic hidden, but it could be hiding of another kind.

Will stayed with his parents in Utah so he could be close to his sources of information. The house they had purchased after he had moved out was nice. He liked the pool. Their guest bedroom was comfortable. That was good, since even from this location, detective work had taken months. This delay was why ice on the road worried him as he made his way toward the Nevada community, ghost town mostly, called Beowawe.

Staying with his parents had been odd. He had found himself unable to freely explain what was going on, could not bring himself to even mention magic. He would get a feeling it was decades, rather than years, since he had moved away. He was Will Hilsat, but Free’s memories complicated things. 

Will negotiated a turn that might have had a little ice on it. “You were glad the Old Man took you from your parents, Free, but you were wrong. Ben and Anna are good people. I wouldn’t be what I am today without their support. If I do find the Old Man, I’m going to have a word with him about that. What he did to you was not a favor.”

Will was looking for a small road sign. Even without magic eyes, he found it.

Then again, what would be the point of telling the Old Man he should not have taken Will away from his parents, when in this reality he had not. Will’s first stab at locating him was to find the house in the desert at the foot of the hill. Free associated it with happy memories, but Will found it disappointing.

An old couple living there, who Free recalled as having had a place in town, had not recognized Will, or his descriptions of Crystal or the Old Man. Nobody in town had. Apparently, life without the Grandfather staff had been so different for the Old Man that he had never lived there, perhaps never even traveled that way. Free had absolutely no idea what the Old Man’s real name was, or his age, or birthplace. “Free, even if we do find Crystal, your Old Man is going to be a challenge. Unless she knows him, of course.”

Instructions for getting to Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch, though straightforward, became less believable the farther Will went. Each time he turned, he seemed to be choosing the road less taken. At this rate, he expected to be on a cow path soon. Then he found himself veering onto a surprisingly well-paved drive. He had not noticed how desolate the countryside was until suddenly out of it. This looked like the ranch house of a cattle baron, surrounded by lawns and gardens lit up for a party. Dreamland was right. What was it doing so deep in nowhere?

The gatehouse attendant did not ask who Will was but simply offered the services of a parking valet. At the end of a stone walkway, Will’s coat taken, he was directed to the bar. The rooms were elegant, woodwork handsome, carpets thick and barstools comfortable. Decorations were native products, particularly some finely crafted woven baskets. Things he had seen cheaply reproduced in lesser establishments were the real thing here. Something was missing. This, Will realized, must be the only bar in Nevada without gambling machines.

He ordered a drink. It was excellent. Before he had a chance to ask the barman any questions, a young woman sat down next to him. She, too, was excellent. It was not only her looks. She was exciting and, at the same time, strangely easy to talk to. Will fell into conversation with her despite himself, was astonished to learn of her interest in mathematics, and almost forgot his mission.

She took a drink. The way she sipped was sexy.

He said, “I came here looking for someone.”

She leaned close, smiling naughtily. “I should hope so.”

The word intoxicating popped into Will’s head, and then the phrase you’re more intoxicating than this drink, but he forced himself instead to say, “No, someone specific.” Will waved the barman over, partly because he needed another male presence to help him concentrate his thoughts. “Can either of you tell me if Darcy deMores works here? She might also be known as Brandi Capriz? Or possibly Emily Putnam?”

“You need to talk to Sapphire,” said the barman. “She’s our madam and the one to handle such questions.”

Will’s research had suggested a dark turn in Emily Putnam’s life but nothing conclusive. If Emily worked for a madam here in Nevada, where prostitution was legal, that suggested a conclusion. Will gulped his drink. His hand shook. “Could I speak to Sapphire then?”

“Certainly, sir.” The barman stepped away, picked up a telephone, pressed a button and spoke a few words. The girl politely excused herself. Moments later she was conversing with another man sitting at a table. Will noticed she was not as exciting to him now, although the other fellow appeared quite happy with her. Will’s drink was empty. How had that happened?

A woman entered the room. Though attractive in an exotic way, she was older than the others, her manner professional. As she approached the bar, Will knew who she must be.

She extended a hand. “Sapphire. And you are . . . ?”

“Will Hilsat. Pleased to me you, Sapphire.”

“I understand you seek someone, Mr. Hilsat?” Sapphire had a lovely accent, southern by way of western, with a noticeable firmness to it, a practiced business voice.

“Yes. I’m looking for Darcy deMores. She might also use the name Brandi Capriz. Or Emily Putnam.”

“And why are you after this person?”

“She’s an old friend.”

“And she would know you as Will Hilsat?”

“No. I don’t think she’ll remember me. It’s been a long time since we knew each other.”

Sapphire gave Will a questioning look.

“I guess that sounds unconvincing. It’s at least part of the truth, but the whole truth gets complicated. I’m not a cop or anything.”

“Mr. Hilsat, I’m sure Ms. deMores has nothing to fear from the police.”

“You do know her? Is she here? May I see her?”

“I’m afraid your timing is not right. She never deals with visitors during evening hours.”

“Never in the evening?” Will glanced around the bar at various pairs and groups, each of which he now recognized contained at least one particularly attractive person. “Isn’t this when you deal with your, uh, customers?”

“Ms. deMores doesn’t deal with the clientele directly.”

“No?” Will sat up straighter as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “What does she do here?”

“She’s the owner. Darcy deMores is Ruby. Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch?”

“Ruby. Crystal is Emily is Darcy is Brandi is Ruby.” He was not sure what he felt now. “Ruby deMores?”

“No. When she uses the name Ruby, it’s just Ruby. As I’m just Sapphire. Could you wait here a moment?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Sapphire walked down the bar. She returned with the telephone. “What were those other names you used for Ruby?” He repeated them, and Sapphire relayed them into the phone. She listened. “Will, would you be able to come out here again tomorrow morning. Say noon?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He says yes.” Sapphire handed the phone back to the barman. “Will, you’ve finished your drink. Have another if you like. They’re on the house. We’ll see you tomorrow morning at twelve o’clock.”

“OK. Twelve sounds good. Thank you, Sapphire. Thank you very much. This means a lot to me.”

“You’re most welcome, Will. We could do no less. Nobody leaves Ruby’s dissatisfied.”

Peregrine Arnold was delighted. He had no idea what he was doing, and that was always exciting. In addition to the stone brought home to England, he had records of every text he could find at what he called the Lizard Temple, now hidden below his illusory tree at Dzibilchaltun. He had a fair translation of it, but translation was merely the beginning.

Mayan scribes wrote at so many levels. An Englishman could write the word jaguar in one way, j-a-g-u-a-r. He could, if he chose, use uppercase letters, JAGUAR, or a mixture of lower- and uppercase, jAgUaR, although that almost never happened. He could print or write cursively. He could have jaguar typeset in various fonts, but all it meant was jaguar.

The Mayan scribe could write bahlam with a single symbol, a drawing of the head of a jaguar, or he could use three symbols, one for each of the sounds, ba, la, ma. The literate Mayan knew to drop the final A, a common convention in syllabic writing. How did he know to add the unwritten H? Peregrine was not sure. Somehow, he did.

But each of these symbols, ba, la, ma, was a picture, none of them related to the concept of a jungle cat. And sometimes the scribe wrote the head of the jaguar and then added symbols for one or more of the individual sounds even though the primary glyph fully spelled the word.

It got far more complex. Sounds could be written with more than one symbol. A scribe writing a word with “kan” in it, could write that sound with a drawing of a snake, or of the sky, or of four pebbles. Inversely, a single symbol could represent more than one sound. Symbols could be combined in a multitude of ways, side by side, one above the other, woven through each other, even one behind with a bit poking out to reveal the hidden syllable.

For the magical scribe, each of the innumerable ways to write a word implied a subtly different mode of thought. This complexity extended through multiple levels, so the placement of symbols in individual words carried meaning for the phrase, the sentence, the entire work. The Mayan, Peregrine realized, could incorporate more information of a magical nature into the signing of his name than an English wizard might put in a paragraph of text.

Dzibilchaltun means, “the place of writing on stones.” It could not have been better named. Peregrine would need to study each glyph in relation to every other glyph, in pairs and triples, and so on right up to the entire structure taken as a whole. It would take forever. He could manage that. Forever was what he did best. This was going to be a great deal of fun.

But one had to remember the family. Peregrine must now spend time with his. He closed his study for the evening and joined them in his wife’s rooms.

Peregrine’s daughter Abigail was chatting with her mother. The women enjoyed each other’s company so much these days, now that Abigail was approaching her mother’s age. When Peregrine joined them, conversation turned from fashion and gossip to Abigail’s magical lessons. Her mother was impressed. Abigail was an excellent student. Even a leefer could see it, a well-informed leefer anyway. When it came to magical topics, although Mrs. Arnold never fully understood, she was better informed than any leefer in the world. Which was all right. She was never going to tell.

At last it was time for Abigail to—well—not be sent to bed. She was too grown up for that these days. Time to withdraw to her private quarters.

Now Peregrine and his beautiful young wife were alone. They spoke of many things. Both were proud of Abigail. Each saw the virtues of the other coming out in her. They talked of what Peregrine had been doing in Mexico and of what he was going to do now. As always, Peregrine had brought home much news of the world.

Then they made love. Then they bathed. Then Peregrine placed his wife back into her capsule and brought her time to a stop. Gazing at her still form, he thought, as he often did, what a good system this was. He would use the tricks of the wizard to extend his life, to keep himself youthful in appearance. And his wife would experience no more than a few hours of existence each week, thereby preserving her bloom for decades. Peregrine knew, no matter what others might believe, the Arnold family was as close to perfect as one could hope for in this world.

In the light of morning, the route to Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch was even less believable. The desolation was nicer though on this sunny day with melting snow in shaded spots well off the road. Will was going to meet Emily Putnam who, with any luck, would be the long-sought Crystal. What would he do, he wondered, if she were not? Keep looking.

The man at the gatehouse told Will he was expected. The valet was off duty, but parking should be no problem. In daylight, Will could see Ruby’s was a big place with a good number of employee cars parked at the far end of the lot. Spaces near the main entrance were all empty. He supposed noon was not prime brothel time.

The door was answered by a uniformed woman, her cleaning duties interrupted. She directed him to make his way through the building and seek the sun porch. He passed a series of parlors, comfortable though not grand. Seeing a stylishly organized bookcase, he wondered if anyone in this place ever read those books.

At the corridor’s end, a southeast facing door stood open to gardens in winter decline, but the adjacent porch was filled with blooming plants. Fresh air from the doorway and warm sunlight through glass walls made the lightly furnished space appealing.

He did not at first see her, not until he had walked well inside, leaves brushing against his hands. She sat at a wicker desk with her back to him, working on documents. He considered clearing his throat, but before he could, she stood and turned.

It was Crystal alive again! Or it was not. It was Crystal but different. Will had never actually seen Crystal.

“Good morning, or afternoon I suppose. We take rather late mornings here.”

It was Crystal’s voice, no doubt of it, but her manner was unfamiliar. Will felt a knot inside his chest.

“You are Mr. Hilsat?”

“Yes.” He could say nothing else, as if language held no further words.

“I understand you’re looking for me.” She was wearing a dress that was practical yet elegant. The way she moved made it more than that. Her smile was new to him, but he knew it well.

“Yes.” There must be other words. He did not have the faintest idea what he was going to say. “I have missed you so much.” He had not expected to say that.

She looked puzzled but in a happy way. “Did you?”

Will had seen her in Free’s memories but had not expected her to be this beautiful. The ways she moved disturbed him. Why did she move like that?

“Sapphire told me you and I were old friends, but I wouldn’t recognize you. I’m afraid she was right.”

“No, you do not know me, but I know you better than you know yourself. You do not belong here.” Shut up, Will thought. “You are better than this. I can show you what you should be.” Will had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth next. He had not felt like this since the days after the ring first appeared on his thumb. He desperately needed to pull Free outside so he could slap him.

“Oh, Mr. Hilsat, this is terribly sweet. You’ve come to rescue me.” She swayed across the room toward him. Her shining hair moved fascinatingly through patches of sunlight. 

The fact that she used contractions bothered him. Why? 

“Every so often someone comes here with the intention of saving one of my employees, but no one is ever thoughtful enough to rescue management. How marvelously chivalrous of you.”

This was not so bad. She was standing close to him now. Her eyes actually sparkled. She smelled exotic but also familiar. She put her arms around him and kissed him. She touched him in ways he was not expecting, in places he was not expecting. Will felt wonderful. He mumbled words. Was that a spell he spoke?

When he stopped running and turned to look back, he saw no buildings. What had happened to Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch? He returned in the direction he had come.

Apparently, he had run down a small hill. He tried running up again but was short of breath. When he finally struggled to the top, he saw the ranch in the distance. Way in the distance. Oh, that could not be right. Nobody can run like that, that far, that fast. What the hell had happened?

He saw her walking through the garden and across . . . was that a heliport? And how many buildings did this ranch have? Ruby’s was almost a town.

It was going to take a long time for her to reach him, so he started down the hill toward her. It still took time. She was strolling as if out to enjoy the weather, and he was no faster. His aching legs were weak. He was overheated and needed the cool air, which held a pleasant hint of sage. He began to feel better.

When they finally came together, she stopped twenty feet away. “I do apologize, Mr. Hilsat. I am afraid I misunderstood the purpose of your visit. You should have told me you were a wizard.”

Twenty feet felt right to him, so he stopped, too. “I didn’t realize you knew of magic. If you do, why are you here?”

She looked over her shoulder at Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch and back at Will. “I couldn’t operate the brothel without magic.”

Will did not trust himself to say anything in response. Finally he managed, “I had no idea I could run so fast.”

Her smile was kind. “I must have inspired that. My apologies. I didn’t intend to shock you.”

“My reaction was unexpected for both of us. I’m somewhat uncertain who I am today.”

“Perhaps we could walk back to the ranch while you explain. I promise not to get too close.”

“Thank you. I think we should do that.” Will was definitely better. Emily Putnam was understanding. His breathing was steadying. His legs did not hurt so much. The sunlight was pleasant. This was going to be OK.

And then he began to cry.

“English wizardry isn’t our only problem. I’ve traced your travel difficulties to companies headquartered in the United States.” Motchk’s secretary, like Mrs. Arnold, was among the rare non-magical people who knew of magic. He also would never tell, such action being under his master’s tight control. “Corporate connections are labyrinthine but have no discernible links with Peregrine Arnold or any other magic user.”

“Leefers?” Motchk tapped a finger on his desk. “What possible interest could leefers have in keeping me from Dzibilchaltun? What could leefers even know of it?”

“What do we know?”

Motchk raised the finger to his secretary. “You have a point, although the Lizard Temple is not an utter mystery. We have seen this kind of thing before, if you recall.”

“When?” The secretary furrowed his brow. “Where?”

“The Sunflower Temple.”

“The what?”

“The model for the Chamber of Eternities.”

The secretary sighed. “Perhaps you told my father.”

Motchk nodded. “Or your grandfather, now I think of it. Following my injuries, he was among those who carried me from ruin to plaza, stairway to alter, so I might study, as my mentors put it, the magic in our own backyard.”

“The Sunflower Temple?”

“I discovered a buried structure and named it for a depiction on the entrance to its primary chamber: a carved sunflower hidden untold centuries, twin stalks flanking the doorway as now those lizards flank another with their stone chins pressed to the floor and tails entwined overhead. What do you suppose they do down there in their darkness?”

The secretary shrugged. The round study at the tower’s top provided no chairs for guests. He leaned back against a shelf below one of the tall windows, checking first to be sure the spot held nothing dangerous, and settled in to listen to his master.

“Dzibilchaltun follows cultural patterns as does every Mayan site, a template to which structures will conform. It also holds great variety. One must remember when looking back on an ancient people that they really were people as diverse and multifaceted as any population. What happens in a town of tens of thousands during millennia?”

“An awful lot?”

“Exactly! But even taking diversity into account, the Sunflower Temple did not fit. It was built within a Mayan city, yes, using materials and technologies familiar to the inhabitants, borrowing from local culture, but its overall character was not Mayan. This Lizard Temple is of the same foreign influence.”

The secretary’s eyes widened. “Foreign?”

“Among Mayans, as among all human societies, we find those gifted with the power of magic, but the magic in the Sunflower Temple, and I am sure the Lizard Temple as well, draws upon wider sources. It took more than local human culture to conceive the Eighth Doll.”

“Is she what we are talking about?”

“My greatest strength. I first saw her in the chamber beyond the sunflower stalks, a mysterious figure carved in bas-relief, elliptically circumscribed.” Motchk waved a great loop in the air. “Because of proximity to the Temple of the Seven Dolls, I named her the Eighth Doll, understanding her Sunflower Temple was not really a temple at all but a kind of magical machine. Yet every time I tried to prove this, I came up against an aspect of design that would not do what I felt it should. I was certain I was right but kept proving myself wrong.”

“Sounds irritating.”

Motchk nodded. “One day, tired of beating my head figuratively against walls of actual stone, I wandered into town. Taking a meal in a cafe, I overheard leefers discussing a piece of equipment they were trying to repair. A farm mechanic said, ‘Damned thing never has worked properly.’ That was the key to the Sunflower Temple.”

“Was it?”

“A magical machine, but one that did not work. Never had. Viewed from this new perspective, what the builders had been trying to do became clear to me, and where they had gone wrong. They lacked knowledge wizards had since accumulated. I could not resist the opportunity to complete this magical development abandoned centuries before. If I were correct in what they had been trying, if I could achieve it, I would become invincible.”

“Did you?”

“I designed the Chamber of Eternities, old knowledge modified along modern principles. The critical element of my success was flexibility. Those ancient wizards carved their machine from stone, not understanding the whole world changes with each tick of the clock, and no tick repeats another. Where they used chisels, I used chalk. Where they built a structure fixed forever, I created a system of calculations in instantaneous flux. Now my Eighth Doll lives encased in her metaphorically ellipsoid space outside our universe. She sees as we cannot.”

“How wonderful.”

Motchk frowned. “But the old machine was strange. In rescuing that failed project, I learned things nobody knew, not Mayans, not magic users, not men of any kind. I found power but also questions, foremost among them: who designed the Sunflower Temple?”

The secretary shrugged.

“This Lizard Temple is the same but older. A magical machine with purposes perhaps grander than those I have already mastered. Here is even more to know, and I shall know it. The machine of the Eighth Doll opened itself to a young man for study at his leisure, but the Lizard Temple is to some extent already in the hands of an enemy, a rival wizard of questionable motives. And now some powerful leefer, or group of leefers, is working to thwart my efforts to explore the mystery. Fortunately, we are men who enjoy a challenge, yes?”

The secretary nodded weak enthusiasm.

“The Lizard Temple, with whatever power it holds, will be mine and mine alone.”

“Of course, sir.”

Yet another clerk directed Will Hilsat to yet another record book. Will had spent the day traveling back and forth between the stately old Chaves County Courthouse and the sparkling modern Chaves County Administration Center. He had spent months visiting towns and cities throughout New Mexico and neighboring states, sitting in similar centers, reading similar records. He was not sure what he was hoping to find, or why he wanted to find it, or what he would do when he did. He was starting to recognize he did not need to know, since he was not going to find anything anyway.

Things had gone badly with Emily Putnam, or Crystal, or Ruby, or whoever she was. Will still could not believe he had wept like that. Once he got his emotions under control, he explained the whole situation. Will had spent months not telling anybody the story of Free Hilsat and the magic ring except in the vaguest terms. Nobody would have believed him. Then he had told Emily everything in complete detail, and she accepted every word. She understood, which was a great relief.

Then she told him to go away.

She had been right. He had intended to rescue her. He knew her, even if his knowledge came from a time that never happened. He knew, raised properly by a good teacher, she was a brilliant scholar of magic. He knew the kind of life she was leading now was far beneath her.

She knew he was a mathematician burdened with false memories. She knew he had a life, and she had a life, and they were both happy in their lives. The ring was a magical oddity that meant a lot to someone who had never lived, in a time and place that never existed. She told him to take it off.

He told her she could not understand the difference between how she was living now and how she was meant to live. He described what she was really like, their lives as students with the Old Man and their promising work together in magical research.

She laughed. Then she explained what her life was like. “This is no ordinary whorehouse, Will.” She called him Will, although on that day he felt uncertain who he was. “This is a factory generating power and wealth your Free, and his Old Man, and Crystal never dreamed of. You think I’m not living up to my potential because I don’t do original magical research? Maybe, in some alternate reality, I crafted tools. In this world, I’m the master of those tools. Nobody puts magic to greater use than me. Let me show you what I do.”

She took him downstairs, through her private parlor, unlocked a door and led him into a windowless facility with a damp smell and the faint sound of water dripping behind walls. She walked to a panel and flipped switches. Video monitors came on, one after another, showing living rooms, bedrooms, family rooms, sewing rooms, libraries, bathrooms and kitchens. He saw four kitchens, each similar but decorated in different styles with different appliances and countertops, curtains and dish towels, as if remodeled in different decades.

He came closer to examine the glowing images. They looked to be rooms in various homes, though also offices, classrooms and a small gymnasium. A few contained moving people. “Where are these places?”

“Here, Will. They’re right here, Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch. These are the sets where dreams are performed.”

He looked again. One room was familiar. It was the bar upstairs. And was that the parlor with the bookcase he admired earlier? And here was the sun porch. Those were automobile interiors: a sports car, a limousine and a family station wagon. He started to perceive the grand design.

“We’re the best, Will. We’re the best whorehouse in the world, the best that ever was. Anything a client wants, we can make it happen.”

“Where does magic come in?” That question had come from the ring, from Free, which explained its challenging tone. Will sensed it was a mistake to ask.

Emily placed her fingertips on pads below a monitor. The pads were a soft chartreuse substance that Will thought might be damp and possibly alive. The image on the screen was a bedroom with someone in it. Will looked closely and saw the woman who had answered the door, the one in the housekeeping uniform. She was tidying up.

“Sets and costumes are just the beginning, Will. Let me show you the kind of magic I learned from the witch who bought me from my parents.” Emily began to chant a short spell whispered almost silently. The few words Will caught were so unfamiliar he could not guess their language. Thinking of what she had said, and of what she was now saying, Will realized how little he knew Emily Putnam.

The woman on the screen was making the bed. She pulled sheets tight and smoothed out wrinkles. As she turned and reached for a pillow she had put on a chair, Emily blew a puff of air at the screen. Will sensed a word in that puff, although one he could not hear. As Emily’s breath touched them, the pads beneath the monitor glowed.

Will watched the woman on the screen. What was it in the manner of the housekeeper’s movements, the angle of her body, the stretch of her legs, the thrust of her hip, the bow of her long neck, the weight of her breasts suddenly apparent through the material of her uniform? Will felt a surge of lust. He jumped back from the screen.

Emily laughed. “Different people like different things.”

“You mean how some men want a blowjob but some prefer a rimjob?” Free, you poor naive idiot, thought Will. You can’t shock a whore with racy talk.

“Good example,” said Emily, “but so much more. A man comes here who seeks the girlfriend experience. He wants a woman to submit to his particular desire because she loves him. Part way into it, he changes. Now he wants her to be a bad girl who deserves to be mistreated and is trying to escape. A fraction of a second after his orgasm, he changes again. He wants her to thank him, as if it had all been her need in the first place, or maybe he wants her to cry, or to kiss him, or to shut up and go away. He does not know what he will want until the instant he wants it, and he wants those whims fulfilled without his having to ask.

“Some come here knowing exactly what they want. Some have no idea. The majority change from one moment to the next. Most have experienced inability to make wishes become realities despite their best efforts. They’ve gone to my competitors, frolicked in fancy bedrooms, someone else’s fantasies of what fantasies should be, and come away dissatisfied. Nobody leaves Ruby’s dissatisfied.”

The woman on the screen finished making the bed. She continued dusting and tidying. Will saw nothing in her that aroused him now. He wanted to plug his ears against Emily’s ongoing explanation of her business methods, yet he had to hear everything.

“When they know what they want, we give it to them. When they don’t, we find out for them, and we do more. Anyone can furnish a bedroom, put a pretty girl or boy in a costume. Any pretty girl can pretend to be a sexy maid, or a hot school teacher, or an understanding girlfriend, but at some point she’s going to move in some way that’s not quite right, that destroys the illusion, that would have been good a moment ago but isn’t good now, would have appealed to one person but not another.

“My employees move in exactly the right ways. They say exactly the right things. They do what the client needs when the client needs it. My girls and boys do not appeal to men and women in general. I make sure they behave in the way that most pleases that woman or man at that exact instant.”

“Your employees are magical puppets,” said Will.

“Yes, but just the employees would not be good enough.”

The cleaning woman approached the camera, which must have been hidden behind a mirror. She picked up an empty drinking glass from the dresser, moved it as if swirling ice, looked intently into the unseen mirror and said in a sexy voice, “You’re more intoxicating than this drink.”

Will felt the ice in his spine. It was what he had almost said in the bar last night. It was exactly how he would have said it. It was not only Free who was shocked now.

“Have you ever been with a woman, Will, and thought afterwards, ‘Now I know what I should’ve said,’ or ‘Why did I make that clumsy move?’ People don’t have that problem here. Everyone in these rooms, employee or client, does exactly what he or she should do in the client’s perfect fantasy. Dreams really do come true.”

The woman in the bedroom walked out of one monitor and into another where she continued her cleaning duties. Emily flipped switches. Screens went dark. She walked back into her private parlor. Will followed, suddenly aware what a fine room this was, holding individual objects worth more than a mathematician would earn in his lifetime. He wondered if he had thought that by himself or if she had put the idea into his head.

“When you can do this kind of thing, Will, people love you for it. And only Ruby can do it. Our clients are among the most powerful on this planet. We have evenings when the poorest customer in the place is someone with merely hundreds of millions. They will pay whatever we are asking: money, gifts, actions. Ruby can always call in a favor.”

“I suppose you get a lot of politicians in here?”

“Speaking of puppets? No, not many. Everyone knows politicians have strings attached. My clients are at the other end of those strings. If I require a government to perform a service, it gets done.”

She laughed again. It was the same laugh that had intimidated Free in another reality. “You want me to come away with you, find an Old Man who’ll not recognize either of us and convince him to live with us in some dusty shack in the desert so we can make a name for ourselves in basic magical research.”

She smiled an understanding smile. It seemed to him well-crafted. “I could make you take that ring off, Will. You wouldn’t even know you were doing it. I won’t though. I’ll even teach you how to stop me. You need to know that. The ring should be your decision. I’m just telling you as a friend, old or new, do yourself a favor. Take off the ring. Let the ghosts of people who never were go back into their—what did you call it—their time stub? Let them go. Make them let go of you.”

She was right. Flipping through the pages of yet another dusty record book too unimportant to be entered into an electronic database, he knew she was right. Crystal and Free, whatever they might have been, did not exist. Emily and Will had their own lives. She gave him a few basic magic lessons and then sent him on his way. Will had not seen her since that day. He never would again.

As for the Old Man, who was he? Where was he? It was not like he was sitting somewhere waiting for Will to show up. Whoever the Old Man was now, he knew nothing of Will and probably would not wish to, no more than Emily had.

“And anyway, I’m never going to find out, because I’m never going to find him. Sorry, Free.”

Will closed the book. He thanked the clerk. No, he would not be coming back. He left the building and looked for a cafe where he could have lunch. He would keep the ring on, not for Crystal or the Old Man, but for the wealth of magical information it contained. He would turn this curse into a gift. He would use it to make himself the world’s leading expert on the mathematical underpinnings of the magical applications of spacetime. That he could do.

As for Free Hilsat’s time stub, it was gone. It had always been gone.

When Peregrine Arnold emerged from his temporally adjusted study, he knew too much. Too much had taken a long time to know, but Peregrine was a master of time, or so he had thought. Now he understood he was an amateur, a tinkerer with intervals, a dilettante skating on the shallow surface of eternity. Having studied the writings from the Lizard Temple, he was ashamed to recall past moments when he had proudly proclaimed himself a time wizard.

This new knowledge frightened him. Much of it was incomprehensible. Some texts were readable but so foreign to his thinking it was difficult to frame them in a manner that made sense. Some seemed clear but simply wrong. Of what was left, however, Peregrine understood enough to know the power in these glyphs represented danger beyond reason. He needed to confirm and improve the security he had already reinforced. No one must be allowed anywhere near those damned stone lizards.

Always his own travel agent, he was soon flying west over the ocean. Everything went well on his journey. It usually did, even more so of late. These days, he never encountered the slightest delays. Conserving energies for the task ahead, he wasted no magic on the trip. It was solely the travel industry to be commended.

Peregrine was soon in Merida, in Dzibilchaltun and then nowhere. The Lizard Temple was gone. He could not find it, could not find his arboreal illusion marking the passageway down to it. His journey had been fast, but he had been too late before he left the ground.

He knew it was a trick, multiple tricks. He came across one, and though he was not even positive which trick it was, it held residual magic. He cast the Spell of Identification. Nomik Motchk’s glowing face hovered before his eyes. This Peregrine found deeply disturbing. Nomik was a man who had too much power already and should have had none. Of all who might be master of the Lizard Temple, Nomik was the worst choice in the world.

And then, speak of the devil, he appeared in the flesh.

Wizards’ duels almost never happen. For one thing, wizards spread their small population thinly across the globe. When they do get together, it is nearly always by choice because the parties involved want to share in each other’s company. For another thing, a full-out wizards’ duel requires both magicians to have a good reserve of energy. In most cases where a duel might be expected, one wizard or the other realizes he is at a disadvantage on this occasion and strategically withdraws, living to fight another day.

So, it was a shame no one observed the duel between Peregrine Arnold and Nomik Motchk at Dzibilchaltun. Both had arrived unaccompanied. They were the only users of real magic for miles in any direction. Since both were masters of time related spells, what happened came far too fast for any leefer to perceive. A pity.

The sight of Nomik flinging balls of lightning down from atop the rubble of a shattered pyramid or pulling jaguars from the bark of surrounding trees, Peregrine’s deflection of the lightning, his raising of the stones of that pyramid to fall upon those jaguars, would all have been well worth seeing. The dust storm raised by one wizard, the rain brought by the other, the flames that baked the resulting mud, the hail of razor-sharp ceramic blades that flew out of that fire, the sonic shock wave that shattered those blades back into smothering dust, would have given witnesses stories to tell for the rest of their lives.

It went on for some sort of time. It was over in an instant with no winners. Peregrine Arnold, an older man than he had been in many years, managed to get himself onto an airplane that night. It took off despite an unexpected storm covering the peninsula. Peregrine would take himself back to England. He knew things must be done in Yucatan but had no idea how he was going to do them and no energy, or courage, left to do them with.

Nomik Motchk, equally drained, also felt advanced age as he almost never did. Dragging the previously shattered leg behind him, a limb so broken by ancient magic nothing would ever make it fully whole, he limped back to his rental car. He had sent Peregrine home in no better shape but should have been able to kill him. The man needed killing. Motchk supposed the Eighth Doll was the reason he himself was still alive. He wondered how, if she were working her magic behind the scenes, the battle had been such a close thing with such an unsatisfying conclusion.

It was dark and raining hard as he drove into Merida. In a state of exhaustion, his view obscured by sheets of water on the windshield, he got lost. He pulled over to ask for directions at a quiet cafe, the only place open for some distance. The cafe staff helped him figure out he was a long way from where he intended to be. Smelling food from the kitchen, lacking strength for the drive, he would eat here. Motchk needed not only magical energy but any energy.

Service was slow. He took pages abandoned by an earlier diner to read while he waited. Not, as he had hoped, a news magazine, it was a trade journal of the petroleum industry, insider information mostly, individuals and companies that would only interest someone in the oil business. But a few of the articles were of a general nature. He was surprised to realize how much he did not know about an enterprise so important to his homeland. As he learned of their achievements, the methods they had developed for the extraction and refinement of substances locked deep below land and sea, he came to understand these leefers were actually quite clever.

When food arrived, it was excellent, or maybe he was just that hungry. After eating, he took the journal with him to the cash register. He knew by the way he felt that he would be staying in the hacienda tomorrow, simply building strength, and would want material to keep himself amused. The register sat on a glass case holding small items for sale. He looked over the selection, hoping to identify some other time killer. What he found made him smile.

When he had first had the accident, too fragile to have servants carry him among the ruins, when it was more than his body that was healing, he had needed ways to pass the idle days. Here was a thing he had gotten to know well at that time: a pack of playing cards.

He paid the check and reconfirmed directions with the cafe staff. The rain had passed. He drove to the hacienda that had, by now, become a second home. It was a pleasant place. He slept well.

The next morning, after a large and late breakfast, he opened the pack of cards. Funny looking things. The backs were pale pink with a shiny gold border around a picture of a lizard juggling a rocket, a comet, a moon and a star. He dealt a hand of solitaire, as he had so many times during his earlier recovery. He played it out and won.

“So then, my Eighth Doll, is my good luck returning?”

Mrs. Toole glued down a clipping describing the graduation of her husband’s sister’s son. Then she turned the scrapbook back a page and frowned. “Why is this card here?”

A. C. Toole looked up, his brow furrowed. “What card?”

Mrs. Toole held out the three of clubs.

“And where was it?”

“In our latest scrapbook. On top of our nephew Dexter’s photograph. The one accompanying that lovely story on his high school class’s service to the community. The one in which he’s quoted so nicely.”

“Really? I must have left it there by accident.”

“You were looking in our scrapbook?”

“Why not? I enjoy your scrapbooks.”

She smiled. “Yes, but I didn’t realize you looked through them on your own.”

“Sometimes.” He returned her smile. “Give me that stray trey and I’ll put it back in the pack.”

Mrs. Toole chuckled but did not hand the card to him. Instead, she examined it. “Why don’t you use one of our newer decks. They’re much more dignified.”

“I’ve had this one forever, you know. These juggling monkeys may be silly, but we’re old friends.”

She scrutinized the image. “I see what you mean. I feel somehow this one is smiling just for me.”

A. C. Toole stretched farther and took the card from his wife’s hand. “I'm sure it is.”

Will Hilsat returned to Virginia. His parents were sorry to see him go, but also relieved. Never understanding why he had left his teaching position, they hoped this meant he was back on track.

Despite Utah-to-Virginia distance, Will stayed in touch, although his mother claimed he never called. Will’s father, a mechanic both at work and around the home, had a speakerphone so time spent chatting could be made useful. It was an early model enforcing the rule that only one side could talk at any time. Will’s mother would sit close, but his father would be across the room with hands-on projects. The microphone was poor, and coupled with electronic pauses and delays founded in the mechanic’s attention to his tasks, Will imagined that his mother was speaking from a base on the Moon and his father in a rocket on its way to Mars.

“Adjunct professor in my old department. They gave me an excellent section this semester.”

“Good for you,” said the Moon.

After a delay, the rocket asked, “Is one enough?”

“As much as I want. I have projects of my own.”

“What projects?”

Fortunately, Will’s folks did not require a specific answer. At some point in Will’s mathematical education, what he did every day had become so remote from his parents’ understanding that they were used to vague descriptions of his doings. Magic was even more difficult. Real magic users, as Free Hilsat had known, always kept their powers hidden. Will could tell his family almost nothing, but they were used to that.

“I’ve put together a team of people working on the same things I am.”

“People who speak your language. How wonderful.”

Delay. “That must be quite a bunch.”

“Who are they?”

“One of them is a Texan called Toby Bis.”

“Called Toby Bis? What’s his real name, then?” The Mars pilot poked fun at what he took to be his son’s odd wording. He felt his boy spoke almost too carefully these days.

“Is he another mathematician?” asked the Moon.

“Toby is a real magician.” Will could say this because his parents would never dream it was literally true.

“Is he on the faculty?”

“No.”

“A student?”

“No.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“Friend of a friend.” This was not true, yet in a way it was. “He helped me solve a problem in my work.” Will’s parents would assume mathematics and not ask for details. 

The problem had been how to get a magical staff. Will had tried using a branch fallen from a tree in the backyard, stripping it of twigs and bark. When he employed it to cast a spell, it whipped around in a way that nearly broke his wrist but otherwise did no magic. The memories of how Free had gotten his staff were inaccessible to Will. Such knowledge was somehow stored in the staff itself.

Will considered returning to Beowawe and asking Emily, but she wanted him to remove the ring and forget the magic. Even if she would help, a whole lot of creepy went on at Dreamland Ranch. Will had not liked the way Free Hilsat re-emerged in Emily’s presence. Not to mention the leefer sex-puppet thing. Will was never going back to Ruby’s.

But where then? Magic users were adopted into the community by other magic users. Professor Hilsat knew no other magic users. He took walks around town, hoping that with new insight he would find real magic.

One evening he got involved with a band of necromancers, those wizards who draw power from the dead, but they turned out to be a band called Necromancers, musicians not magicians. The closest he had come was a coven of witches on campus. They were nice girls, not nearly as disturbing as Emily Putnam, but not actually magic either. They were leefers play-acting magic. 

One of the odd things in Free Hilsat’s life, besides the whole wizard thing, was that Free and Crystal and the Old Man had lived in such isolation. Free had not known the people in the nearby town. They provided goods and services. Beyond that, he knew nothing. Free had not known many magic users either. Will came to understand, perhaps better than Free ever had, that the Old Man saw his home as a covert research facility with some hidden purpose. The only magicians Free remembered were former apprentices of the Old Man who had come back for consultations.

Could Will locate those visitors? Free recalled the names they used, the places they lived, but Will had no luck tracking them down. Either the Old Man’s students were as secretive as their teacher, or in this reality the Old Man had not taught them. Lacking the Grandfather staff had changed his life so much that the Old Man never met those people, never took them from their families nor ever gave them names. That seemed likely, since in this reality it was exactly what had happened to both Will and Emily.

“What friend of what friend?” asked the Moon. Will’s mother was more interested in people than in what they did.

“Toby Bis was a pupil of one of my old teachers.”

“So your former teacher brought you together?”

“Yes.” Will skipped the detail of the former teacher being a wizard from an alternate reality. After much fruitless searching, Will had tripped across one of the memories in Free’s ring, a sunset conversation on the back porch, one dealing not with magic but with family.

In the memory, a student of the Old Man had visited the house in the desert. This student told the story of hearing a bulletin on the radio describing a mudslide that buried a number of homes in Claymont, Texas. His father, whom the student had not seen since the initiation of his apprenticeship, was a barber in Claymont. The student joked about it, saying if you live in a town called Claymont, Texas, you have to expect someday a mountain of Texas clay could fall on you. But his reaction at the time had been to run to the airport, literally run, and catch a plane to Texas. His father was alive and well.

Once Will recalled this story, he also made the trip to Claymont, although by car. The mudslide and the student’s instinct to rush to his father’s side proved true in both realities. Will knew only the appellation the Old Man had assigned the student, which was not a name he used in this reality, but Claymont’s barbers were a small society. One of them told the story of the returning son. He knew nothing of that son’s special abilities but was in communication. Through the barber, Will finally met a wizard.

As Will anticipated, Toby Bis had no knowledge of the Old Man, but he did know how Will could get a staff and much more. Will was too old to be apprenticed, but Toby did what mentoring he could. He found in Will a ready pupil, although he never did break Will of the habit of contractions in his speech.

“Yes, I met Toby through a teacher. Now we teach things to each other. He’s a good friend.”

“That’s what I like to hear,”  said the Moon.

A long pause filled with mechanical noises was followed by, “What’re you and your new friend going to do?”

“We’re going to start a business.” Too quietly to trigger the speakerphone, Will added, “Tell everyone on Mars.”

“Sapphire? We’ve got a grumpy billionaire.”

“Oh dear!” said the voice on the phone. “A blessing to be unmixed. I’ll see what we can do.”

A few tense minutes later, Sapphire arrived with a delightful young couple she introduced to the problem client. She excused herself from the jolly gathering soon moving to a more private room. She stopped by the bar. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“I’m getting better at spotting that sort of thing,” said the barman.

“Because you’ve more of it to spot, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, I get that sense. Must be the troubles in the world these days. Even billionaires feel it.”

“It must be that.”

The barman was drying glassware. Sapphire was not doing anything, which was unusual for her. While he put glasses away, she continued to do nothing.

“You don’t think it’s that,” he said.

“No.” Business voice, controlled annoyance variation. “I think it’s her. I think it’s him. I think it’s Will Hilsat.”

The barman refreshed snacks set out for clients. “Her old amigo? Was that guy truly her friend? Is he ever coming back?”

“Ruby told me to make him welcome any time he did but not to expect we’d see him again. He might as well be here though. He’s the one messing things up.”

“How do you figure?”

“Honestly, I’ve never understood how Ruby makes this place work, but you know she’s the one who does it. Ever since Hilsat dropped by, she’s been distracted. The clients are still coming in, returning home satisfied, leaving money behind, but we’re going nowhere.”

“You get that sense from her?”

“I do.” Sapphire ate a shrimp canapé from a tray on the bar. “Ruby was always working on improvements to this place, finding better ways to make dreams come true. Now she’s just working, as if an employee herself. And this thing tonight, I have to point out problems to her that would never have come up in the old days.” Although the hors d'oeuvre was tasty, Sapphire did not take another. “Once I get her attention, she arranges a solution, and everything comes out fine, but where was her attention in the first place? I wish I knew what that good-looking son-of-a-bitch said to her.”

The barman nodded. “Hilsat was good looking. He could work here. You think he’s an old boyfriend?”

Sapphire grimaced. “I didn’t get that impression at the time, but how would we know? I understand Ruby as well as anyone alive. Hooking for QiLina, we went through everything together, believe me. Yet sometimes I feel I don’t know anything about Ruby. What’s she thinking?”

The barman glanced toward a well-hidden camera. “Probably that we should get back to work.”

Emily, watching the bar monitor in her basement control room, was thinking exactly that. She was also thinking about the sports car monitor where a woman had to gracefully maneuver into a client’s preferred blowjob position despite the manly stick shift. Also how to arrange a second client’s suddenly developed balcony fantasy without distracting a third client in a room from which that balcony was visible. An employee heard the word curtains spoken silently in his mind and pulled the drape. It played as a gesture protecting the client’s modesty. Emily was making dreams come true, thinking of a multitude of such events, as she did every evening.

But she was also thinking about Will Hilsat, the same things she had been thinking since his visit all those months ago. How naively arrogant it was of him to stroll into her place of business, one she had built up over years, to tell her the life she had worked so hard to make for Sapphire and herself was not good enough. As if he could know.

She moved an investment banker’s orgy from a kitchen to a bedroom, a difficult maneuver at this stage in the proceedings, but ultimately easier on the rich man’s back. In another room, a woman bound with ropes was wriggling on the floor, though unconvincingly. Emily inspired the woman with panic. The client appreciated the believability of the resulting squirm. Emily gave him something witty to say about female helplessness, and he liked it even better.

Keeping all this going was a challenge but not as hard as it might have been. Half the clients were asleep. Some had the finest nap of their lives following a romp at Ruby’s, while others had best-ever sex after magically enhanced rest. Counting cents per snore, in reality, the well-named Dreamland Ranch was the world’s most expensive slumber-time motel.

Emily had had to be pretty hard on Will to make him see reality. It was not entirely his fault. He had meant well. Having Free Hilsat knocking around inside his head understandably set him off balance. Thinking of which, she intervened in time to keep a valuable contract employee from falling off that balcony.

Free Hilsat. Now there was an interesting character. And really, a character was what he was, a person from fiction, a story put into Will’s head by chatty jewelry. She hoped Will had taken off that stupid ring. Yet Free had sort of existed. She had seen him through Will’s mind. When Free was real, in that time stub of his, he had sacrificed his life, his whole world, to save Crystal. And what a marvelous person Crystal had been, well worth saving. These were the things Emily could not get out of her head.

The woman in the car slipped, dragging bare ribs across the gear stick. Emily caught her in time to prevent a possible client injury and then brought the driver’s favorite song up on the radio, enough to distract him. Still, Emily supposed she would be hearing from Sapphire on this one. Sapphire was always complaining about some damn thing these days.

The worst of it was that Sapphire would be right. Bruises reduced value among the contract staff. Emily had to forget Will Hilsat. As she turned her attention to a classroom where enthusiasm levels in a group spanking were elevating almost beyond control, Emily resolved to get back seriously to work. To make Sapphire happy, she would focus on the real world. Things would return to normal at Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch.

Normal is difficult to define. Statistical definitions are of value to those who deal with large groups, but most of us deal with individuals in organizations or businesses, with neighbors and friends, with families. How we define normal is personal. We find a daughter somewhere in the world who feels her parents are monstrously freakish because they go to work wearing caps embroidered with funny sayings. Another thinks her family normal despite her parents being unemployable due to narcotic addictions. Within personal reference frames, both daughters are correct in their perceptions.

Abigail Arnold thought of her family as normal. Mother was a normal woman who had aged approximately one year since Abigail’s birth. Daddy was a normal wizard who from time to time would age greatly in sudden bursts but who remained forever young. She knew these things were uncommon in human families yet found it odd when anyone else found her family odd.

Of course, the people who knew these characteristics of the Arnolds were magic users themselves. What they found disturbing about the Arnold family was not the aging thing; it was the family thing. Magical people simply did not dwell with human beings to whom they were related by blood. Not that it was immoral, but it was undeniably weird. To Abigail, living with her parents all her life, it was normal.

Even those most uncomfortable with the Arnold family did not blame Abigail. Responsibility lay with Peregrine. Thanks to health and cosmetic spells among the first developed by magic users in the ancient past, Peregrine Arnold never looked anything like as old as he actually was. That, at least, was normal. But sometimes Abigail could tell Daddy had been away for a while.

Today was one of those times. When Daddy came down for dinner he was moving detectably slower, apparently having matured many years since this morning, but he whistled a tune from his youth, popular a century ago, one he only brought out when genuinely happy, one Abigail had not heard recently.

Father and daughter sat. Servants waited.

“Yes?” asked Abigail.

“I have had an excellent session with my notes from the Lizard Temple, the one I told you of in Yucatan.”

“Duh-zib-whatever?”

“Dzibilchaltun. Correct.”

She did not like that. The place was bad for him. His last expedition there had nearly killed him. “Anything you want to share with your one and only child?”

“Some of it I cannot share with anybody. Almost wish I did not know it myself. The good news is none of it is useful.”

“And this is good because . . . ?”

“Because Nomik Motchk cannot use it.”

“Daddy, I do not understand why you fixate on that awful man. I do not like him any more than you do, but he stays pretty much on his side of the planet. We could stay on ours.”

“Yes, we can.” Peregrine grinned. “Because Nomik has his hands on a whole lot of nothing.”

“I admit I like the sound of that. And how is it that Mr. Motchk has all this nullity?”

“Three ways.” Peregrine signaled servants, and the soup course began. “Firstly, what Nomik has will not work. Cannot work. The magicians who tried to make it work were wrong in thinking it possible. Secondly, even if they had been right, nobody could actually make it work. Despite theory, it would be impossible in practice. Nobody has enough magical energy or ever could. All the magic users on earth standing on each others shoulders could not pull it off.”

“What an interesting image.” Abigail tasted the soup and nodded approval to a servant who heard, through starts and stops in time, conversation with no references to magic.

“Thirdly, and this is the best part, the whole thing hinges on a piece of information Nomik does not have because it does not exist. Never did exist. Could not possibly exist. If he could jump his two insurmountable hurdles, and he cannot, he comes slap against a stone wall. I will sleep well tonight as I have not in a long time.”

“And why is that?”

“Because, dear Daughter, if those three things were not true, Nomik Motchk would be on the verge of destroying the entire human race: lock, stock and barrel.”

“I hope that is exaggeration.”

“Oversimplification, but do not worry. The news tonight is purely good.”

“I am happy for you, Daddy. So, are we thinking of having Mother join us this evening?”

“Oh, I think not.” Peregrine took a sip of wine. “Not unless you want her. Personally, I am rather tired. I was thinking perhaps tomorrow or the next day.”

“Fine. I can wait. We had her out yesterday.”

“Did we? I have lost track of time.”

Nomik Motchk’s personal secretary was used to worrying noises. Being the sole member of the household who knew of the master’s magic, all he could do for the rest of the staff was assure everyone the sounds were nothing to worry about even as he worried about them.

The sound that came to dominate the house in years following the duel at Dzibilchaltun was different. The constant murmur of cards could be discussed because it was not magic, yet it was more worrying. The sound of shuffling in the morning became the signal the master was awake. A tray was installed across the bathtub to accommodate a game. Meals were laid out at a distance to the left of the master’s chair, leaving room for solitaire. Today, the plate’s location was even more eccentric.

“Have you expanded your deck, sir?”

Motchk took a bite of breakfast and then moved a series of cards some distance down the table. “I am playing Montana. It has a broader layout.”

“Is Montana a better game?”

“All the cards are visible at once.”

“Is that an advantage?”

“It lets me keep an eye on them.”

The secretary considered this comment. Implications in it disturbed him. “We could pin them to a wall.”

Motchk raised the ace of clubs and pointed with it in a manner almost threatening. “Not even in jest.”

“Sorry.” The secretary took a sip of coffee. He rested his cup on the table. “The older servants tell me you played a lot of solitaire during your earlier recovery.”

“I did.” Motchk moved cards rapidly, building sequential chains of matching suits. “Solitaire organizes a disordered brain and soothes a distraught spirit, but you need not worry. Today my mind and mood are in fine condition.”

“Then what’s the purpose of this activity?”

Motchk completed four rows to their kings and gathered the cards. He placed the deck on the table beside his secretary’s coffee. “Does it bother you?”

“You’ll do as you see fit, of course, but as long as I’ve worked here, you’ve been a man of purpose.”

Motchk tapped a finger on the deck. “Some purposes take time to become apparent.”

The secretary looked at the image on the back of the top card. “Forgive me. Perhaps I have a prejudice against this juggling lizard.”

“Why? Is his expression not friendly enough?”

“I feel somehow his smile may not be meant for me.”

“You could be right about that.” Motchk took up the deck. “We must wait and see.” He shuffled and then laid out his next winning game.

“Toby said you need my help?”

“I do.” Will gestured to a chair.

The research assistant looked over her shoulder back down the hallway. “I only have a minute.”

“This won’t take time. Not much, anyway.”

“All right.” She sat hesitantly, seeming a little nervous in the presence of the boss.

Years ago, this would have confused Will, but he had been bossing long enough to understand it now. “I need you to watch those clocks for me while I cast a spell.”

“Got it.” In a business built on research into time magic, this was a reasonable request.

The spell was brief, but Will had to refer to a page of notes more than once as he cast.

The assistant recognized Mayan words. Assisting in the research of Dr. Hilsat and Mr. Bis, she had learned quite a few of those. When the spell was complete, she reported. “Your desk clock is still running, but the wall clock stopped.”

“Stopped entirely?”

“Yes. Hang on. The second hand may be moving. It is, but very slowly. Oh, and the desk clock jumped back.”

“How far back?”

“Back to where the wall clock is, but it is moving forward again.”

“Excellent.” Will checked his watch. “And where we sit, time is moving smoothly.” He made notations on the sheet that held the spell.

“That much difference between this end of the desk and that end?”

“Yes. We should remain seated. Moving in this kind of temporal gradient can be confusing.”

“The desk clock jumped back again.”

“Perfect. We’re looping nicely.”

“Looping?”

“Toby and I are working on a spell to allow rapid casting of repetitions. You know those spells where you have to chant the same thing over and over and over.”

“Oh, yeah. My mentor uses some of those.”

“This spell should allow us to compress them.”

“That could be useful. I never heard of such a thing. Where do you get your ideas, Dr. Hilsat?”

“This one comes from computer programming. If other wizards coded, someone would have thought of it.”

“You program computers?”

“I had to learn coding for my mathematics work.”

“I bet there is not another wizard with your background in the whole world.”

Will absentmindedly tapped the ring on his thumb. “You could be right.”

“I was wondering, being a teacher and a magician, how you decided to go into business? Was your mentor a businessman?”

“No.”

The assistant hesitated, lowering her voice. “Are your parents entrepreneurial? Is that all right to ask?”

“Of course. I understand a wizard having contact with his family is odd, but I’m happy with my situation. No, they aren’t business people.”

“Who was your role model?”

Will had not considered this idea. Who did he know who ran a business? He felt there had been someone but could not recall a name. “I suppose I must have been inspired by colleagues at the university. Making research marketable is big these days.”

The assistant nodded. She was still watching clocks. “Dr. Hilsat, how long does this spell last.”

“Maybe a few minutes more. Maybe an hour. Hard to say. When it ends, only a moment will have passed, and you can get back to your work.”

“But the moment could last an hour?”

“Afraid so. I should have warned you. We’re working spell variations, looking for ones that pass more quickly for the caster. Toby sent you in here because he and I have been doing this all morning and had run out of things to talk about. So, maybe you could tell me of your mentor.”

The assistant could raise no complaint against a misuse of her time that did not actually use any time. And anyway, she enjoyed doing important work with Will and Toby and their team. Eventually, they perfected the time-loop spell and other new spells that for some reason only Professor Hilsat, of all the world’s magicians, was able to dream up. 

Their work was spoken of in important magical circles. Although Toby had served as a sort of mentor to his over-aged apprentice, it was Will who had become the boss and more. Will exchanged items and ideas with powerful fellow magicians. He traveled a great deal, although flying only when absolutely necessary.

Will became an expert in time magic of pre-invasion Latin America. As leefer science knew, time and space were two aspects of a whole. The team moved on to an idea of Will’s that could, with luck, result in a Spell of Teleportation. Will might never have to fly again.

Scientists could gather information from a tiny particle in one place and exactly replicate that particle in another, teleportation of a sort, but nothing to replace one’s morning commute unless one was a tiny particle. Not to mention the concern that such teleportation was not actually motion but more like being killed and copied. Will’s proposed method involved restructuring spacetime so places themselves exchanged places. It had not worked yet, but things were looking interesting. Professor Hilsat had a business doing magical research, and he loved it.

Then Nomik Motchk blew the lid off everything.

This iconic moment of a generation was eventually viewed by almost everyone on earth, from highly connected seats of power down to remote locations where it would be transferred from device to device and hand to hand. Although, when the live presentation was made, only a small percentage of the population watched. Even fewer comprehended the meaning of what they saw. He told them they would not. Years later, human memory being what it is, nearly everyone recalled seeing that initial broadcast and realizing its importance at the time.

“Ciao.”

The speaker was a handsome man, slim, distinguished, mature but not elderly, his clothing cut in the style of wealth and power in Mexico City, or Paris, or Beijing, his coloration inspiring a poet to describe him as “one through whom passes the light of desert sunrise.” The speaker’s smile reinforced this warm impression. He seemed to those unfamiliar with him, which was almost everyone, like a pleasant man.

The shelves behind him did not hold those uniformly bound volumes seen in staged television messages. This was, rather, the working library of one who depended on his books. When journalists and government agents scrutinized enhanced images of the scene, most of the titles would prove unfamiliar, appearing in no bibliographies, some in no known language. It was unclear at first what the speaker was holding in his hands.

“Ciao. I choose this word because it has become nearly universal, makes no reference to time, and can be greeting or goodbye. Ciao is perfect for announcement of transition.” His tone was richly confident, uniquely pleasing to the ear. Few who heard that voice would voluntarily turn away.

“It is mid-morning where I am, but most of you will see this in some other time zone. For those who could not be watching now, I have arranged rebroadcast at various times in various languages throughout the day around the world.”

The man at the board in the temporary control room spoke a word heard only by his video engineers. “Ego!” Heads nodded.

“I am Nomik Motchk. Some of you will know of me, perhaps in relation to recent investments in the petroleum refining industry. Those not yet familiar with my name might find it difficult to pronounce, depending on the particular sounds used in your native tongue. Feel free to mispronounce it. I take no offense.”

A salesman, watching the event on the computer in his office, raised his eyebrows and snorted. The salesman had reason to disbelieve this professed insensitivity. Motchk had recently become a customer and would, starting later today, be responsible for expanding the salesman’s portfolio to include services of which he had not yet dreamed.

“Through my work, I have come to a decision that will impact not only the oil business but every human endeavor. Whoever you may be, this will affect you. Some may question my choice, but in the long run, all will benefit.”

This promise came through the speaker on the television in the employee break room behind the kitchen in a large hotel in Atlanta, Georgia, USA, where Jake Blake raised his head from arms folded on a table. Dissatisfied with the course of his life, Jake could use any benefits offered.

“What I will do today is plainly and simply tell you a truth, one hidden your entire lives.”

The busgirl was leaning through the break room door. “Conspiracy theory? Those are fun, but break’s over. Look at that nice suit. This rich man got nothing to say to us.”

“He’s revealing truth,” said Jake. “Could be a song in it.”

“I am going to tell you the truth about magic.”

All over the world, people with a certain playful attitude increased their attention. They liked magic. People who actually were magic also became more attentive. Many of them did not like where this was going.

“He would not dare!” Xerxes Golyam was already attending closely. Advance press featuring the name Nomik Motchk had been enough to let Xerxes know he would want to watch. He stood across from Lalo Kabrak, a simulated zero gravity tray of experimental hors d'oeuvres floating above the countertop between them. Beside the tray rested the entertainment schedule they were working on for the season at Brick-Kabrak, flagship of Lalo’s newest restaurant chain. The hors d’oeuvres were inspired by a recent science fiction movie. They watched the broadcast on a mobile device.

“Mr. Motchk is a powerful man,” Lalo said. “Such men dare great things.”

“Surely not something like this.

“When I say magic, you think of something like this.”

Motchk lifted his left hand. He held a playing card. In the control room, the director spoke into a microphone. The camera operator heard his cue and zoomed in until the screen filled with the image of the three of clubs. Motchk turned it so the back was visible. When turned again, it was the queen of diamonds.

“That was not real magic. That was a trick.”

The camera zoomed out. Motchk returned the card to the deck in his right hand.

“The magic of which I speak is real. It exists in the world around you. People live near you, wherever you may be, who can do real magic. I am one of them. I will not show you because you would not believe. You would think it a video effect and would be right to be suspicious. You have seen such tricks before. No, you will not believe in the existence of real magic until you have seen it with your own eyes, felt it doing good in your own lives.”

“I cannot believe it.”

“About time, if you ask me,” said Lalo. “Our secrecy holds us back.”

“Not that,” said Xerxes. “I mean I cannot believe old Motchk did a card trick. And did it well.”

“The users of real magic kept it secret from the world for ten thousand years. You would be right to doubt such a conspiracy of silence could be maintained. This was possible because magic itself was enlisted in keeping of the secret.

“The first magic users lived in great fear of the rest of the human race. The earliest functional magic was used for small improvements to the body, cosmetics and aids to health. Early magicians, still only learning of what they were capable, were no more powerful than anyone else. Wherever real magic appeared, it was denounced, falsely associated with evil, with heresy and deviltry.”

“Damn straight,” said the busgirl. Jake waved silence.

“Real magic users were victims of violent persecutions. You never heard of these ancient purges because they preceded the invention of writing by thousands of years, long forgotten before records were kept, only faintly recalled in folklore. The burning of innocents accused of witchcraft in recent centuries was a distant echo of what genuine witches and wizards faced all those millennia ago.

“In the interest of self-preservation, those early users of real magic took power over the only thing they were strong enough to control: themselves. They incorporated into the structure of their spells components binding users to secrecy. I was not aware of this until I wished to speak with a non-magical associate on a magical topic. I found, after confusion and then research, I had to create a counter-spell to free my tongue to speak the truth.”

Jinasu Mao was visiting her mentor, staying up late to watch the announcement. The old witch had assured Jinasu that, even if a loner in the world of magic, Nomik Motchk was not a person to be ignored.

Jinasu, having written a passage on the man for her last book, needed no convincing. “Is this true, the forced secrecy? Did you know?”

The teacher shrugged her shoulders. “Tell leefers about magic? Never occurred to me to try.”

“It must be so then, you old blabbermouth.”

Both laughed. Then each took popcorn from the bowl between them and returned attention to the screen.

“Eventually, real magic became so powerful that we magic users came to think of ourselves as better than the rest of the human race. Among ourselves, we called you ‘leefers,’ meaning the ones left behind. This was our greatest mistake.”

Lalo nodded his head in strong agreement while Xerxes captured a floating snack between cupped hands.

“You, the rest of the race, have shown how wrong we were. Over centuries, we improved our spells, increased our powers. You, particularly in recent years, have done even more. For example, magicians tried for ten thousand years to find a way to fly. We failed, but today, I can fly. All magic users can. How? We buy tickets and board airplanes. In many ways, the leefers, the left behind, are now ahead. You have been to the moon of which we only dreamed.”

“He sounds just like you.”

“Yes,” said Lalo, “a wise man.”

Xerxes laughed so hard the hovering tidbit slipped between his fingers and plunged, driven by an unbalanced needle-jet of non-magical air, to splatter on the ceiling.

“It is time for this false rift to end. The human race divided has achieved great things, but what we do apart is nothing compared to what we could do together.

“My fellow magic users may disagree with my decision to undo the choice of secrecy made for us so long ago, but when they have thought it over, I believe most will accept what I propose. I speak to you, witches and wizards. I urge you to come forth. You will require the Counter-Spell of Unbinding to be found at the location indicated on your screen.”

A switch slid in the control room. Text appeared on the bottom of the image. On intelligent devices, it was a hyperlink. Xerxes tried the address immediately. “The damned fool has posted a spell online! How could he do such a thing?”

Lalo shrugged.

Then Xerxes began to think how he might use this capability. And better ways to do it.

“Show the leefers . . . No! Please forgive me. Show your fellow human beings what it is that you can do. Pay attention, because they have much to show you as well. When we are working together, sharing abilities freely with one another, we will finally be able to do the great work that, united, we are meant to do.”

“Oh, really? What are we meant to do? What are you up to, you sneaky devil?” Peregrine Arnold demanded this of an antique cabinet television he still thought of as the new one.

“He has a point, Daddy.”

“His apparent point does not matter. We know the man. If he is doing good, it is for some ulterior purpose. You know as well as I how he feels towards his fellow human beings.”

“Thank you for your kind attention. I look forward to working with many of you over the coming days and to all of us working together over the rest of our lives. Ciao.”

Peregrine Arnold was not the only person with an established distrust of Nomik Motchk. Another was the barman at Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch. “Magic? He can’t expect people to believe that, can he?

“Sounds like he believes it himself,” said Sapphire.

“Loco.”

“A pleasant billionaire.”

“Pleasant or not, he’s loco.”

“It’s not the pleasant part we like. It’s the billionaire part. I hope this madness won’t interfere with the parties he throws here. Those oilmen are great spenders.”

“If they have to lock him up, I won’t miss him. I know I’m supposed to think about his wallet, but that hombre is more twisted than the vines on the patio. He acts like he’s so happy to be here, talking, laughing, singing even, but when he sends his friends off to party with our people, he never goes himself. He’s too good for us. He sits in a corner alone with his bottle.”

“He buys the most expensive Scotch we stock, and we overcharge him. You should appreciate a man like that.”

The barman scowled. “He doesn’t approve of us, of this place, or even of the whisky, and he makes sure I know it.”

“He says so?” asked Sapphire.

“He looks it.”

“Some men like to look dour when they drink Scotch. It’s a tradition. The important thing is that he pays.”

“No more,” said the barman. “We’ll never see his money again. They’ll put him in a padded cell.”

“They won’t. Billionaires are eccentric, never insane.”

“What do you think, chief?”

“Yes,” said Sapphire. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Ruby. What are you thinking?”

The woman who had joined them that morning to watch Motchk’s highly trumpeted announcement was thinking a lot of things but could say none of them. They called her Ruby. The barman thought her real name was Brandi Capriz, although he would not have been surprised to learn she had others. That was common in her line of work.

Sapphire knew Capriz was a business name. After they had escaped their madam, QiLina, they had chosen the names Ruby and Sapphire for themselves, but Sapphire knew Brandi Capriz was a professional name of Darcy deMores.

Neither the barman nor Sapphire had any idea Ruby’s real name was Emily, or that QiLina was a witch who had given Emily the first of her many assumed names after buying the child from Emily’s parents. QiLina had known Emily Putnam was magical and required the protection of false names.

Emily was wondering how much of this would become common knowledge in what appeared to be a dawning age. Her true name, of course, must still be secret, but the fact she used magic in her work, what of that? Motchk had suggested, rather than demanded, magic users reveal themselves. She had not realized her client was a wizard until today. Did he know she was a witch? Was secrecy still an option?

One works hard to build a business. When it succeeds, what one wants least is change imposed from the outside. If word got out, would her clientele accept her supernatural interventions in their fantasies come true? Would the aura of magic add to the place’s excitement, or would the knowledge their minds were being manipulated spoil the customers’ illusions on which this business depended? What would her employees think? Or the good citizens of Nevada? Would they behave as people had in the ancient past? Panic? Accuse magic users of allegiance with the devil and come out here with ropes and torches? It would not surprise her.

Emily could never put her finger on it, but Nomik Motchk had always bothered her—a forgotten memory of a forgotten memory. Emily’s leefer partner wanted to know what she thought. “I think our meddling Mr. Motchk should keep his nose out of other people’s business.” 

“Ciao.”

“Wow!” The research assistant turned down the sound of the regular programming already returning on the set at the back of the lab. “How about that?”

“Nothing I ever thought of doing myself,” said Toby Bis, “but now someone has, maybe a good thing.”

“You believe that part about us not being able to tell?”

“Hardest thing I ever did was work up the courage to tell Dad I was gay. Never thought to tell him I was magic.”

The research assistant hesitated at this embarrassing reminder that her employers knew their fathers. “I guess I always thought magic should be kept secret from leefers.”

“Not like they are going to burn us at the stake in this day and age.”

“Certainly not! Who is this Nomik Motchk guy, anyway?”

“Old Mexican wizard,” said Toby. “As he says, been in the news recently buying into oil refineries. Ton of money. Folks back home were worried he was trying to corner the market on refining capacity.”

“Mexican, huh? His English is perfect.”

“Could be a spell.”

“I bet it is. Dr. Hilsat, was that a spell?”

Hearing no answer, the two turned to look. Dr. Hilsat was staring, eyes wide, mouth hanging open like a fish.

“You OK, Will?” asked Toby. “Look like you seen a ghost.”

“I have.” Will shook his expression back to a natural state. “And no, that’s not a spell. That’s how he speaks English. You could live with him your entire life and never know he wasn’t born in the States.”

“I did not know you knew Nomik Motchk.”

“Me neither. You’d think we might have connected, but I never saw him before today.”

“Then how do you know so much about how he talks?”

Will struggled to find a response, finally settling on, “Long story.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it’s my pleasure to introduce to our program and our country a man who, as Xerxes the Great, amazed us with his magic before we knew magic was real. He is the most famous magician on the planet, now president of MICA, Mr. Xerxes Golyam.”

Audience members, particularly those with a taste for old variety shows, applauded with enthusiasm. Mr. Golyam walked onto the set accompanied by another man.

“Oh, and he’s brought an unexpected guest, one whose restaurants are a welcome sight throughout the world, someone whose kitchen wizardry made us long suspect him of magic, Mr. Lalo Kabrak.”

Mr. Kabrak responded in English, a language not generally understood.

“He asks if I know his restaurants,” said the host. “As if someone suffering my food allergies would be unfamiliar with the Your Place to Mine franchise.” Laughter was followed by applause as the audience recognized Mr. Kabrak by his reputation.

Mr. Golyam chanted in an unrecognizable tongue while broadly manipulating air. “That should take care of the language problem.” Due to the spell just cast, he spoke as a well-educated native, adopting the dialect of the capital district. “It is our pleasure to join you today.”

“And our pleasure to have you.” The host gestured, and all sat. “That spell must come in handy in your travels.”

“We had the opportunity to see a great deal of the world these past few months. Our visits to your beautiful city have been a highlight of the experience. Your hospitality has been a joy and will be much appreciated by my MICA colleagues when they convene this summer.” Mr. Golyam reached forth dramatically, extracted a glittering pointed hat from mid-air and placed it on his head at a jaunty angle. “You people know how to party!” Applause and cheers.

“That was . . . ?” asked the host.

“Plain old-fashioned stage magic. Sleight of hand. I could teach you to do it.”

The hat slowly shifted hues along the rainbow, red to green to blue and back again. “And this is real magic?”

“No,” said Mr. Golyam, “technology. Color changing fabric. It will be on the market soon.”

The hat transformed its shape from a cone to a sphere to a cube and back to a cone.

“Technology again?”

“Real magic this time, although it could undoubtedly be done by other means.”

“It gets confusing.”

“It does. Of the three, I have the most difficulty understanding the color changing fabric.”

“The technology?”

“A complete mystery to me.”

“He lost me when the hat first appeared,” said Mr. Kabrak, “but I am a humble kitchen wizard, not the most famous magician on the planet.” This got a chuckle.

“Yes, you were too generous with your introduction,” said Mr. Golyam. “We must acknowledge Nomik Motchk as leader in the fame category.”

“Most recognized name, perhaps,” said the host, “but you, President Golyam . . .”

“Xerxes, please.”

“You’re the best known. Where’s Motchk been since announcing the existence of real magic? Nowhere. Xerxes Golyam is the person we see on television, hear on the radio, encounter online, in newspapers and magazines. If real magic has a face, it’s yours.”

The camera zoomed in tight on Mr. Golyam. He mugged astonishment. “This face?” A laugh.

Mr. Kabrak leaned in to give Mr. Golyam a kiss on the cheek. “It is a lovely face.” A bigger laugh.

Mr. Golyam addressed the audience. “Tricks like the arrival of my party hat, based as they are on illusion, require secrecy. We in MICA would like real magic to be transparent. Nomik Motchk led the way.”

“I thought MICA was created in reaction against Motchk,” said the host.

“Not against his views. Many wizards, my dear friend Lalo here, agree with Motchk’s opinions. Our problem was revelation without consultation. Difficulties arose from the abrupt nature of Motchk’s actions.”

“Those attacks against magicians,” said the host.

Mr. Kabrak nodded. Mr. Golyam took off the party hat, which vanished behind his hand. “Motchk noted old suspicions lurking in folklore, magic in league with demons and such nonsense, but in the past months, magic users have experienced more self-inflicted casualties than attacks. Some were sadly unprepared for rapid change. We at MICA hope to prevent such stresses in the future by bringing many voices to the decision-making process.”

“You’re working to reduce the tensions.”

“Our few troubles grew largely from misunderstanding. In fact, more damage was done to businesses with magic in their names than to locations associated with real magic.”

“We sympathize,” said Mr. Kabrak. “MICA provided funds for repairs to a vandalized Magic Oven bakery.”

Mr. Golyam nodded. “As we make information available through our online presence and appearances like this, the frequency of unpleasant incidents declines.”

The host looked up to the audience and back to Mr. Golyam. “Xerxes, help us understand real magic.”

“I will do whatever I can, but we do not fully understand it ourselves. I can tell you how magical spells and devices are created and used, but the underlying reality of magic is more mysterious than color changing fabric. We magic users have spent thousands of years on techniques of magic but not the science. We built castles in the air without getting at their foundations.”

“Castles in the air?” asked the host. “Love to see one!”

“No, no. Purest metaphor.”

“Magic has its limits,” said Mr. Kabrak. “Countering gravity is an area where it fails.”

“If some magic user tosses a castle into the clouds,” said Mr. Golyam, “you do not want to be standing underneath.” He pantomimed watching a castle fall from the sky. The studio band provided a thump. The drummer and Mr. Golyam exchanged smiles.

The host smiled too but then adopted a serious expression. “If you don’t know the source of this power, how can you assure us it doesn’t come from the devil?”

“If it does, he is giving it away. Nobody bargains their soul with a mythological fiend to acquire miraculous authority. The energy accumulates naturally. Being magical is not a choice. It simply happens. Like being strong or smart.”

The host nodded. “I see.”

“Magic users share the same views on good and evil as the rest of the human race. We have magical Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Jews, atheists and agnostics. We have as much trouble getting along as our non-magical fellows. Most of us are comfortable with those whose faith, whatever it may be, is as weak as our own. We view the strong believer with awe and suspicion, as does the rest of humanity.”

“So, no important truths to reveal to us?”

“We have much to learn from each other.”

“Xerxes, you sound like Nomik Motchk. Or perhaps a man running for public office.”

“Never! President of MICA is as much as I can handle.”

“Yes, Mr. President. What’s it like being in charge of the world’s witches and wizards?”

Mr. Golyam laughed. “Nobody is in charge of MICA, least of all me. They bought me a T-shirt—I must hurry and catch the others, for I am their leader.” This got polite laughter.

“Our prime minister has one of those,” said the host. A rim shot from the drummer and a better laugh.

“We worked hard on our name. The committee spent weeks on it. In it, you will find our structure.”

“Lalo?” The host spoke in an aside to Mr. Kabrak. “Help me here. I’ve forgotten what MICA stands for.”

Mr. Kabrak leaned toward the host, speaking with exaggerated gravity. “Magician’s International . . .” He paused, looked to the audience, to the band, but then gave up with a looping wave of this hand. “Whatever Whatever.”

Mr. Golyam pronounced each word deliberately. “Magical Individuals’ Collective Authority.”

“Are you sure?” asked the host.

“The acronym works in English.”

“MICA? Some sort of stone, yes?”

“OK, nothing related to magic, but at least a pronounceable word. The point of the name is that magic users are independent individuals who have come to recognize the need for collective action in those times when we must speak with one voice.”

“Not the voice of Nomik Motchk,” said the host.

“Not his voice exclusively. The collective, authoritative and honest voice of magicians from around the world. As their president, I take orders from everybody.”

“And he could not be happier,” said Mr. Kabrak, giving Mr. Golyam an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

“So I gather,” said the host. “We must take a break. After the commercial, you can tell us what to expect when the first international gathering of MICA comes to our city.”

Mr. Golyam smiled at the audience. “Love to.”

The house had a bay on the front and three windows in the door. This was true of every house on the street, each surrounded by raised flower beds with rock walls. “No two places in this neighborhood exactly alike, but a description of any one applies to all the rest.” Toby Bis was leaning out the passenger window, peering down side streets. “Been here twenty times at least. Always get lost.”

“We have the address.” The research assistant was one to bring up positive facts. “We know it is on a cul-de-sac.”

“Not useful,” said Toby. “All cul-de-sacs around here. How does anybody get anywhere when their roads go nowhere? Pull over and ask for directions.”

“No need to bother people. I can find it.”

“Honestly, what is the point of bringing a woman along if she refuses to remain true to her stereotype?”

“Do you want to drive?”

“I need both hands free to navigate.”

The research assistant turned at an intersection. Toby had no idea why. Then a mailbox with the name Hilsat came into view. She guided the car to the curb.

“This is it,” said Toby. “Pull over.”

“Will do.” She was already out and lifting a package from the back seat while Toby examined the mailbox to confirm their location. Satisfied, he led the way up the walk. Will’s doorbell did nothing. Toby tried the door, found it unlocked and swung it open. His voice boomed. “Knock, knock.”

Will replied from somewhere in the distance. “Toby, is that you?”

“Believe it is.”

“Come on up.”

Toby and the assistant went through the living room, down the hallway and up the stairs. They found Will in his computer room.

“You didn’t have to come out here yourself, Toby. You could have sent someone.”

“I did. Came along to show her the way.”

The assistant handed Will the package, which he opened without hesitation.

“Did not want her to get lost,” said Toby. “Know how important it is to have a book when you go to bed.”

“Thank you. I already read through this online though. Everything is online now.”

“Then why so eager for the hard copy?”

Will thumbed through the book, found the page he wanted and flipped it open for Toby to examine. “I needed a good look at this picture.”

“That him?”

“It is.”

Toby examined the image. “Not much of a resemblance. Not even a photograph. You could get a better likeness off the video.”

“Which is all I’ve had up until now. Before he made his face world famous, Nomik Motchk was camera shy.”

“The online version of the book left out this image?”

“No, but the scan was poor.”

Toby passed it to the assistant. She examined the print of an oil painting. “He is just a boy.”

“It was done by one of his fellow students,” said Will. “Before the accident.”

“Accident?”

“Mao refers to it but not in detail. A mystery.”

“Mao?”

“Jinasu Mao.” Will took the book, closed it and indicated the author’s name on the spine below the title Magical Genealogies. “Besides a bunch of oil industry press releases, Mao’s chapter on El Padre, Motchk’s mentor, is the best source I have.”

“Magical genealogies?” asked the assistant. “Do we have genealogies?”

“Not by blood. I mean we do, but not in the way that interests Jinasu Mao. Her subject is the relationships between magical masters like El Padre and apprentices like Nomik Motchk.”

Toby sniffed the air. “Coffee?”

“Oh, good idea. Would you like some?”

“Yes, please,” said the assistant.

“You can find it in the kitchen.”

“Could go down together,” said Toby.

They did. Toby liked Will’s kitchen. He liked the breakfast nook, the good coffee, and the bowl Will kept full of oranges. In the past, he had enjoyed the conversations. Not so much today.

“You’ve heard of El Padre?” Will was filling mugs. “He crafted a couple of interesting time spells.”

“Believe I have.” Toby took an orange for himself and passed one to the assistant.

“What interests Mao isn’t his spells but his teaching. El Padre lived with his own mentor, El Abuelo. No blood relationship of course, but the Father and the Grandfather made sort of a magical family. Their home was a school of magic and Nomik Motchk their prize pupil. Visitors recalled him as a prodigy. Then came the accident. Nobody knows what happened except Motchk was terribly hurt, Mao suggests mentally as well as physically.” A pained expression flashed across Will’s face.

“He seems to have recovered nicely.” The assistant had peeled her orange and was extracting a section.

“But not quickly,” said Will. “He was housebound for years and later carried from place to place by servants. Have you ever had servants?”

“No.”

Will looked at Toby.

“Of course not. You know that.”

“Me neither,” said Will. “I know people who hire a cleaning lady or gardener to come out twice a month, but a family with multiple full-time servants?”

The assistant nibbled a segment. “They were probably hired for the invalid.”

“Nope. Transferred to new duty. El Abuelo and El Padre had a big operation, and this was back in the days before automation. Not unusual, I suppose, but I still can’t get over it. Imagine growing up with servants.”

“Imagine needing them to get around.”

“Motchk studied the Mayan ruins that way, carried from place to place in a sedan chair until he was strong enough to travel on his own. You don’t see it in the video, but to this day, he walks with a limp.”

The assistant gulped the orange segment. “A magic user with a limp?”

“Damn!” said Toby. “Must have been a pretty serious accident. Has to have been magic involved.”

“I suppose so,” said Will, “but the interesting thing is what he found in the ruins.”

“What?” asked the assistant.

“Anything to do with teleportation?” asked Toby.

“Nobody knows exactly what he discovered,” said Will, “but it was after he found it that he started using his real name publicly among magicians.”

“Something made him crazy.”

“Made him confident. He went from the frail invalid to the man so sure of himself he believed nobody could hurt him, even knowing his real name.”

Toby smiled. “Yup. Crazy.” What Toby knew, but the assistant did not, was that Will also used his real name. When the knowledge of magic arrived in the form of a ring on his thumb, it was too late for Will to hide the name on his diplomas and driver’s license. Will’s protection came from the fact that everyone in the magical community assumed the name Will Hilsat was assumed. Only Toby and the small circle who had mentored Will knew otherwise. Emily Putnam knew, but of this, even Toby was not aware.

“Not crazy,” said Will, “strong. Motchk has enemies but doesn’t fear them. They tend to vanish or run away.”

“Like Peregrine Arnold,” said the assistant.

“Who?” asked Will.

“I have heard that name,” said Toby.

“He is an English wizard,” said the assistant. “He used to visit the United States. Friend of my mentor. I met him a couple of times when I was an apprentice. Interesting guy. He does fun things with time and water.”

“Temporal fountains,” said Toby. “That is where I heard of him. Water taking unusual amounts of time to come back down. Artsy stuff.”

“The rumor is he had a run-in with Nomik Motchk in Mexico some years ago and never left home again. He was a world traveler until he got his wings clipped.”

“The story sounds likely,” said Will. “A run-in with Motchk is a thing to be avoided. Jinasu Mao is pretty free with her opinions but sticks to the facts with Motchk. Still, you can tell she doesn’t like him. What bothers her is how he outlived his two mentors and inherited their school.”

“That irks her?” asked the assistant. “Why?”

“He has no apprentice. The closest thing the world had to a real school of wizardry is now only a rich man’s home. On Mao’s genealogical tree, Motchk is a broken branch.”

“Fascinating as this is,” said Toby, “I was wondering if you have any new ideas on teleportation.”

“No. Sorry. I haven’t given it a thought.” Will looked into the backyard. “Virginia is too far away to get a handle on him. I need to go to Mexico.”

Toby raised a hand and slapped it down hard on the tabletop. The startled assistant dropped an orange segment.

“Mexico?! What the hell has gotten into you, Will? We never see you in the lab anymore. When you finally call, it is to have us pick up an interlibrary loan having nothing to do with your work. I know you are the boss now, but you need to have a talk with the boss.”

“You’re right, Toby, but this Motchk thing means a lot to me.”

“Why? Every government and news agency on the planet has people looking into him. Let them handle it. You have other work, important work. The stuff we have done in the past was cute, Will, but this teleportation thing could be huge. Nobody has anything like it.”

“We don’t have anything like it.”

“Not yet. And we never will if you waste your time on celebrity gossip.”

“Toby, a connection exists between me and Nomik Motchk. I haven’t told you the details because I can’t.”

“Does this have something to do with your ring?”

A long silence was broken when the assistant asked, “Dr. Hilsat, do you need me to go outside?”

“No, that wouldn’t help. Toby, you and the team are as close as I have to a mentor. You’re the parents in my magical genealogy, but you know my background isn’t so simple. Yes, the ring holds dangerous information. I extract bits of knowledge from that danger so it can be safely used. I can’t tell you, or anybody, everything.”

Toby narrowed his eyes. “What does this have to do with Motchk?”

“To answer that question, I would have to tell you the things I can’t tell you.”

“So, we magicians still keep our secrets,” said the assistant, “even from each other.”

“In this case, I’m afraid so.”

“Not good enough,” said Toby.

“Agreed. I’ll tell you what. I promise to work on teleportation for two hours . . .” Will saw the frown on Toby’s face. “Four hours every day. I’ll call the lab regularly. You’ll know everything I think up, and I’ll know everything you find out. I trust you to manage the team.”

“I already do.”

“But you have to trust me on this Nomik Motchk thing. I made a mistake once, a big one. I rushed into a meeting with someone I thought I knew. I was wrong. I hadn’t done my research properly, and the result was a mess. I don’t intend to make the same mistake again.”

“You plan to meet Motchk?”

“Maybe. It depends on what I learn.”

“How long will you need?”

“Six days? Six weeks? I doubt six months.”

“I do not like it, but you are the boss. I will hold you to four hours a day and regular communication.”

“You’ve got it.”

“We are going to make this teleportation spell work.”

“Or at least, Toby, prove it can’t be done.”

“Hey, chief, what brings you up here this time of night?” The barman was genuinely surprised. He never saw Ruby after dark.

“I want to meet someone.”

“I bet I can guess who. His favorite place, table in the corner, sitting behind the expensive bottle.”

Emily sized up the man as she walked across the room. Handsome, distinguished, wearing quality clothing in the style of the southwest, he looked like a cattle baron. She wondered what kind of livestock he might keep on his ranch. This made her think of the kind she kept on hers. She smiled, but it was not a good smile, so she improved it.

Despite his previous visits, she had never seen his thoughts. He was not a participating client, and she now knew he was a wizard. The only wizard’s head she had ever gotten into was Will Hilsat’s, which hardly counted. She knew this man though. A person can be read without magic. She was pretty sure she knew, if only from watching him watch other people, what Motchk might want, even if he never sought it.

“Good evening, Mr. Motchk. I trust you’re finding everything to your satisfaction.”

He did not look up from his drink, wincing only slightly when Emily mispronounced his name. “Very much so.”

She stepped closer. “I’m Ruby.”

“Ah.” He looked up now. “I wondered if there actually were a Ruby.”

“Well . . .” She laughed, spreading her hands wide, palms forward in a gesture indicating her own existence.

He said nothing.

“May I join you?”

He nodded.

“Thank you.” She sat next to him, their backs to a hanging Navajo rug, diamond bands in muted red, white, yellow and black. Motchk had a deck of playing cards in his hands. The murmur as he shuffled was almost louder than Emily’s lowered voice. “Mr. Motchk, I wonder what you think of our establishment.”

“I think it is magical.” He did not smile.

“And?”

“And I think you might want to let people know.”

Emily stopped smiling. “Is that really a good idea?”

“Entirely up to you, dear lady. You have my opinion. If you wish to keep your abilities a secret, I will not interfere, but look around you. The public accepts magic these days, like electricity, useful even if not understood.”

“What would your friends think if they knew?”

“My business partners? I doubt it would bother the boys. They do not object to working with me.”

“Good to know. You’ve given me much to consider.”

She looked at the cards he was shuffling, some child’s plaything with silly lizards on the backs. They looked familiar. She realized it was the same deck he had used to demonstrate false magic during his announcement. “Why’d you do it? Why tell everyone?”

“To make the world a better place.” This time, he smiled.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Motchk. Thank you very much, I’m sure. And thank you for your advice. I hope the world and I will be the better for it.”

“My pleasure, dear lady. Let me give you more advice. You do not sound like a witch.”

“Because I don’t cackle when I laugh?”

“You are sloppy in your speech. You slur syllables together, even in verbs of existence. Such a habit can carry over into spell casting with dangerous results. A good mentor would have trained that behavior out of you.”

Emily considered bristling but chose instead a calm response. “Mr. Motchk, you strike me as the kind of wizard who casts big spells, the ones requiring time to recover.”

He nodded.

So did Emily. “I probably cast more of my spells in an evening than you cast in a month.”

“Or a year.”

“And I’ve had no difficulty with them. QiLina was an unusual teacher, I admit, with a unique approach, but in the long run, she did me no harm. I know when I’m chatting and when I am casting. Speaking of which, I must be getting back to work. I wouldn’t want to disappoint the boys.”

“I am sure they will be satisfied.”

She walked past the bar on her way out. The barman asked, “What did you think?”

“It seems he’s a gentleman out to improve the world. Honestly, I don’t know what your problem is with him.”

The barman scowled and went back to wiping glasses.

Will might have expected any of a number of people at his apartment door. The rent was not yet due, but the landlord had been overseeing repairs in the building and did not pass up opportunities to drop in on his only magical tenant. Will’s Spanish had gotten pretty good, enhanced by spell when needed, so they held enjoyable conversations. It could also have been one of his talkative neighbors. Many of them were Mayans. Will enjoyed learning from them a culture he had known only obliquely. He also looked forward to his agents bringing new reports on Nomik Motchk, new pieces for the puzzle.

Every time Will heard a knock though, it crossed his mind it might be Motchk himself. For this reason, Will always prepared, both magically and emotionally, before opening the door. For one visitor, he was not prepared.

“¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?”

“¿Habla usted inglés?”

“Not much these days, Toby.” Will embraced his old friend. “Be kind of nice to hear English spoken again.”

“We could stick to Spanish if you like.”

“No, no. I need to practice my English.”

“Bet you do.” Toby stepped into the apartment.

Will headed for the kitchen to start coffee. “What brings you to Yucatan? And how’d you find this place?”

“I was visiting Dad. Thought as long as I was in the neighborhood, I would stop in. Cab driver knew the way.”

“Your dad is a long way from this neighborhood.”

“Airplane before the cab. I noticed we flew over a pond.”

“The Gulf of Mexico. Damn, Toby, it’s good to see you, but seriously, why are you here?”

“Anniversary.”

“Of what?”

“Last time I saw you face to face.”

Will opened his mouth to deny such nonsense, but doing the calculation in his head, found nothing to say.

“Yup,” said Toby. “Been a year.”

“I guess it has.” Will sat at the table.

Toby joined him. It was not as nice as the kitchen in Will’s house, but it did have a bowl of oranges. Toby took one. “You said six months at most.”

“I know, Toby. Complications came up.”

“Such as?”

“It started with the oil, which I thought would be easy. I figured I’d know what Motchk was doing in a couple of weeks. I’ve been working on it for, well, I guess for a year. I’ve learned a lot but understand little.”

Toby sat back in the chair. “OK. Suppose I have friends in Texas who would like to know what you have learned.”

“You can tell your friends Motchk isn’t cornering any markets. He’s buying into refineries everywhere on the planet but never controlling interests. Just enough to get himself involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“He gets his partners to install new equipment. The official reason is improvements to the quality of refined products, but reports show no changes in what comes out, as if his equipment had no effect.”

“Always some innovative scheme in the oil field. Many of them come to nothing.”

“Whatever his idea, he’s persistent with it. Every place he installs this equipment, he extracts small quantities of the product, loads it into barrels and has them shipped here. He’s got a place north of town. I can’t get access, but since what’s left behind is chemically no different than it was before, what’s going into those barrels must be the same stuff.”

“Shipping oil to Yucatan? Cannot be much market.”

“He’s taking a bit of everything, light to heavy, sour to sweet, and storing it in his facility. It makes no sense.”

“Setting up a world museum of petroleums, maybe?”

“Or a petro-boutique. I’m not the only one trying to figure out what he’s doing, but as far as I can tell, nobody has any idea yet.”

“Good. You took your shot at being a petroleum industry analyst and got nowhere. Why not return to being a master magician? Your telecommuting is less reliable every month. What say you come back to Virginia with me and rejoin the team? Without you, we have been getting nowhere either. ”

“I may be getting nowhere, but I’ve found a new nowhere to get. As long as you’ve come this far, I think you should see it. On the way, I’ll tell you the tale of a rabbit.”

“Coffee is ready.”

“I have travel mugs.”

“Where is this nowhere?”

“North of town, a place called Dzibilchaltun.”

Will drove across Merida and out the road toward Progreso without saying a word. He knew Toby would rise to the bait even if that rising took half an hour.

“Rabbit?”

“I’ve been poking around in the ruins. Dzibilchaltun means the place with writing on stones. It’s perfectly named. It’s been enlightening seeing the origins of magic I use and especially hearing it. To me it was simply the glyphs of spells, not a language, but Mayans speak Maya every day. Great people, too. Marvelous sense of humor.”

“Wizards all, I suppose?”

“No more than any other population, but before the European invasion, a lot of magic went on around here.”

“Which your boy Motchk was studying.”

“I believe so.”

“And the rabbit?”

“One day, I was talking to a Mayan laborer, mostly just to hear him talk. Over his shoulder, I saw a dust devil making its way down a dirt road. The tail of the whirlwind flicked at a rabbit, and the rabbit vanished.”

“Into the air?”

“Into nowhere.”

Will turned the pickup truck east. They passed a real estate development centered on a golf course.

“Rabbits can be like that,” said Toby. “Maybe they already know how to teleport.”

“Rabbits vanish in the brush, but this was in the open. I would’ve seen it run. So after the man went back to his work, I wandered over to where the rabbit had been.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing.”

“Thanks for bringing me out here then.”

“Nothing and something. Let me show you.” Will turned onto a dirt road, drove a distance and stopped. He got out of the truck. Toby followed him on foot. Will was at first uncertain where he wanted to be, but then he knew.

Toby knew it too.

“Do you feel that?”

“Yup.”

Will took a deep breath. “I should be able to smell it, but it has no scent. I taste it but find no flavor.

Toby closed his eyes. “You feel it on your skin, except it is not itch, pressure, temperature or pain.”

“Right! A tingle maybe? As if it was beyond the skin.”

Toby held out his hands, fingers spread wide. “You will not see or hear it.”

“I’m thinking magic, but I’ve never felt any like this before.”

“I have,” said Toby. “This is how I became a wizard, how she found me.” He was walking on a dirt road flanked by low vegetation but moving like a blind man feeling his way through a maze, a step to the left, a step forward or back, then right. “Place like this near where I was born. Could not stay away from it because of this feeling. She came by from time to time, knowing a child like me might be drawn in someday. When that day came, I had my mentor.”

“What is it?”

“Sour magic. A spell long abandoned.” Toby opened his eyes and looked down at his feet. “Right here.” The patch of road he stood on looked no different from any other.

Will joined him. “Yeah, this is it. What do we do?”

“This old stuff is usually full of cracks, easy to dispel.” Toby made the gestures, said the words, and they were falling. Toby hit the ground with an “oof,” but Will was screaming. At the top of his voice he expressed, in both English and Spanish, his fury with Toby Bis for being so careless, for having cast a spell without anticipating the consequences, for having put their lives in danger, for having come to Mexico in the first place.

“Calm down, boss. We are OK. Soft dirt. Probably been filtering into this hole for years.”

Will kicked frantically at the loose soil on the bottom of the pit. He yelled incoherently and lunged sideways, falling to the ground, struggling desperately. Toby took him by the arms, pulled him up and dusted him off. Will gasped.

“No need to get wild eyed, boss. We just fell into a hole. You are right. Would have been smarter to backup a few feet before I cast. My fault. Sorry.”

Will brushed away the remaining dust on his clothes, taking a deep, shaky breath. “Me too, Toby. Why’d I say those things? I guess the fall took me by surprise.”

“You are quite a cusser when you are inspired. Never knew you had it in you. The very air was blued.”

“You know I didn’t mean it. Now, where are we?”

Toby looked about. “Hole in the ground.” He looked up. “Hidden by a magic lid.” He walked to the far side of the pit. “Not the bottom though.” An opening lined in stone continued down a steep slope. “Your rabbit go this way?”

Will joined Toby and leaned into the opening. He called, “Alice?” Echoes told of depths below.

“I was going to say that, boss.”

“It’s a good book.”

“Two good books. You got a flashlight in the truck?”

“Yes. How do we get out of this hole?”

“Teleportation spell would come in handy.”

Will shrugged. “What say you give me a boost up?”

“How do I get out?”

“I have a shovel in the truck. A time spell and some work will make a ramp. We may want one.”

“Who does the digging?”

“You cast the spell that got us in here.”

“Fair enough, boss.” Toby laced his fingers to give Will a foothold for a boost.

Both men were in the excellent health typical of magic users, and Will was onto Toby’s shoulders in one go. Toby staggered back a step under the weight. Will shouted, but when Toby corrected with a forward lunge that brought Will against the edge of the pit with his arms on the ground above, he laughed. He looked down into the hole. “I suppose we could take turns with the shovel.”

Toby grinned.

“Teleportation? Nothing. Sorry, Mr. Bis.” On the laptop monitor, the image of the research assistant shrugged. “We have been working exclusively on your Mayan material.”

“Inevitable. What have you got on the new stuff?”

“Somebody, either those old Mayan guys or us, does not know what they are doing. Could be us. Six spatial dimensions are bad enough, but two independent times?” Faces in the lab behind her indicated shared confusion.

Toby nodded agreement. “Strains my brains. The boss is happy with that kind of thing though. Right, boss?”

Will and Toby were sitting at the kitchen table in Will’s Yucatan apartment with the laptop computer between them. “I don’t object to the number of dimensions, but I’m lost on how this thing makes them work together.”

“We do not think it does,” said the voice from Virginia. “As far as we can tell from your photos, that structure you guys found down your rabbit hole is intended to be magical, but it is our considered opinion—and believe me, we did a lot of considering—this device never did anything.”

“Sorry if you feel we’re wasting your time.”

“No way, Dr. Hilsat. We are loving this.” Heads behind her nodded in agreement. “Your mysterious structure is a nice break. We stayed up nights exploring its failure. Fascinating stuff. We have generated reams of material.”

“Send it.”

“All of it?”

“Are we still paying you?” asked Toby.

“Right. All of it. It will take a few hours to pull together. Probably post it tonight. I am telling you though, beautiful as the glyphs may be, none of what is written on those walls is going to do anything.”

“Fine,” said Toby. “Between this and teleportation, we are making a name for ourselves in non-functioning magic.”

“For a place that does nothing,” said Will, “somebody went to a lot of trouble to keep it secret. Motchk or someone hid it well and loaded it up with magical traps. Toby and I were lucky to get in and out alive.”

“Motchk or someone?” asked the assistant. “What do you find when you ID those traps?”

“Do what?”

“Identification spells,” said Toby. “We should have thought of that.”

“What kind of spells?”

“Seriously?” asked the voice from the laptop. “I swear, Dr. Hilsat, you are both the best informed and most ignorant wizard in the business.”

“I can’t deny that. So, inform me.”

“An ID spell will let you know who set your traps. Cast against residual magic, and it gives you an identification of the original caster.”

“It gives you a name?”

“Hell no,” said Toby. “If it did, nobody would use magic. Nobody except the great Motchk.”

“It gives you a face,” said the assistant.

“And if you don’t recognize that face?”

“You are as ignorant as you were before, no harm done.”

“Identification spells are not a big drain on energy,” said Toby. “Been a long time since I did one though. Not sure I can remember it.”

“You can find a good one in the MICA online shops.”

“Where?”

“Boss,” said Toby, “you have been out of touch too long. MICA has posted an online spell library.”

“It is small but growing. They are trying to collect most of the basic spells. Hang on, here is the address.” A link appeared in the chat field beside the assistant’s face.

“Thanks. And Toby’s right. I do need to go home. I’ll see if I can get the boss to give me time off.”

“Good luck with that,” said the voice on the laptop. “He is a real hard ass.” Snickers were heard behind her.

“Another reason to go home,” said Toby. “Restore discipline in the lab.”

The research assistant was grinning as Will cut the connection to Virginia and replaced it by linking into the MICA virtual world. He found his way through screens setting up an account. “It says I have to create an avatar.”

“Accept one of the defaults,” said Toby. “Change it later.”

Will scanned the small selection of cartoon images. “None of them look like me.”

“A dozen choices and none are you? Astounding! Plan to spend the day polishing your virtual appearance? Or do you want to find out who set the rabbit-hole traps?”

Will located the male face most closely resembling his own skin tone but then hovered the cursor over the female selection that looked least like him. He clicked it on a whim and entered the virtual world as a woman. His avatar materialized on the computer screen, a three-dimensional cartoon character in a busy plaza. He saw other avatars strolling, gathered in conversational groups, passing in and out of doorways. Nearby were signs explaining how to function in this virtual space. “Do I read these?”

“I can tell you what you need to know, Miss.”

“You’ve used this thing before?”

“Everybody has, Ma’am. Arrow keys to walk and turn. Page up or down to fly.”

“I can fly?”

“Yup.”

Will tapped the page up key. His avatar jumped into the air where he found himself hovering face to face with another female avatar he had not known was above his own. He quickly hit page down. His cartoon character alighted easily on the pavement. “I think I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself. Turn right and follow those signs pointing to the spell shops.”

Guided by Will’s keystrokes, his avatar made its way past stores designed to resemble some imagined village whose architects had studied perhaps too widely, half-timbered Tudor structures beside Japanese paper and African mud brick. Will noticed a crowd inside a large shop devoted to cosmetic spells.

“Are these people real?”

“Pretty much. The ones without a name tag are scripted robots. The rest are folks like you, seeing your avatar on their screens. Ask somebody where to find an identification spell.”

“Ask?”

“Type your question into the chat box, or click the microphone button to talk.”

Sure enough, another avatar was soon directing Will to a Scandinavian shop offering a Spell of Identification.

“It says I have to pay for it.”

“You gave the system credit card information when you set up your MICA account.”

“Can I trust a merchant who is a cartoon?”

“Transactions are run through MICA. You can trust them as much as you trust any business you hand your card to.”

“How do they deliver a spell?”

“Buy and learn, boss.”

Will made his purchase. After granting permission allowing the system to control his avatar, the cartoon character physically acted out the spell as magical vocalizations were heard from the speakers and text crossed the bottom of the screen. Will was given the option to repeat the process as often as needed. Toby showed Will how to swing and zoom his camera view to observe every detail of the casting. The lesson was placed in Will’s inventory so he could refer to it at any time he was online.

“I’m learning magic from a cartoon. Somebody thought this stuff through. Do they have time spells?”

“Nothing fancy, but yeah, I can direct you.”

Toby guided Will farther down the street to a shop in a clock tower. Time spells available were few. One looked familiar, speeding casting by compressed repetition.

“This is our old spell. Did you put this here?”

“An improved version based on ours. I gave the authors permission to post it. They acknowledge our work. We get a tiny royalty.”

“Have we posted anything?”

“Not yet. I guess we were waiting for you to suggest it.”

Will sighed. “I’ve spent so much time researching Nomik Motchk, I’ve fallen behind on the changes he made to the world.”

“Yup.”

Will walked his avatar out of the spell shop, turned and looked back the way he had come. “What’s that dome in the distance?”

“City Hall,” said Toby. “Virtual headquarters for MICA. Fellow named Xerxes Golyam is mayor in the virtual world, president of MICA in reality.”

“I’m not completely out of touch. I saw Golyam on television the other day, promoting a convention someplace in eastern Europe.”

“Yeah. I am thinking of going. You?”

“I should. Catch me up on the world of magic.” Will logged out of MICA’s site and turned the laptop off. After shopping as a female avatar, his masculine reflection in the dark monitor was strangely reassuring. “In the meantime, we have an ID spell to test.”

Identifying the magic hiding the rabbit hole was pointless. With the old illusion dispelled, the power now masking the pit was Will’s. He and Toby walked down their ramp and continued into the underground passage, turning on lamps they had placed in the buried structure. Highlights and shadows on walls picked out the deeply carved glyphs the team in Virginia had been so diligently studying.

Will and Toby made their way through antechambers before coming to a doorway flanked by stone leaves. They passed between stalks that merged above into the blossom of a single gigantic sunflower. Toby walked around the chamber flipping switches, seven lights to fully illuminate the large irregular space, while Will contemplated traps left in place rather than dispelling or safely tripping them.

“This one, I think. A lot of magic here.” Will began the movements of the identification spell.

Toby grabbed Will’s arm. “Hang on. An ID spell does not work on unactivated magic.”

“Do we have to trip the trap?”

“If we want to ID it.”

“OK then. Prepare your running spell.”

“I always have it ready down here.”

Two men and a green cloud emerged from the pit almost too quickly to be seen. Toby headed down the road while Will ran to open country. Toby realized he was in the clear, turned and watched his former student desperately attempt to escape the poisonous fumes that stuck to him like a shadow. Toby was involuntarily holding his breath, aware Will must be doing the same out of necessity. Toby prepared a spell, saw Will collapse and feared he would be too late, but a sudden gust of wind tore into the noxious cloud and dissipated it without the aid of magic.

Toby trotted over to where his boss was lying on the ground. “You OK?”

“Sure.” Will gasped deeply for each word. “Fine. You?”

“Never better.” Toby helped Will to his feet. “The stuff has a preference for you.”

“Smoke follows . . .”

“Beauty. Especially if beauty trips the trap.”

“Where’s the smoke?”

“Gone.”

“Damn wind! Do we have to do that again?”

“Not if we get back down soon enough. Should be residual magic we can ID.”

Inspired by the desire to avoid the need to trigger another trap, Will was down the hole again in an instant. Toby walked to the pit and heard coughs echoing below. “Not that much hurry, boss. Let the gas clear first.”

“Good i . . .” Will’s words were broken off by a fit of additional coughs. Toby cast the spell he had prepared, which flushed green wisps out of the hole and into open air. He followed Will down to the depleted trap.

Will waited for a final coughing spasm to subside and then cast the Spell of Identification. From the simulation on the MICA site, he knew what to expect but still let out a yelp when Nomik Motchk’s glowing face floated before his eyes.

“You all right?” asked Toby.

Will nodded. “A little worn. What say we call it a day?”

Will did what he could to let Toby know he was fine, even believed it to some extent. He was not fine. The ID spell drew upon the genetic structure of the caster of the original magic. What appeared on the phantasmal head was the Old Man’s face more than Nomik Motchk’s. It was a face Will had never seen, but also one he had not seen in years, and in an oddly vivid illusion, one he felt he had last beheld only hours ago. Apparently, the Old Man had looked as nature made him. Motchk, on the other hand, must be much changed by the circumstances of his life.

As Will and Toby drove back into Merida, Motchk was looking for changes, not in himself but in his world. He was in the Chamber of Eternities, surrounded by a web of temporary geometry and obsidian points on stands marking a pattern that would be incomprehensible to the uninformed. But Motchk could read the multidimensional curve and had done the casting. He was sitting now in the slowly sliding white chair, dragging heavy-soled slippers across the hot floor. He occupied a drifting nexus between universes. Despite the best efforts of the air conditioners, atmosphere burned with the energy of disturbing sound.

The butt of his magical staff rested on his forehead, the shaft aimed at the red circle, thrust halfway into another universe. He gripped one end, she the other. He was seeing a fractional glimpse of what the Eighth Doll saw, which would be everything. In a sense, each contact with her was identical. He always saw her entire universe, from the moment of her arrival until the moment of her death. She saw his universe the same way, its first instant to its last. In such a vast array of information, with entire universes doubled back upon each other, he understood only what he recognized as currently important.

He was not seeing much, apparently a quiet time with nothing of interest happening. After the connection broke, he lay cooling on the floor, satisfied all was peaceful. The world’s wizards were so busy chatting with each other in their new organization that they had forgotten the man who inspired its creation. Good. His program would take long enough without their interference. If the wizards of MICA, or anyone else for that matter, were to find out what he was planning, interference would be certain.

Toby took a bite of egg-stuffed tortilla and consumed it with gusto. “You are right about Mexican breakfasts. These papa-whatevers are delicious. Could win me over from steak and eggs.”

“Papadzules,” said Will. “A traditional Mayan dish. The secret of that sauce you’re sopping up is pumpkin seeds.”

“No kidding. Darned good anyway.”

“They’re a favorite of Nomik Motchk. I saw him eating them in this same restaurant. At this very table, in fact. I was sitting over there.”

Toby looked across the narrow aisle to the place Will indicated. “Right there, you say.”

“I could have wiped the sauce from his chin.”

“That close. Did you talk to him?”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“Everybody knows him though. You could at least have howdyed him.”

Will took a large bite of tortilla and chewed quietly.

“No, huh? Squatted there and watched him eating.”

Will nodded.

“Why were you in here then? Same time he was. Coincidence?”

“I wanted to see his head.” Will looked down as though some shame was attached to this desire.

“His head?”

“I never found a medical report on his accident, but one was written. A doctor who saw it mentions, in a letter to a colleague, a problem with the boy’s head. Nothing unusual showed up in photographs or X-rays. Everyone could see it, but he doesn’t say exactly what it was. It occurred to me it might be a temporal effect not visible in still images that only capture a single instant.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No. It may have healed, or he could be masking it.”

“Every detail on this guy fascinates you.”

Will nodded.

“Got one for you, funny story about Motchk on TV a while back. High society exposé. He throws fancy parties for his oil industry pals.”

“I have reports. Large crowds at his hacienda. Lights and music through the night. Attendants at the gate, or I might have gotten an agent inside.” Will took another forkful of papadzules.

“Not just at home,” said Toby. “Story mentioned parties he throws around the world, including the States. Uses some high-class whorehouse in Nevada. Say, are you OK?”

Will was choking on his breakfast. He nodded and took a swallow of coffee. “Fine. I’ll be fine. Did you happen to catch the name of the place?”

“The whorehouse? Some ranch, I think.”

“Lot of ranches in Nevada.”

“They said it was the most expensive brothel on the planet. I figure that is why Motchk and his friends prefer it. No danger of meeting riff-raff like us in the hallways. Will, are you sure you are all right? You look kind of odd.”

“Finish your breakfast, master. Our printouts should be ready. I say we pick them up and head for the rabbit hole. See what our friends in Virginia have come up with.”

“Master? How long since you called me that?”

“I always call you master, if only in my head, when you teach me something I didn’t know.”

Toby smiled, but the expression turned doubtful.

Will had scattered pages throughout the structure, locating most as closely as possible to glyphic groupings they discussed. Paper rested on dusty ledges, on the floor, taped to boxes and tucked into stone niches. Short stacks of documents speculating on the overall mechanism were placed beside the sunflower entry to the main chamber. Sheets attempting to lay out the structure of the master spell were inside, spread under the elliptical bubble with its enigmatic occupant in bas-relief. Toby had the impression of a book torn apart by a whirlwind, although experience had shown it took magic to get any breeze down here. Will supplied the only stirring of air as he ran from room to room, reading pages and walls, muttering and waving hands, working through bits of ancient spell-casting.

Toby looked for a comfortable place to sit but found no appealing spot. “Do we call it the Bubble Temple after this picture, the Sunflower Temple after the doorway, or the Rabbit Temple after the one that brought you here?”

“This isn’t a temple. It’s a magical device, as our team in Virginia said.”

“Your Mayan friends may disapprove you discovering one of their temples and then taking it away again.”

“It’s not Mayan.”

Toby looked around the chamber and then followed Will as he went up a stairway onto a broad platform. “Pardon me? This place has Mayan written all over it. Literally.”

“Still not Mayan.” Will slipped past Toby and ran back down the stairs.

Toby followed. “How do you figure a Mayan building covered in Mayan glyphs located beside an ancient Mayan town is not Mayan?”

“Mayans built it, but not for Mayan reasons.” Will spun around halfway through the chamber, tracing great arcs in the air with his hands. He stopped and faced Toby. “When archaeologists of the distant future dig up remnants of America’s space program, should they conclude the people of Florida went to the moon?”

“Of course not. That was Texans. Ran the whole thing from Houston.”

“I heard Mission Control was transplanted Virginians.” Will grinned as he followed some imagined curve out into the entryway.

Toby pursued. “Smart ones became Texans. Dad worries about me. Thinks I do things backwards.”

Will wove his way between corridors and rooms, watching the glyphs, snatching up a page now and then to check an idea, always following a curve in space with eyes or hands. “People from all over America went to the moon. From the whole world. Lots of Germans. Many others.”

Toby almost ran into Will as he turned to face a shallow alcove. “You think this is an international project? No Mayans involved?”

Will looked around the tiny space and then led Toby back into the main corridors, still seeking. “Oh, Mayans built it. Texans were hired to work on the space program, too.”

“Not as many as should have been,” said Toby. “Kind of a sore point with some.”

“This follows techniques of Mayan construction.” Will examined a pillar whose design he now found suspect. “At least generally. Mayans built up, though. This went down, not buried by the jungle but by the builders. And yes, the magic is written in Mayan, but it’s not Mayan magic. I’ve studied Mayan magic all over Dzibilchaltun. This is something else.” Will trotted off, kicking over a lantern.

Toby righted the lamp and called after the retreating figure. “What else?”

“Things are here from everywhere.” Will turned and vanished.

Toby had trouble identifying which doorway Will had disappeared through but eventually got it right. “I was figuring this was from before Europeans got here. Pre-Columbian, I think they call it.”

“I’m sure it is.” Will followed another imagined curve into a corner of the room. “Someone gathered magicians in this place before Columbus sailed.”

“Magicians discovered America?”

“Right, and only thousands of years after the natives.” Will grimaced and did not go anywhere. “African, Australian, Asian, American and European craftings here, but also magic you don’t find anywhere on earth.”

Toby nodded. “Thought I saw a couple of unusual things.” He pointed to a group of glyphs near the ceiling.

“Yes! Nobody channels magical energy that way.” Will traced a curve through the doorway, but it came back and grounded out in a corner of the room.

“Because it will not work?”

“Maybe.” Will spoke absentmindedly now, his thoughts drifting from the conversation. “No.” He wandered into the corridor. “Yes?” He made his way through the sunflower doorway and into the main chamber, coming to a halt in front of the elliptical carving. He reached up and placed a hand on the figure in the center, the person floating in the bubble. A gentle breeze stirred pages on the walls and floor. “No, thank the gods, it can’t work.”

“One god at a time, please.” Toby hoisted himself up to sit on a block of carved stone with glyphs representing the sun, moon, and stars. It was not a chair, but it served.

Will recalled he and Toby came from different enough backgrounds that they could get into a religious debate if they wanted. Toby’s family and Will’s, though—Will’s mother’s side for sure—were single-deity clans. Will climbed up on the block and sat with Toby.

“The structure of this magical device gets in its own way,” said Will. “Everyone involved should be grateful.”

“Why?”

“You see that ellipse?”

“The big bubble? Yeah.”

“That represents the goal. If the spell imagined by the builders of this place worked, it’d create a universe outside our own.”

Toby looked at the image on the wall. “And the thing inside the bubble?”

“A person.”

“So you create another universe and go there?”

“No. You send someone else.”

“What for?”

“Someone has to be there. A universe with no occupant may as well not exist. Some theories suggest it can’t.”

“Why make it in the first place? Why go to the trouble?”

Will slid off the block and walked to the wall, his eyes fixed on the figure in the ellipse. “Power.”

“What power?”

“The power to look back at our universe.” Will turned and faced Toby. “You stand on the earth, and it’s flat. But if you stand on the moon and look back, the earth is clearly a ball. To see it for what it is, you need perspective. Our spacetime universe is the same. Standing inside, it’s impossible to see. I know. I’ve had glimpses of the reality.”

“No doubt. But what do you do with this power?”

“I’m not sure, Toby. What do you do when you can look at the universe from outside?”

“Following your analogy of standing on the moon, maybe not much.”

“What if the person on the moon has a fantastic telescope and radio? Now he’s a spy in the sky.”

Toby slid off the block and joined Will at the ellipse. “So this person can report back on everything in the universe?”

“Who knows, maybe change things. If you put some super weapon next to that moon telescope, then what?”

“You would want the wizard who created this whole system to be a good guy.”

“Only he can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“The person in that other universe has to be placed there at conception and can never return. To carry out this plan, one must condemn an unborn child to permanent isolation, a life sentence, solitary confinement, no hope of parole for someone who cannot have committed any crime. If this thing worked, its only purpose would be to give tremendous power to a wizard at the moment he proves he shouldn’t have it.”

Toby nodded to the ellipse. “You think Motchk did this?”

“No!” Will’s voice echoed in the halls. “Absolutely not!”

“You said he found something at Dzibilchaltun that made him so powerful he could not be challenged.”

“Yes, but not this. Firstly, the structure of this device is flawed at its core. It can never work. Secondly, Nomik Motchk is not the man to commit such an atrocity.”

“I thought you did not know him.”

“I don’t.” Will walked back to the block. He leaned on it, resting his head in his hands. “And I do. Nomik Motchk wouldn’t do this.”

Toby stood close. “You did not talk to him. Why not?”

“What?”

“In the restaurant. The day you saw Motchk having breakfast. You sat close enough to wipe his chin, but you kept quiet. Why?”

“I don’t know him well enough. I’m not ready for that conversation.”

“You do not know him well enough.”

Will looked up. He saw challenge in Toby’s eyes.

“OK. Some things I don’t know, things I need to know, but I’m positive he wouldn’t do this.”

Toby stepped away. “If you say so. Speaking of this, what do we do with it?”

“The same thing Motchk did. We seal it up and hide it every way we can.”

“Poison gas?”

“No. We’ll find other ways. We’ll leave this thing buried better than it was when we got here.”

“Destroy it, maybe?”

“Maybe.” Will looked around, trying to take in the whole structure at once despite seeing only one room at a time. “Let me think that over.”

“Lalo, I might have known I would find you here.”

“Because you are so fortunate?”

“That must be it.” Xerxes Golyam scanned the lounge for another face.

“Congratulations. This hotel was an excellent choice. Have you tried those sandwiches on the bar? Who knew Eastern Europe held such surprising cheeses?”

“You did, Lalo. Oh, there he is.”

“Well yes, I had heard of them, but this experience has done much to heighten my awareness. There who is?”

“The gentleman in jacket and tie sitting among the sports enthusiasts by the television. He is supposed to be upstairs giving a presentation.”

“He was here when I arrived. If you had my instincts, you would have found him sooner.”

“I suppose so, but the man does not drink, so the lounge was not the first place that came to mind. I should have remembered what a futbol fan he is.” Xerxes sat and took a small sandwich off Lalo’s plate.

“You are not going to send him upstairs?”

Xerxes indicated the clock behind the bar. “Too late. His audience has by now dispersed to other events. May as well let him watch the match. Another in the list of failures for MICA’s first convention.” Xerxes took a bite of the sandwich, seeming to enjoy it almost involuntarily.

“A small list, I am sure. This thing has been a huge success. The workshop on molecular alchemy this morning was worth the whole trip.” Lalo glanced at the sandwich Xerxes held. “I have enjoyed the cuisine of a country I foolishly neglected.”

“Glad someone finds this mess not wholly useless.”

“Everyone does. You may not have drawn the entire magical world, but you got an excellent representative sample. Each type of magician is here, even some I never thought of. Some no one would think of.”

“We have no time wizards.”

“You wanted Nomik Motchk?” Lalo paused to consider his own question. “Good idea. I would love to meet him.”

“We invited Motchk. He turned us down. A conflict with some petroleum industry event he had to attend in Nevada. He was terribly polite. Said he may come next year. Considering our difficulties, I am rather glad he did not make this one.”

“Look what I learned today.” Lalo mumbled words and made gestures over the sandwich remaining on his plate. The cheese melted from the inside. “Is Peregrine not here?”

“No, sadly. The man does not get out much anymore. I had hoped his daughter might come.”

“Abigail? I suppose Peregrine Arnold’s pride and joy would be worth meeting.”

Xerxes nearly took another bite but changed his mind. “There is a group of time wizards in the United States I had hoped to attract. They showed some interest, but I suppose it was too far for them.”

“I came directly from New York,” said Lalo.

“And I from Los Angeles. Too far mentally, perhaps?”

“Some Americans do think they are on their own planet.”

“Although the main one I wanted is in Mexico just now, a bright up-and-comer, but currently distracted by a research project. I think I can get him next year, assuming he does not hear how this thing fell apart.”

“One cancelled presentation does not make a failed convention.”

Xerxes held up two fingers. “We had another speaker wander off this morning.”

“Have you found him yet?”

“Her. Yes. She felt the presentation scheduled opposite her own was of greater interest, so she attended it.”

“A bit unprofessional, but not unheard of.”

“No. I used to manage a musician who did that sort of thing. If she presents next year, I will assign a minder to keep an eye on her. You perhaps. If next year happens. We have hardly had a this year.”

“Nonsense. What you have here is a splendid trial run. We do the same thing whenever I open a restaurant.” Lalo swept a pinch of spilled salt from the table and tossed it over his left shoulder. “Nobody expected the first MICA to be flawless. We wizards have no history of international gatherings. The simple fact you got this one to happen is an achievement. The second MICA will be bigger and better. The third, more so. In a few years, old timers like us will look back on this first and recall how much fun MICA was before it took itself too seriously.”

“If it is MICA,” said Xerxes. “Everybody wants to change the name, or cannot remember it, or both. We spent weeks coming up with Magical Individuals’ Collective Authority.”

“Has anyone suggested a genuine improvement?”

“Not yet.”

“Would it bother you terribly if they did?”

“Not if it really was better, I suppose. I hope they stick with MICA as the acronym, though. We designed it into our logo. Not to mention the banners.”

“I am a member of various hospitality organizations,” said Lalo. “I often forget what their acronyms mean. Some groups have dropped the original, adopting a jumble of letters as their official moniker. Exact names are not a concern. What matters is what they do.”

Xerxes was looking back at the clock. “Speaking of doing, we are due to do. I trust you will be attending the meeting on membership. We have a guest I would like you to meet, in which case, we must go.”

They did.

One theme at the first MICA convention was defining what magician meant. Everyone felt they already knew, but no one had worked it out in detail. The Membership Committee had to do more than just discuss. They had to decide. The most impassioned debate divided even old friends. “Next on the list,” said the committee secretary, “our necromantic colleagues.”

“Are they true magic users?” Lalo asked. “Could they do a spell on their own to save their lives? No. Not without exploiting the dead.”

“They are not entirely non-magical,” said Xerxes. “They could not do magic with no magic in them. Magic cannot happen absent the presence of a magic user. As for exploiting the dead, so do cooks every day in the kitchen.”

“But it is not their magic. They suck magic from dead animals that happen to have been magical. I do not say these are bad people. I only ask, are they real magicians?”

“Actually,” said Taffy Tabor, “President Golyam is correct.” Taffy was a necromancer invited by the MICA officers to participate in the discussion, chosen for the way her sunny disposition contrasted with the necromantic stereotype. “We accumulate enough magic on our own to facilitate casting spells using additional magic from the remains of creatures no longer among the living.”

“And you do have your own enchantments,” said Xerxes, “many of great antiquity and significant utility. As we build our spell library, it would be incomplete if the charms of necromancers were excluded.”

“Right,” said a Swedish witch, a student of Vidkun Drolin some years before Xerxes and Lalo. “Good point, President Golyam. However, I understand Lalo’s distinction. And some people are put off by . . .” She waved her hand in front of her chest. “Skull necklaces and such.”

“Oh, that stuff is used by leefers,” said Taffy. “Real necromancers dress a lot like me.” Taffy was wearing a brilliant lavender business suit she had purchased for this convention, accented with a lurid yellow scarf that had drawn comment earlier in the day. “Well, not exactly like me.” She ran the scarf through her fingers. “More like everybody else.” This brought good-natured chuckles.

“I am seeing resistance to the idea,” said an Australian wizard. “Perhaps necromancers would wish to establish their own separate organization?”

“Better, I think,” said Xerxes, “to form a division within MICA. Magic users are every bit as diverse as other human populations. As our organization grows, we will undoubtedly spawn any number of such Special Interest Groups.”

President Golyam was right. Oddly, this consideration of excluding necromancers would result in their being the first inaugurated and therefore oldest of MICA’s many SIGs, a fact of which the necromancers would brag in their official publications. MICA’s attendance figures would grow from year to year, as Lalo had predicted. The name would never change, and almost everyone would forget what the acronym stood for.

“This MICA site is fabulous.” Will Hilsat’s female avatar was back online again. “I’ve spoken with so many people who were at the convention. I feel as if we went.”

“Still not sure why we cancelled.” Toby was looking over Will’s shoulder at the laptop screen.

“We had things to do here. Anyway, they’ve put the poster presentations online. Look at this one: a spell for finding lost items. Would that be useful, or what?”

“Suppose so.”

“Toby, when we attended a couple of the live presentations virtually, it was as good as being there, and we didn’t have to fly. Other than doing the tourist thing, I’m not sure why we’d want to go in person.”

“Nothing wrong with touristing,” said Toby. “Never been to Europe.”

“Me neither. But staying here, we gathered data on Nomik Motchk and made progress on teleportation.” Will returned his attention to the laptop. “The poster says the spell uses greater amounts of energy the longer the missing object has been lost. This guy reports numbers. Where does he get numbers for magical energy consumption?”

Toby began to pace. “Call this progress? We proved how hard teleportation would be. Need to visualize spaces at both ends damned near perfectly. Maybe the only safe way to teleport is if you are close enough to see the start and end points at the same time. Mighty big chances to move mighty short distances. Even then, impossible to keep the whole spell in your head. There are uncastable spells, you know.”

“I think I might be able to cast it. Not now, but someday.”

“Even if you could, can you teach anybody else?”

Will shrugged. “He says in the footnotes he got the numbers with a magic meter. What the heck is that? Here’s a link.” Will clicked. His avatar vanished from MICA’s virtual poster display and reappeared inside a shop. “My avatar, at least she can teleport.”

“And maybe you will too, but how much of a contribution can the real spell be if it only exists to help Will Hilsat cross streets.”

Will walked his avatar to a display describing magic meters built by joint magical and non-magical engineering teams, the first of their kind. He came to a large mock-up with oversized dials and switches. His avatar’s presence activated a demo. Scales measured magical potential and activity.

“As for your data on Motchk,” said Toby, “a man generates trivia every day of his life. It does not mean you know him better because you wrote it down. This is not research. This is obsession.”

“Nobody does anything important without obsession. If we ever get teleportation, I’ll credit Toby Bis’s obsession. Look at this.”

On the screen, a robot simulating a magician wearing a cape and pointy hat approached the magic meter. A needle indicating magical potential in units called mages moved from zero to the top of the scale. One mage, a voice explained, was the magical potential contained by a typical magic user on a typical day. A dial on the meter turned. The needle jumped to a new point on the scale, demonstrating measurement of both small and large quantities of magic.

“I get that,” said Toby, “but not all obsessions are good.”

“Look. The little guy’s casting a spell.” The robot wizard went through a series of exaggerated motions, waving a wand with a tin star on the end. The potential needle slid down and the activity needle up, revealing the conversion from potential into active magical energy.

“Cute robot. You ever read Moby Dick? Captain Ahab’s obsession was the downfall of his whole crew.”

Now the scaling dial for potential was set to its most sensitive level. A button was pressed. The potential needle dropped to zero. This squelch adjustment suppressed background magic produced by the user, maximizing accuracy. The demonstration over, Will walked his avatar to the next station where she clicked on a form, a web page within a virtual world. “I’m buying a gadget I didn’t know existed five minutes ago. They say next day delivery, but I bet that doesn’t apply to Merida.”

Toby sat by Will. “Are you listening to me?”

“Nomik Motchk is the white whale and you missed out on a European vacation. Next year we go to MICA for sure. ”

“Damn it, Will! This is not about vacations. You said we were going to MICA. You said you were coming back to Virginia. You keep telling me you are going to wrap this Mexico thing up after a conversation with Motchk that will never happen. You have plans for a future, but futures come one day at a time, and every day you are going nowhere. You have buried yourself in a hole in Yucatan.”

The virtual world vanished from Will’s laptop as he opened a document describing security procedures at an oil refinery. “You’re right, of course. I need to get out of here. As soon as my package shows up, I’m hitting the road. Unfortunately, this road goes through the air. I hate flying.”

“Any chance the flight lands in Virginia?”

“Nigeria. But you’re going to Virginia. Bring everybody up to speed on our current teleportation thoughts and tell them I’ll be joining them soon. Another flight. I wish we already had that spell.” Will pulled up the virtual world on his screen again. “Now I need to find a necromancer.”

Jake Blake’s hands moved coffee, food and money, but it was his ears that were truly employed. This week he heard people who built medical devices, last week owners of fleets of trucks, next week managers of human resources. Rumor said the hotel would bid to host the second international convention of real magic users. Jake hoped the rumor was true. Imagine how such people would sound.

For Jake, sounds were the world. Themes ran through that world as the world ran through the coffee shop. Nomik Motchk was such a theme. The Mexican wizard was supernatural or was not, controlled world oil production or did not. Governments were going to bring him down, or he would bring them down, or he manipulated them, or they him. Or he was unimportant. Why else did one hear so little of him these days?

Jake did not hear these conspiracy theories so much as their rhythms and rhymes. Coupled with music plucked out of the air, they were forming his song of the times. The song would be called, “No Vision, No Pain.” What he wrote would be his biggest hit. A national anthem or a love song, Nomik Motchk was not mentioned in it.

Yet he was a theme.

With children. And stone and fire.

Also a woman.

Most of what Jake wrote never left his head. This was OK. Only the better stuff should get out. Eventually Jake would put this new song into the world because he wanted so badly to hear it. Though his best, it would not be good enough, but nothing ever was. That was also OK.

Taffy Tabor opened the cardboard box she had taken from the freezer that morning to thaw in time for Professor Hilsat’s visit. She placed waxed paper over a marble slab atop the buffet.

“This is your altar?” asked Will.

“I do not call it that.” Taffy extracted a wrapped bundle and set the box aside. “Some would, but I am a Methodist. The altar in my life is in the church, where we do no spells, though perhaps someday we will. In the meanwhile, confusion of terms extends the lifetime of prejudice.”

Will noticed Taffy’s scarf was patterned with a stained-glass image of crosses and lambs. He recognized a print on the wall, an old couple saying grace. His parents had had a copy in their dining room when he was a boy, although he did not recall seeing it up in their new house.

“Sorry. No offense, I hope.”

“None taken. You said you were here to learn. No reason to make the trip if you already knew everything.”

Taffy’s gentle manner put Will at ease. An avatar he met on the MICA site had directed him to her, suggesting if Will wanted an introduction to necromancy, Taffy Tabor would be the place to start. When Will’s female avatar found Taffy’s, a skeleton in flowing robes, they had made arrangements for this visit. Today, though they had never met in the flesh, and that flesh in no way resembled their virtual representations, both felt this was their second meeting.

Taffy undid string and butcher paper. Inside was a dead cat. Will had known this was coming but shuddered anyway. Taffy stroked the animal’s fur. Will asked if that was part of the necromantic process.

“No, I just love cats. This one has such a beautiful coat.” Taffy gave the formerly living creature another gentle pat. “When I reach the end of my spell, pay close attention to that bookcase against the wall.”

Necromantic volumes formed a dark mass in Taffy’s otherwise sunny home. The second shelf held standard spell books. Will noticed nothing especially arcane or challenging. Lower shelves were detective novels. With the exception of texts the owner must have referenced recently, the collection was covered in a thin layer of dust.

Taffy began to work her charms. As she had explained it, the primary spell cast today was little different than one Will might use. Then came the secondary, which Taffy managed to weave in almost effortlessly. Will could visualize how the two interacted, how they were brought along together, how the necromantic spell fed energy into the primary, how both would conclude at the same instant. He was impressed by the skill needed to make this happen.

Taffy pressed one palm firmly on the formerly living cat and the other against the wall behind the buffet. A silent light shone throughout the house as though this illumination had always been there, revealed rather than created, and then once more hidden. Particles had leapt from books, formed a cloud drifting away from the wall and settled on the carpet in a broad stripe. This fuzzy gray line ran around the room, thicker where more objects gathered dust, and out into the hall.

“Did that do the whole building?”

“Yes. Now I can vacuum.”

“Nice.”

“I do not often use magic for housework, but you wanted to see necromancy, and the place needs cleaning.”

“I was going to say how much I like your home, but you got to work so fast I haven’t had the opportunity.” In fact, the more Will looked, the more Taffy’s house reminded him of the one in which he had grown up, even to the sparkly popcorn stucco on the ceiling. “Quite cozy.”

“Why thank you, Will. Kind of you to say so.”

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but nice as that spell was—I’d like to get a copy from you—but nice as it was, I notice looking at your books that everything is, uh, at a certain level.”

“We necromancers are aware we cannot do the big stuff. We lack the power of full witches and wizards. We accept that fact.” A whistling noise came from the next room. “But we can boil water. I made nutmeg logs. Would you care for tea and cookies? ”

Taffy led Will into the kitchen. She washed her hands carefully at the sink. Recalling what had just transpired, Will was glad of that.

Taffy detected his attention. “Some of us wear latex gloves. I find they reduce the efficacy of magic. With antibacterial soap, I never have a problem.”

“Sounds reasonable. Good of you to explain. Do you mind if I ask questions?”

“You must if you wish to learn.”

“Thank you. I do.” Will watched as Taffy prepared and served the tea. “Do you need bigger animals to perform bigger spells?”

“Are fat wizards more powerful than skinny ones?”

Will laughed. “I suppose not.”

“Some plants and animals hold greater reserves of magical energy than others, but size and species usually have nothing to do with it. It is mostly a characteristic of the individual creature. As with people, nobody knows why one puppy in a litter will be magical while the rest are not.”

The reference to puppies in relation to necromancy jarred Will. “Must the animal always be deceased?”

“Not necessarily, but as I understand it, if it is not dead before you extract the magic, it will be afterward.” Taffy saw distress on Will’s face. “We necromancers seek out expired creatures so as not to harm live ones.”

Will sipped the tea Taffy handed him. It was quite good, with a stimulating spicy aroma. “What if dead animals were in short supply?”

“I suppose in an emergency. I understand it is tricky extracting magical energy from a living beast. I have certainly not tried it. But shortages never happen, Will. Dead animals arrive in the world at the same rate as live ones. In fact, in this age of declining species, a little faster.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“The longer a magical animal’s life, the more energy it accumulates. It is to our advantage to wait for the creature to die of natural causes.”

“Do magical animals ever use their own magic?”

“Can an animal cast a spell? Not as far as anyone knows. It is thought animals, plants, even some human beings, spend their entire lives building up magic but doing nothing with it. Only humans trained by other magicians use the stuff.”

Between bites of cookie, Will asked, “What percentage of animals accumulate magical energy?”

“I do not know if anybody has a figure. A handful in thousands. Good question to bring up at next year’s MICA.”

“Necromancers must go through a lot of carcasses.”

“Those who use magic often. It is safe to say I have touched more dead animals than most people will ever see.

“You touch them. How do you know which will work?”

“A happy tingle. The odd thing is, the sensation is not in my fingers. When I touch a good one, I feel the magic where it really is, over in the animal’s body.”

“Taffy, have you ever heard of a necromancer using magic from an animal or plant so long dead the flesh has decayed away? Even ancient magic in oil, say?”

“Interesting idea. Kind of creepy though.”

Will thought about the dead cat in the next room. He supposed different people had different standards of creepy.

“In oil,” Taffy said, “I would think the magic would be diluted by the tremendous quantity of material from all the non-magical beings. You would need some way to pull it out. No, Will, as I look at that question, I am sure it would be a hard way to go.”

“But not impossible?”

“I really cannot say.”

“Fair enough.” Will took another bite. “These are delicious.”

“Thank you. Nutmeg logs are a Christmas cookie, but I make them all year round. I suppose that marks me as terribly eccentric.”

Will thought again of the cat. “Not at all.”

“Did you have any other questions?”

“Besides wanting to know your recipe? Yes, I do. The word necromancy, we’ve been using it to describe any means of drawing magical power from the dead, but the last part of the word, -mancy, implies divining knowledge of the future, doesn’t it?”

“Personally, I would call it something else, but the word has been around forever. We have prognosticators, but they tend to be of a questionable power.”

“What do you mean?”

“As with any realm of magic, different people have skill at different levels. We have some who are almost full magicians, so powerful they avoid the word necromancy, even though we know they use it. At the other end of the scale are people who find the most magical pig in the village, and the best they can do is pork roast.”

“And that kind makes predictions?”

“When one’s magic is of a doubtful quality, one avoids situations where the work can be critiqued. Prediction is a safe way to go. The farther down the road, the better. We have a member of our Special Interest Group who always predicts things to happen fifty or so years from now. He wears a necklace of human finger bones when he works. I do not think the bones are real, and I do not believe he has an ounce of magic in him. Nice man, though. He volunteered to organize necromancer SIG events for the next MICA.”

“Can anyone actually predict the future?”

Taffy frowned. “Lots of people say they have.”

“You don’t believe them?”

She shook her head. “Not since the Biblical prophets. If some witch makes enough predictions, one or two are bound to come true by purest chance, no magic required.”

Will nodded. “You said necromancers exist, the ones avoiding the word, who are almost full magicians. Does a full witch or wizard ever use necromancy?”

“I guess it is possible, but you never hear of it. Why suck stones when soup is on the table? Some look down on our branch of magic, you know.” Taffy paused to take a sip of tea. “Honestly, pretty much everyone does. Fully powered, I doubt any self-respecting witch or wizard would stoop to what we do. God bless MICA and dear Xerxes. He has done so much for our reputation. It gives a person hope.”

“I suppose it does.” Will finished his tea and cookies, thanked Taffy for what she had shown him and gratefully accepted copies of the dusting spell and nutmeg log recipe. They said their goodbyes.

Walking back to his rental car, Will recalled Taffy’s words. No self-respecting wizard would stoop to necromancy. Not, Will supposed, unless that wizard had an extremely good reason.

Nomik Motchk was looking into his drink, his favored vista when alone at Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch. Every time he arrived, he appeared glad to be back. When he and his current batch of petroleum industry pals were in the bar, joking, singing, dancing with Ruby’s employees, Motchk seemed like a man who could not be happier.

When the party spread to other rooms, he always stayed behind, clearly wishing to be elsewhere. There were those who resisted Motchk’s proposed refinements of refinement. He had to free up these sticky oilmen. Ruby’s Ranch effectively lubricated certain human gears, but for Motchk, this place where rich and powerful people wasted money and time on personal pleasure was outstandingly boring.

It was these moments, after Motchk’s companions left him and false joviality fell, that made the barman dislike him. Motchk was aware of this but did not care. The barman would occasionally address him in Spanish. Motchk, his English impeccable, never acknowledged they shared a native tongue, seeing no reason for familiarity.

Ruby, the owner of the place, had finally followed Motchk’s advice and come clean, revealing she was a witch. Judging by the crowd, he had been right in thinking it would do her business no harm. If anything, it increased traffic. He should have kept his mouth shut. The joint was noisier than usual this evening, nothing he could drown out with the sound of shuffling cards.

In particular, an overtly sexual woman sitting at the bar would not stop making brash pronouncements about everything: her life, her business, her money, her lovers and the world at large. The men with her, some of whom Motchk recognized as working here, agreed in a disturbingly fawning manner with everything she said. Was this, he wondered, her dream come true? Probably. He knew such self-focused, ambitious women. He worked with them at times and detested them.

This one stood up from her barstool, lunged drunkenly across the room, tripping over another patron’s foot, stumbling on too-high heels until, in the middle of the small dance floor, she fell with a great thump. Her fanny hit the boards so hard she bounced. Her breasts, barely held into her low cut dress, jiggled in a way that fixed Motchk’s attention. He could not take his eyes off her, and he smiled, experiencing a genuine happiness he had never felt in Ruby’s place before.

As the fumbling woman pulled herself up from the ground, tight cloth straining over curves, he continued to stare and smile. His eyes stayed locked on her until she left the bar, angry and embarrassed, accompanied by her hired entourage. Only then did his attention return to his drink, but he was chuckling. Ruby had an unsatisfied customer.

Downstairs in her control room, Emily Putnam also laughed. The scene had been entirely staged. She could not say why exactly, but she found Motchk a fascinating subject on which to experiment. “I don’t have to get into your head to know what goes on inside, Mr. Motchk.”

Her pronunciation of his name was dreadful.

Peregrine Arnold was not flying anymore, not to Africa or India, China or Japan, and certainly not the Americas.

“This is not what I wanted at all.” Abigail dropped onto the settee beside her mother. “I suggested Daddy stay away from Mr. Motchk. I never meant for him to avoid the whole world. He hardly accepts communication from anyone but me now. I had to discuss this with you before he comes down. What can I do? I have made such a mess of it.”

After bringing his wife back into the normal temporal flow, Peregrine always gave Abigail some period alone with her mother. Abigail felt she did not get enough time with Mrs. Arnold. No one did, of course.

“This isn’t your fault, dear. Peregrine is a grown man who makes his own decisions. If he stays at home, it’s because that’s what he wants.”

“You cannot believe that. Daddy loves travel. He so enjoys people, visiting homes and workshops, exchanging ideas. He even appreciates the parts of flying everybody hates. He is the happiest man in airport security lines.”

“I know exactly what you mean. Personally, I prefer being held in temporal stasis and shipped rather than hours of cramped sitting, but after you were born, your father and I went everywhere together. At least it felt like everywhere. That may be it. He’s been traveling longer than he’s been alive. You’re young. Such things are easier for you.”

“Daddy is not some old leefer who cannot get around anymore. You go on walks with him in the gardens. You work to keep up, and you are nearly my age now.”

“True enough.” Mrs. Arnold looked unsettled, probably at the mention of leefers and the effects of aging.

“Sorry, Mother. I should not have put it that way.”

“I understand, dear. You’re worked up over your father. You care so much for him. We both do.”

“It is Nomik Motchk. That man is a monster. He says terrible things about Daddy. About us. He is why people do not visit, and he is why Daddy is afraid to go anywhere.”

“It’s not that simple. And don’t believe for a moment your father is afraid of Mr. Motchk. Peregrine is an extremely powerful wizard.”

“You do not know, Mother. Daddy did not bring you out for weeks after he came back from Mexico. He was in dreadful shape. Motchk nearly killed him in the duel.”

“And he nearly killed Mr. Motchk.”

“That is what Daddy says, but Motchk is not the one who is afraid of the world.”

Abigail saw her mother glance aside and turned in time to see her father step back into the hallway. “Daddy?” She jumped up, ran to the door and called after him. “Daddy, that is not what I meant!” She was too late. Peregrine, though going nowhere, was already gone.

Unable to get an aisle seat, Will Hilsat slid the airplane window shut. He did not want to see. Will recalled enjoying air travel in his student days, but no longer. This distaste for flight was irrational. He had heard friends’ travel horror stories, but in his own experience, airlines were efficient in a way he should have found charming. At any moment, enough people are in the sky to populate a fair-sized city. How can one criticize an industry managing such a feat, even if a bag does vanish now and then? Will’s luggage never went astray.

It was the unpredictability of air that bothered him. Visible only by effects, gusty death threatened at every instant. Looking across a sea of clouds, Will would imagine transparent rocks and hidden reefs, so he cultivated a habit of not looking out airplane windows.

Thanks to a tailwind, the plane arrived ahead of schedule. Unable to access Motchk’s plant in Yucatan, here in Africa, Will aimed to confirm suspicions by getting close to whatever was being collected. It was oil. He had detailed reports on its chemical constituents but also knew this could not be the whole story. Port Harcourt, Nigeria, was home to a refinery with a unique design flaw and promisingly lax security. The zone of Motchk’s equipment was well guarded, but other locations were accessible, assuming one knew whom to bribe. Will soon found himself in the company of a man who needed money and had keys.

They made their way through fences, into and out of buildings, past a complex of huge machines, tanks, pipes, cables and hoses. It was the scene by which the artist depicts the incomprehensible horrors of industrial society but which the engineer knows to be the easily comprehended means of production. It was marvelous or ghastly, depending on how one looked at it. Will kind of liked it.

He had the newly acquired magic meter out. While his companion was unlocking doors or waiting for watchmen to pass by, the boy with his new toy would test it against pipes. In the modern industrial style, most had labels saying what was in them: oil or gas, air or steam, hot or cold water, specified chemicals or sewage from employee restrooms. Usually indicators stayed at zero, but sometimes Will held the meter against an oil conduit and the needle on the potential scale trembled, detecting hundredths of a mage that came and went as contents in the pipe flowed by.

This had to be it, Will thought, but he could not be sure, not until his guide brought them to a closet whose label indicated supplies for dealing with chemical spills. Keys and combinations had been needed to bring them this far, so it seemed odd the door to their ultimate goal was not locked. 

“We keep no secrets here,” the guide said. “These things would be of no value without easy access.”

Once inside, with the door closed, Will pulled supplies off a shelf in the back and stacked them on the floor. If the plant diagram provided by his agent were correct, Motchk’s refinery improvements stood just beyond this room. Will felt a tingle but knew it could be only excitement at reaching this point. He slid the meter between shelves and held it against the back wall. Needles were inactive. He confirmed the meter was switched on. No movement.

At least he did not think there was. The undersized light bulb in the ceiling did not adequately illuminate the deep shelf. Will pulled out a flashlight and shined it on the instrument. Sure enough, the needles were still. They were both frozen but at opposite ends of their scales: no active energy, too much magical potential to be measured. Will adjusted the multiplier dial. And adjusted it again. And again. Set to lowest sensitivity, the magical potential needle finally came down a fraction from the top.

The hairs rose on the back of Will’s neck. He had expected magic but never ninety mages. Either a mob of typical witches and wizards pressed tightly against the other side of this wall, or Motchk was extracting magic from liquefied remains of the ancient dead, vast quantities concentrated to an astounding degree, collected from around the world for shipment to Yucatan.

Will remembered things he had learned in his studies, remembered barely escaping from the wizard’s long abandoned traps, remembered how, even before buying into refineries, Nomik Motchk believed himself so powerful he could safely use his real name among witches and wizards who dared not use their own, remembered at some deep level who really was the best. “Old Man, what in the world do you intend to do with all this magic?”

A. C. Toole decided to change his will. It occurred to him one evening, nephew Dexter already had enough money and should appreciate instead a personal memento. The industrialist made a notation on his yellow legal pad to call attorneys in the morning. Having made a good decision, he put away his cards and rewarded himself with brandy. He deserved it.

The Temple of the Seven Dolls at Dzibilchaltun is an uncommon ancient Mayan stone construction in that it has windows. Their purpose is illumination, although not of the interior. Lined-up openings in opposite walls let sunbeams pass unhindered to mark first days of seasons.

On the vernal equinox, a priest looking downhill to the east could see the sunrise and would, it is speculated, step to the western portal, face those congregated in shadow on the white path leading out from the heart of the city and chant ritually appropriate phrases meaning in essence, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the first day of spring.” At that moment, sunlight would engulf the sacred astronomer.

Centuries later, visitors still gathered by that holy roadway for these cosmic events. Will Hilsat found the spectacle moving beyond his expectation. He felt shared wonder in that crowd, the unity of strangers come together in a special place. Not real magic, only light passing through aligned holes, yet it was magical.

The show over, Will wandered with sun worshipers, amateur archaeologists, and tourists strolling through romantic ruins. What in this amazing place had he overlooked? What might explain Nomik Motchk, perhaps the world’s most powerful wizard, seeking additional energy? This was where the crippled boy had become the man. That the magical oil storage facility was nearby could not be coincidence. A structure must be here, enlightening sculpture, or explanatory writing on a stone.

Will had been over this ground before. Could anything be left to find? He managed, when alone, to do the enhanced seeing, but that light and attention charm was not intended to reveal the magically hidden. His discovery of the machine beneath the rabbit hole had been by chance. The spell it embodied would not have worked, but even if it had, it required at most a single mage to activate. Motchk was collecting the energies of a magical army. For what? Since returning to Mexico without making the promised visit to Virginia, Will had spent guilty days avoiding Toby’s calls yet finding nothing to answer that question.

Still, Will shared the lovely mood felt by those meandering the trails. People crossing paths met fellow participants in the morning’s wonder. Joint enjoyment of that event made them acquaintances. In walking the intersecting web, they became a network of friends. Even if this was another day wasted, it was a good one.

Eventually, Will found along with many others that he had drifted back to the center of the ancient city. Here was the cenote of Xlacah. Will approached the sinkhole in an atmosphere of mental calm. Over the millennia, thousands of individuals and groups had stood at the edge of this same pool on first days of spring. Will’s unity with fellow humans extended now in time as well as space.

On this unusually chilly morning, the only swimmers in the glass-clear water were fish. A bright golden one with a rich blue stripe on its tail went deep into the pool, wove and looped its way among its fellows and came up suddenly to hang a centimeter below the surface. Illuminated by a ray from the risen sun, the floating fish appeared suspended in air at the edge of the cenote.

On a whim, Will knelt beside the water. Trying not to startle the fish, he extended a hand, his index finger coming closer and closer to the surface. Seeing this perhaps, the creature chose to dive away, stirring up a ripple. Will pulled his hand back but not soon enough to prevent his finger from contacting that tiny wave.

He stood suddenly. What the hell was that? It had felt as if water reached out for him, wet fingertips grasping at his own. Peering below the surface, he saw only plants, rocks and fish. He might have thought nothing of this momentary sensation and walked on, except Will was a man looking for any oddity to give away a mystery.

He found a rock protruding from the ledge beside the pool. Kneeling again, he wrapped his left arm around that anchor, holding out his right. He brought his hand down until cool water gently slapped the skin of his palm. Taking a deep breath, he submerged his forelimb to the elbow.

There it was: a soggy handshake! Although decidedly odd, it was not unpleasant. But when he attempted to withdraw, the more he pulled, the more the water pulled back. Even with the anchoring rock, he nearly failed to escape. When he came free, he jumped up from the cenote. What had been beautiful suddenly seemed ominous depth. He turned and walked away.

Minutes later he was back, carrying a soda. The vendor was having a good day that got even better when Will overpaid him for, “Anything. Anything in a cup.” Will poured the beverage onto a shrub. Again wrapping his arm around the rock, he dipped most of the empty container below the surface, keeping his fingers entirely out of the water this time. Though half-expecting the cup to be taken from him, he felt nothing unusual. He stood and walked a few paces from the cenote, dipping a thumb into his sample of the pool. How did it feel? Hard to say.

An hour later, back in the privacy of his apartment, Will cast the Spell of Identification against the water. He was startled when not one but three faces appeared: Nomik Motchk, as Will had suspected, another old man Will did not know, and Will Hilsat.

Toby Bis was in the lab working with assistants on the latest iteration of the teleportation spell when Will’s call came through. “Toby, I need to show you something. You tell me what you see.”

“A man who should be in Virginia.”

“Yeah, yeah. We know that. But look at this.”

“I am serious, Will. We need you here. You said . . .”

“We all know what I said.” Behind Toby, heads nodded. “You can say what a bad boy I am later. For the moment, call me boss, and tell me what this is.” Will placed the cup in front of his computer so the built-in video camera would show Toby the results of the spell.

“The backs of three heads, boss.”

“Oh, hang on.” Will turned the laptop so its camera pointed away from him and then moved the cup in front of it again. Being the spell caster, the heads faced him wherever he went. With Will now behind the camera, Toby could see the faces properly.

“Looks like Motchk again. And some old guy. And you.”

“Why am I among them?”

“No idea, boss. What am I looking at?”

Will told the story of the magical snare in the cenote, water taken from it, and the identification spell he had cast.

“Makes sense,” said Toby. “Want a trap to work multiple times, set it to draw power from the target. Never affect leefers, but can be a hazard to other magic users essentially forever. Your face is included because magic was pulled from you into the water. Identified your own energy, boss.”

“OK, that does make sense, and Nomik Motchk is there because he set the trap, but who’s the third fellow?”

“Some guy whose bones lie at the bottom of your pool.”

“No,” the research assistant said. “That man is not dead. That is Peregrine Arnold.”

“Are you certain?” asked Will.

“He only stayed with my mentor a couple of times, but I could not forget him. We enjoyed his visits quite a lot. I hear him mentioned occasionally.”

“And you’re sure he’s still alive.”

“As far as I know. After Motchk chased him home, he never came back. Probably getting old, too. In fact, he looks ancient in your spell. I am sure it is him, though. People always look different when you ID them. I have friends who know his daughter Abigail. No one has said he passed away.”

Will turned the computer so the camera faced him again. “Thank you, folks. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Anything for you, boss.”

Will caught Toby’s sour tone so asked for progress on teleportation.

Toby’s face brightened. “Nothing useful. Hate to think it turns out uncastable. Shame we do not have someone like you working on it.”

“I’ve not given up, and neither must you.”

“Me? Never! I am obsessed, remember? Energy consumption is confusing, though. Could use your input.”

“I’ll give the energy some thought. You all keep at it, but be careful. No actual casting until we’re sure.”

“Of course not, boss. No teleporting half of anybody.”

“I’m confident you won’t. Thanks again, Toby. Adios.”

“Come home, boss.”

Will closed the video image and looked at the heads floating above the cup. The one drawn from stolen remnants of his own magic was familiar, not from mirrors he knew today but from those recalled in Free Hilsat’s memories, less worried than what he was currently used to seeing. Will addressed the face of Nomik Motchk, the one looking so much like the Old Man. “That other reality agreed with us both. Maybe we shouldn’t have left.”

Will turned now to the third face, Peregrine Arnold, the wizard rumored to have fought a duel with Motchk near here. Was it time for Will to pay Peregrine a visit, assuming he was still alive and not moldering at the bottom of Xlacah? Of course, this might involve flying again. Will hoped not. He could first try other options.

Minutes later, the man who answered the call looked so young Will almost asked to speak to his father. Peregrine was a youth compared to his magically honest ID image. 

Peregrine spoke first. “Abigail, this is you, yes?”

“Good morning, sir. No, pardon me, good afternoon. Am I speaking to Peregrine Arnold?”

“And what are you supposed to be?”

“A fellow time wizard. I run a spell development lab.”

“It is my current policy to hang up on unsolicited calls, but I must inquire, why do you look like a cartoon?”

“What?” asked Will. “Oh, my avatar, I guess. Because I’m calling from MICA.”

“From the virtual world?”

“They have a directory of witches and wizards. This is the first time I’ve used it. I found your name and clicked the ‘call’ button. I’m seeing you on the virtual screen here, and you must be seeing . . .”

“Your girlish avatar standing in an animated telephone box. For such a deep-voiced fellow, you look adorable.”

“Thank you.” Will triggered a gesture. His avatar waved.

Peregrine smiled weakly and waved back. “So, Miss Avatar, you have been dabbling in my old area of research?”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“Fascinating field, time magic. Still, one should not focus too much on any single subject.”

“No. In fact, my team is working on a non-temporal project right now.”

Peregrine’s smile broadened warmly. “Good for you. I think that is an excellent idea.”

“But it’s not why I’m calling today. I was hoping you might provide information on the subject of Nomik Motchk.”

The smile vanished. “I could tell you quite a lot.” Peregrine glanced at a stack of papers beside him and nudged them out of view of the camera. His attempt to have this gesture appear casual instead made it melodramatic. “But I will not. Things are known to Nomik and me that should not be known to anyone. The fewer aware of them, the safer the world is.”

“If Nomik Motchk knows, the world is hardly safe. We’ve both experienced how dangerous he can be. I cast an ID spell on water from the cenote Xlacah in Dzibilchaltun. You, like I, have tangled with the deadly trap Motchk left there.”

Peregrine laughed long and hard. The way he was moving, Will had the sense the Englishman’s feet, not visible to the camera, might actually be dancing. Was he daft?

“So you saw Nomik’s face in Xlacah when you cast for identification? Fabulous! But you are wrong regarding our roles. You and Nomik were the victims. You found my magic because I am the one who set the trap.”

“What? Why would you do such a thing?”

“The secrets of Dzibilchaltun must be kept at any cost. Forgive my saying this, Miss Avatar, but my spell at Xlacah should not have failed. Better for the world if you and Nomik had drowned. So long as you insist on poking around those ancient places, you may consider me your enemy. That puts Nomik and me both against you, and you would not stand a chance opposite either of us. Here is the best advice you will ever receive: go home. Work with your team on your new spells. Leave these old things to old men.”

“But . . .”

“I have nothing further to say to a cartoon. Good day.” Peregrine Arnold’s image went dark.

Will redialed, but the connection was refused. He logged off the MICA site as he ran over the call in his mind. Peregrine had looked at a stack of papers when he spoke of Motchk. Was that nervous gesture some sort of give away? If Will wanted to see what was on those pages, he was going to have to fly.

As always, he was uncomfortable the whole flight over. As always, he encountered no difficulties in travel. The difficulties were in England. The Arnolds were not receiving foreign visitors. Their home was an actual castle, though a smallish one, built for defense, magically enhanced, as impossible to get into as Motchk’s facilities in Mexico.

Standing on a hillside some distance away, Will realized he had done it again. He had added to his knowledge only to expand his ignorance. He had found a new location outside of which to stand, wishing he knew what was inside. He was honestly doing his best, but his best was never good enough. Toby Bis was right. At this rate, he would satisfy neither of their obsessions. Will decided it was time to cheat.

Nomik Motchk shuffled cards, dealt and arranged them. The backs were juggling lizards. The fronts, face up on the desk in his tower study, had begun with the three of clubs but evolved into strangely informative suits never seen in solitaire or poker. To do this, the cards must draw on his own magical energy, yet he was never drained by these sessions.

It had taken years before conversation flowed somewhat naturally. Problems still occurred, translation errors, inexplicable gaps. He understood his own resistance to their arcane communication was much of the difficulty. Overcoming intransigence was worth the effort. The cards guided him in ways even the Eighth Doll could not. She saw everything, perhaps manipulated the world in his favor, but had no ideas of her own, an infinite yet limited tool.

Motchk took inspiration from what he saw as he slid images about. Things must be done. He gathered the deck, put it in its box and the box into his pocket. He made calls to set important plans in motion, working to a greater purpose.

Motchk was aware he too was a tool, his pasteboard partners revealing knowledge only as they felt necessary. This was unsatisfactory. If the cards chose to withhold information, nothing prevented him doing research of his own. He was, in this regard, going to the second MICA convention. People he needed would be in attendance. It would save time. Neither Motchk nor the cards had the faintest idea how much time they had.

Motchk’s revelation of the existence of real magic had been calculated to enable technological assistance for his program. He was, however, getting disturbing reports from leefer associates: late deliveries, defective parts, broken contracts and time consuming litigation. The deck took no notice of these mundane difficulties that had begun before he found the cards, even before his discovery of their Lizard Temple. A name emerged from his secretary’s investigation. Magical oil production was coming along despite interference, but soon work would begin on mechanisms more vulnerable and vital. Motchk must deal personally with the situation.

He believed he would enjoy that.

“Oh, hell!”

When Sapphire spoke, the barman, setting up for the coming evening’s business, glanced around. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Yes.” Resignation marked Sapphire’s voice.

“It’s been a long time since we had him in here. What was the plan?”

“The order, as I recall, was to make him welcome.”

“He dresses better these days.”

“Not a good sign. Before he could have been a bum or a billionaire. Now he looks like a million bucks. Or even less.”

Will walked over to the bar. “Hello. You may not remember me.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Hilsat. Could we forget an old friend of Ruby’s? So glad to see you here again. Do sit down.” Her sincerity sounded forced. Will realized, with some surprise, that Sapphire did not like him.

“What’ll you have?” asked the barman.

Will sat on a stool not too close to where Sapphire stood. “Whatever Nomik Motchk drinks.”

The barman and Sapphire exchanged questioning glances.

“Is she here?”

“Ruby?” asked Sapphire. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to check around. She may have made a run into Elko. Or perhaps Las Vegas.”

“She’s here,” said a voice behind Will. He turned and saw her standing in the doorway. He clenched his teeth and then wondered why he had. Apparently, Free Hilsat lived. The sensation passed with conscious effort. Behind him, the barman climbed a step stool, carefully brought down a precious bottle from the back bar and opened it.

Will stood. “Good to see you.”

“Yeah. I saw the look on your face.” Emily chose a stool, leaving one empty between her and Will.

He sat again, trying to imagine what expression had been on his face. The barman put a glass in front of him, poured a drink, set the bottle next to it and did not walk away. Will examined the label. Scotch whisky. He did not recognize the brand. “Ruby, could we talk in private?”

Emily looked around the bar. The four of them were the only people in it. “This is private enough. We’re a family here at Ruby’s.”

Sapphire sat on the stool behind Emily.

“It’s about . . .” Will hesitated, leaned close and said in a low voice, “our special nature.”

“It’s about magic.” Emily spoke loudly enough to startle. “We don’t keep secrets here anymore. This is a new age.” 

Sapphire smiled. Will took a sip of whisky.

“Although not for you, I see,” said Emily

“Pardon?”

“You’re still wearing that ring.”

Will looked down at his right thumb. “I’ve grown accustomed to it. I like having it on.”

“Good,” said Emily. “I was wrong. I’m glad you’re happy. Now, what brings you back after all these years?”

Unasked, the barman was mixing drinks.

“I want to hire you,” said Will. “I need your skills.”

Emily laughed. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Not Ruby’s skills. Yours. I need you to look into somebody’s head. I know you do that. As far as I’ve been able to determine, no one else does.”

“I suspect you can’t afford me.”

The barman set a tall beverage with fruit on the rim in front of Sapphire and a Bloody Mary beside Emily.

“Business has been good. I can pay.”

“Unlikely it’s been that good, Will, but assuming you’ve amassed a fortune, whose head would we be looking into?”

“Nomik Motchk.”

“Do it,” said the barman.

Sapphire gave him a hostile stare. “You keep out of this.”

“It’s impossible, no matter how much money Will has made.” Emily tasted her drink. “He’s correct in believing I have uncommon abilities, but those powers aren’t as great as he imagines. The most basic defenses against magical intrusion lock me out. At this point, Will, I can’t even read you. Not magically, anyway.”

“I want you to try. Motchk is up to something big. Maybe dangerous. I need to know what.”

“Motchk up to something big is believable, and no surprise if what he does is dangerous. The question is your involvement. Why would a mathematician who accidentally became a wizard have anything to do with Nomik Motchk?”

Sapphire and the barman exchanged looks again. Despite Ruby’s claim of no secrets here anymore, they were certainly hearing news today.

Will did not answer Emily’s question. He took another sip from his drink, having no idea if this was a particularly good whisky or not. He also had no idea how much of what he had learned he should reveal.

“Oh, no!” said Emily. “Nomik Motchk is your mentor.”

“You said you couldn’t read my mind.”

“I can’t, Will, but when one does this long enough, one gets good at it. I don’t always need magic.”

“True,” said Sapphire.

“They can both read my mind,” said the barman, “and they insist only one of them is a witch.”

Sapphire raised her effervescent drink. “Some minds are easier than others.” The barman grinned.

“What was it you called Free’s teacher?” asked Emily.

“The Old Man,” said Will. “That’s the only name he ever gave us.”

“Whose teacher?” asked Sapphire.

“Free,” said Emily. “It’s a long story. Will here is also called Free. Nomik Motchk is apparently the Old Man. Oh, and if you hear the name Crystal mentioned, that’s me.”

Sapphire and the barman exchanged glances yet again.

“Will, are you certain the Old Man is Motchk?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what’d he say when you told him?”

“I haven’t spoken with him yet.”

“How long have you known it was him?”

“More than a year. I spotted him the day of his big announcement.”

Emily took another sip from her drink. “Why haven’t you contacted him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Your stories are. Go ahead. We’re enjoying this, aren’t we?” The barman nodded. Sapphire did not.

“I wanted to make sure my initial meeting with Motchk went well. I decided to do advance research before approaching him.”

“We can understand that.” When the barman spoke, the others stared. “Well, I mean, something’s seriously wrong with that hombre.”

“Go on, Will,” said Emily.

“I found things. Strange things. He’s a dangerous hombre, working on a project that’s big and maybe bad. I’ve reached the point where I fear he could be unsafe to approach.”

“I’m not sure I got the part where Mr. Motchk is any of your business,” said Sapphire.

Emily turned to her. “In a previous life, Will burned down Motchk’s house.  He feels responsible for the man.”

“Is that right, Will?”

“Something like that. A lot more complicated, but yes Sapphire, I really am responsible for him.”

“No you’re not,” said Emily. “Take off the damned ring.”

“I didn’t come here for advice. I came because you can provide a service. I need you to look inside Nomik Motchk’s head and answer questions. I know the man comes here. It couldn’t be that difficult for you.”

“Yes, Mr. Motchk is a client. A very good client. He’s also a very good wizard, dangerous as you noted, who knows how to defend himself. I said it was impossible because it is. And while I understand you think of us as old friends, Mr. Hilsat, the fact is this is only the second time in my life I’ve ever met you. If you think . . .”

“I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right.”

“I certainly am. I’d hoped by now you would’ve . . .”

A handsome young man popped through a doorway, calling in a cheerful singsong. “We have customers.”

Emily stood. “I have to go, Will. Since you’ve decided to elevate our old friendship to the level of commerce, you can pay for your own drinks.”

The barman winced.

Emily looked at the bottle. “I understand you can afford it.” She left.

Sapphire stood. “A pleasure seeing you again, Mr. Hilsat. If we can do anything for you, let us know. We accept all major credit cards.” She, too, made her exit.

The barman watched them go.

“That went well.” Will’s tone was ironic.

“Motchk buys the whole bottle.” The barman’s tone was sincere.

“I know what you’re thinking, but this time I’m staying. If I’ve learned anything since my last visit here, it’s persistence.”

“Good, amigo. You’re going to need it.”

Commander A. C. Toole, US Navy (retired), merchant, banker, investor and industrialist, was standing beside his swimming pool when an intruder appeared. The Commander found this arrival initially disturbing, but once his intruder stepped from the shadows, the Commander recognized the man who had changed the world by announcing the existence of real magic. The Commander was one of the few leefers who had never questioned that claim.

Early in his life, a mix-up occurred at sea involving the wrong duffel bag. When everything was straightened out, A. C. Toole, who was not a commander yet, found himself in possession of a unique deck of playing cards. Once he learned to let the juggling monkeys do as they wished, they became the key to his successful naval career and then his fortune. Long before it was announced, the Commander was a believer in real magic. He never knew his cards were in no way magical.

The other thing he did not know was that he was Nomik Motchk’s secret nemesis. Card-inspired business decisions secretly made Motchk’s life difficult, but the secrecy ran both ways. So when Motchk appeared in the Commander’s back yard at the time set aside for his regular evening swim, rather than wisely running for his life, the Commander chose instead to greet his famous guest.

Motchk was impressed. The Commander was not only a helpless leefer without a wisp of magic in him, he was also a man of late middle years wearing only monogrammed swimming trunks. It was a tribute to the Commander’s personality that he managed to appear imposing as he marched along the tile edge of the pool toward a wizard who was certainly going to kill him with no greater effort than that wizard might have expended in brushing away a leaping jaguar.

Motchk began his spell. This would be ridiculously easy, not to mention satisfying. After all the trouble instigated by this man and his interfering industrial empire, especially accounting for time wasted circumventing one obstacle or another caused by this fool’s meddling . . .

Motchk did not finish the thought or the spell. The meddling fool cut the corner of the pool too closely.

Years earlier, the Commander had wanted edging with a better grip, but his wife preferred the pattern on the smoother tiles. He had given in, and now that generous error caught up with him. Stepping over the corner and onto a silky surface, he slipped on a puddle of rain from an unpredicted shower that had passed that morning. His foot went out from under him, diverted momentum carrying him sideways. As he fell over the water, his forehead came down hard upon the tile edge. Improbably hard. Despite the fact that Motchk intended to kill this man, the sound of breaking bone made him wince.

Standing at the rim of the pool above a freshly cracked tile, looking at what was in the water, it was obvious the Commander had a significant opening in his skull, a literally mind-expanding experience. Motchk performed a quick spell anyway in the interest of completeness. No doubt of it, the man was already dead. Motchk turned away.

“Was that necessary?” He made his exit through the hedge gap that had allowed his original appearance. “I easily could have taken him.” He progressed through some neighboring leefer’s backyard tangle. It made no sense for the Eighth Doll to arrange this, but it could not be chance. You do not show up to murder a man and have him drop dead at your feet. Well, of course, it could happen, if such a thing as chance existed anymore.

Mrs. Toole had heard the sound of her husband’s head hitting the tile but was putting another photo of nephew Dexter into her scrapbook. A sweet boy, although even more suggestible than Alex. Their nephew needed a woman to look after him as she looked after her husband. Without that, she feared Dexter might fall in with a bad crowd.

She finish placing the photo just so, folding the plastic cover back over the page. Then she could look up and call her spouse’s name. When he did not respond, she went outside to investigate the sound. She anticipated a broken flower pot, one of many ceramics holding her beautiful plant collection. She was so fond of each of them she hesitated to imagine any specific one of them being cracked.

Motchk was already unlocking his rental car when he heard the scream. He had almost forgotten Commander Toole by then. Motchk got into the car while wondering if Peregrine Arnold had a swimming pool. No need. Peregrine had not been out of England since their duel. With this interfering leefer taken care of—however it was he had been taken care of—the path was clear. The Eighth Doll had revealed no evidence of threats from the magical side of the world. Peregrine Arnold was beaten. Killing the man now would be a waste of time.

He was going to stay in the bar, his right considering what his drink cost him, until Emily’s night’s work was done. The barman suggested an out-of-the-way table where Will could sit with his back to a handsome Navajo rug. He drank sips of whisky from the glass, refilled the glass from the bottle and slowly came to the unexpected realization that despite the exotic nature of both clientele and employees, Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch could be a truly boring place.

Equally unexpected, it was Sapphire who at some wee hour insisted he go to bed. She explained the barman would not call time anytime soon. Will had worked long nights but on coffee, not whisky, so gave in and let her guide him to an unused bedroom. He managed to remove his shoes before plunging into sleep.

His dreams were initially mathematical, involving the structure of spells. He was trying to teleport into Nomik Motchk’s home but could not recall Motchk’s number, which he needed in order to complete the spell. He decided to use Peregrine Arnold’s number instead, which worked. But when he cast, he found himself submerged. Outside Motchk’s hacienda, a man-sized block of water appeared and poured onto the ground. Will saw this somehow, although he was no longer present.

Will had teleported into an enormous bathtub filled with chartreuse seaweed and blue and golden fish. Motchk floated above him, alive or dead Will could not tell. Will tried to swim, but seaweed wrapped around him, pulling him deeper and deeper. More and more seaweed wrapped him, hedged him in. He found a gap in the hedge and walked through. As chartreuse leaves brushed over bare arms he felt a tingling, but not on his skin.

On the other side of the hedge was his parent’s back yard. This was not the house they lived in now but the old place where he had grown up. His parents and friends from that time were gathered poolside. The barbecue grill produced a lot of smoke. This did not bother anyone, as a fresh breeze whipped it away. The old place had not had a swimming pool, but this did not bother anyone either.

His parents did not recognize Will yet invited him to join the party anyway. His dad, who introduced himself as Ben, gave Will a hamburger charred on the outside, raw on the inside. This was exactly the way Will liked burgers back then, but for some reason it made him queasy now.

His mom offered him potato salad. Anna made the best. A mesh tent over the bowl to keep the flies away gave Will trouble because of the wind. Anna told him to let it go, but he did not hear her. He tried to tell her how much he enjoyed the food, but the wind was blowing so hard she could not hear him. He tried to tell them he was their son, but the wind drowned his voice in a screech like a jet engine.

It was a jet engine. The passengers sat in lawn chairs. Emily Putnam was in the seat next to his. He was explaining the smoke meant the plane was on fire, and they must take control before it crashed, only he could not remember what one calls the pilot’s room at the front of an airplane.

Emily was disinterested, preferring to watch the in-flight movies: adventures, documentaries and romances on flickering monitors throughout the cabin. She wanted him to watch movies with her. He tried, but the movies were so boring. The actors spoke in languages he did not understand. The monitors were obscured by smoke that made him squint. The heat of the fire made him sleepy.

On one monitor, Nomik Motchk stood at a tilt in front of black spell books. His voice came from a speaker. “One who sleeps through one's dreams may as well be dead.”

Will opened his eyes wide but only in the dream. On another screen, Peregrine Arnold shook his head and did a strange, old-fashioned dance. The dance was a spell opening a hole in the floor beneath Will’s feet. Since the airplane was very high, the hole was very deep, lined with stones covered in magical writing. Will fell forever through the sky, the ocean and the earth. Screams echoed off the stones. They were not Will’s screams, but he did recognize them.

He landed in a pit of soft earth with rabbit tracks. More dirt fell in from above, but not onto him. Instead it formed an elliptical bubble holding back the water, air and fire. Somehow he could look through the dirt. Peregrine grinned at him, but Nomik did not smile. Here were Emily, Sapphire, the barman, Ben, Anna, their friends, Crystal, the Old Man, Toby with the whole research team, and Taffy Tabor. Taffy gazed at Will in a sympathetically necromantic way, as if he were a beautiful dead cat.

Emily said to take off his shoes, but Crystal shouted, “No!” He tried to explain he already had, but he could not speak.

Toby said he should not have used the teleportation spell, since it was unproven, so this kind of thing was bound to happen. The members of the research team nodded agreement in unison. The Old Man told Toby, “Sometimes you have to take the chance.” Toby and the research team shrugged. It was good to hear the Old Man’s voice again. Will wanted to tell him he was sorry but could not recall why.

Taffy asked, “Please, may I borrow a cup of magic?” Will could not answer. Taffy began the necromantic spell. Will could not move. Taffy reached through transparent earth.

“Time,” said the barman.

“To dust.” She shook him.

It was the cleaning lady.

Will mumbled “time” as he awoke and opened his eyes for real.

“Ten o’clock. I’ll be back in five minutes to do the room.” Will watched her as she left. He wondered if she were the same one who he had seen when he first came to Ruby’s, but he could not be sure. Five minutes?

When she returned, he was up and in his shoes. She told him how to find a restroom and also the employee cafeteria where he could get breakfast. Both sounded like good ideas. The restroom was clean and comfortable. The cafeteria was efficient but cozy, with food laid out on a buffet. Will took scrambled eggs with salsa, toast and coffee. He ate slowly, working around the fact he had had too much whisky, grateful he had not finished the bottle.

Will contemplated what he remembered of his dream. He felt it had revealed something important but could not figure what. People came and went around him, many of whom had been exotic and enticing in the bar last night. This morning, everyone looked strangely normal.

He struck up a conversation with a slender young man whose hair was so fair it was almost invisible. They exchanged the usual introductory information. What do you do? Prostitute. What do you do? Wizard. Each thought the other’s job sounded interesting.

Will explained the best part of his work was when it was like a puzzle. He would struggle and struggle and then suddenly see the solution. The young man said the best part of his job was the class of people he got to meet. Will asked how the money was. The young man said Ruby offered a poor contract. He was not complaining. This was a great place to work, much nicer than most, but he knew people who worked in other places, and they had better financial arrangements.

A middle-aged gardener on his coffee break sat down with them. The gardener and the male prostitute were clearly friends. At the prostitute’s urging, the gardener explained how he had missed out on his chance to be a millionaire. He had come up with the idea of containerized shipping, where large boxes on the trailers of trucks would be loaded directly onto and off of boats and trains without opening them to handle their contents. This would save a fortune. The reason he missed out on the millions was because he came up with the idea decades after someone else already had. He thought this was pretty funny, and he enjoyed gardening, so it was OK. Will asked how Ruby paid her gardeners. The man said not well, but that was also OK because this was such a good place to work.

Sapphire came in, got herself a fruit salad and tea, and sat at Will’s table. The gardener decided it was time to get back to gardening. The prostitute left with him.

Sapphire gave Will an unsympathetic smile. “You look unwell this morning.”

“I was never a whisky drinker.”

“We got that impression.” She sipped her tea.

Will sipped his coffee. “I can’t believe Motchk drinks the whole bottle.”

“He buys the bottle, Will. He doesn’t drink it. Most of the whisky ends up inside his associates.”

Will nodded, but not too much. “Thanks for putting me to bed last night.”

“You’re welcome.” Her tone of voice was flat. Will nibbled at his eggs. He was avoiding the salsa. Sapphire swallowed a bite of fruit salad. “So, what are your plans?”

“I stay. I hire Ruby to help me understand Nomik Motchk. Do you have a problem with that?”

“I do.”

“I got that impression. Why am I a problem for you?”

“Because you’re a problem for her. You distract her from her work.”

Will thought distracting Emily from such work would be a good thing but decided against pointing that out. “What’s your role here? Paid employee? On contract? A partner?”

“Yes, a partner, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Doesn’t Ruby enjoy these breakfasts?” He indicated the buffet.

“Ruby breakfasts in her rooms. She has an excellent appetite.”

“Do you usually eat here?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Sapphire sipped her tea. “Will, what’s the story behind you and Ruby?”

“Complicated.”

“And secret?”

Will wondered. “It was secret the first time I came here, but I guess not so much now.”

“Go ahead then.”

He did. He told her of the day the ring arrived with its memories of the Old Man, of Free and Crystal, their fatal flying experiment and the unweaving of the Grandfather staff. He described his search for Crystal, for Darcy deMores or Brandi Capriz, although he knew better now than to mention the true name of Emily Putnam.

He told Sapphire how his first meeting with Ruby had gone, how she had sent him away, how he eventually decided to take Ruby’s advice and give up looking for the Old Man but how he kept the ring on his thumb for its store of magical knowledge. Sapphire, he realized, was a damned good listener. She sat thinking for some time while he finished eggs and toast.

“Ruby believes this?”

“She had no doubts when I told her.”

“All right. Now Nomik Motchk.”

Will described his shock at seeing the Old Man’s face and hearing his voice on the day Motchk made the historic announcement. Will explained his intention, after his disturbing experience with Ruby, to learn about Motchk before approaching him. Will told Sapphire what he knew, what he suspected, what he hoped to find out and the limits of his ignorance. When he described his discovery of the incredible accumulation of magic in oil, Sapphire looked genuinely concerned.

“We should talk to Ruby.”

“You think so?”

“Our barman never really cared for Motchk, and neither do I. If we don’t like a man who spreads such quantities of money around, there must be a reason. And now him with all that power?”

“This will distract Ruby.”

“What you’re doing may be more important than . . .” She waved her hand, indicating everything around them.

“Sapphire, you never liked me either.”

“You should’ve told me this whole thing in the first place, Will. It helps when I know what’s going on. Remember that. Maybe, when we know what goes on with Mr. Motchk, I can stop disliking him.”

At Emily’s doorway, Sapphire insisted they needed to talk. Emily’s silk dressing gown suggested this might not be the time, but she stepped aside with an air of resignation. Will and Sapphire entered and sat on a couch. Emily took a tall wingback chair. Will was a wealthier man than he had been on his original visit, but everything in this room still struck him as expensive.

“Tell Ruby the story, Will, of how you first got here.”

“She already knows.”

“Please tell her anyway.” Sapphire used her firm, businesslike tone of voice. Will decided it was best to go along and repeated a summarized version.

“Ruby, do you believe this?”

“When Will came here the first time, he wasn’t much of a wizard yet. I examined his thoughts. I know it’s true.”

Sapphire looked Will up and down, reassessing him. He realized she had not known whether to believe him until this confirmation. “All right. Tell her about Mr. Motchk.”

Will again told of his research into Nomik Motchk and the things he had found. Like Sapphire, Emily showed particular interest when Will described Motchk’s immense accumulation of magical oil.

“Do you believe he’s so dangerous you must stop him?”

“Not necessarily,” said Will, “but he’s already done things that affect every one of us. Whatever he’s working on now will be even bigger. I need some idea of what it is before I can approach him. Like it or not, I do have to approach him. Whatever he does, I am ultimately responsible.”

“Setting aside the dubious question of responsibility,” said Emily, “as I see it, you have two problems. First, I was telling you the truth. I have no chance of reading his mind. Second, if you try to learn Nomik Motchk’s secrets, when you do eventually confront him, they’ll never find your body.”

“That does sound likely,” said Sapphire.

Will sat back against the couch. “If you can’t read a wizard’s mind, I suppose getting you close to Peregrine Arnold would be of no use either.”

“Who?”

“Arnold is a wizard who I believe has information on what Motchk is up to. He’s certain whatever Motchk is doing is dangerous. They hate each other. Motchk and Arnold once fought a duel.”

“How colorful,” said Sapphire.

“If this guy fought Motchk and lived,” said Emily, “he’s not going to be any easier to read.”

“Sounds like you have another dead end, Will.”

“He has documents that may contain the information I want.”

Emily sat forward. “Are you thinking of trying to break into a wizard’s home?”

“I’ve looked it over pretty well. I can’t see any way to get inside”

“Where is it?”

“England.”

“You’ve been to England trying to break into his house?”

“Castle, actually.”

“You might have mentioned that earlier.”

“Irrelevant. The question is, can you read Motchk?”

“No, that is not the question. The question is: what is Nomik Motchk planning to do? You jumped to the conclusion that reading Motchk’s mind was the solution, so you left out important facts. You always do that. We continually have to knock down your first solutions and pry information out of you before we can help you solve your problems.”

Will and Sapphire stared at Emily.

“Well, it is true. We have explained that to you a hundred times.”

“Who’s we?” asked Sapphire. “I’ve never helped you two solve a problem.”

“Oh, not you dear. The Old Man. Free and I used to sit on the porch and work out the day’s problems together. The Old Man would sip his beer, strum his guitar and listen to our troubles. Free was always leaving out important . . .” Her voice trailed off as she saw their expressions.

“What the hell are you talking about? Will said you didn’t know any of that stuff until he came here.”

“No,” said Will, “but she’s right about the conversations on the porch. That’s how Free remembers them.”

“You sounded like . . .”

“Like I remember them too,” said Emily. “I do, sort of.”

“You can’t,” said Will. “Those things never happened. They only exist as false memories in my ring.”

“Apparently that damned ring of yours stuck Free’s memories into my head.”

“They’re not even in my head. The memories are in the ring. You don’t have the ring.”

“And I don’t have the memories either. Not the way you do. I have memories of the memories, if that makes any sense. I remember reading your mind as you recalled those things. The recollections were unusually vivid.”

“You sounded like it was your memory,” said Sapphire.

“It feels like mine.”

“Does that always happen when you read someone?”

“No, this is different. Maybe it’s a characteristic of the magic in the ring. Maybe because the memory was about, well, not me of course . . .”

“But they’re his memories,” said Sapphire, “not hers.”

“Right,” said Will. “You can’t have Crystal’s memory.”

“I don’t. I only remember what Free knew, but he heard the complaint often enough of his leaving out important details, so I know it too. Free and Crystal grew up together.  When I recall that time, it’s like hearing her story. She had a different life, but she was a lot like me.”

“You identify with Crystal,” said Sapphire.

Emily nodded. “When Will first came here, I was already used to looking into minds. I saw more of Free’s memories that day than Will was yet aware of in his own thoughts. I suppose I must have been looking beyond his mind and into the ring somehow. They’re Free’s recollections, but I do think of them from Crystal’s point of view.”

“How often do you recall those memories?” asked Will.

Sapphire frowned. “I’m guessing a lot.”

Emily looked down to the carpet, her voice nearly inaudible. “Constantly.”

Everyone was silent. Then Will spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“No. They’re better memories than my own.”

Will looked to Sapphire, expecting disagreement but finding none.

Emily was right. They would attack the Nomik Motchk puzzle as a team, rethinking it from the root. They met one hour each afternoon, before the Dreamland workday began, early for everyone except Will. Sometimes they shifted to dawn, early for Will, late for everyone else.

It was Sapphire who would suggest, on days when the weather was fine, meeting on the patio outside the bar. Here low awnings of perforated copper, artfully shaped into leaves and branches, broke afternoon sunlight into dappled shade. Adobe walls of diverse heights flanked stone paths into the gardens where flowers provided pleasant textures, colors and aromas. Sapphire, who had often taken a book onto this patio, felt it was an underappreciated space. She was pleased to see Will and Emily now enjoying it.

The barman brought drinks, sometimes coffees and teas, otherwise beer for Will, club soda for Sapphire, various concoctions appropriate to the time of day for Emily and himself. At first he did not ask questions. Later he did. Eventually they established a rule: no discussing anything important while the barman was getting drinks.

It was Emily who insisted on reviewing every detail. Sapphire and the barman were particularly interested the afternoon Will brought out the magic meter to demonstrate its functions. This led to discussion of the nature of magic users, their discovery and nurturing.

“The difference between you two, and Sapphire and me, is how the dominoes were drawn.” The barman was looking at the meter in his hand, the needles flat on zero. “With the best teacher in the world, I still couldn’t become a wizard.”

“Afraid not,” said Will.

“Life is unfair, dear.” The women exchanged a glance.

Will recognized their private moment, and rather than intrude on it, he said to the barman, “My magic didn’t come through a teacher. The ring taught me of my abilities.”

“But if the Old Man hadn’t found you, found Free, the ring never would have either.”

“And since the Old Man never existed . . .” said Sapphire.

“Does that even make sense?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Will. “The Old Man explained things to Free that way, but his understanding of unweaving may have been limited.”

“What do other wizards think?”

“I’ve encountered no one who knows that spell. Free didn’t know where the Old Man learned it.” Will played absentmindedly with the ring on his thumb. “I’ve never taught it to anyone. I never will. In this reality, I may be the only person who has it. If the Old Man learned it after he got the Grandfather staff, even Nomik Motchk may not know.”

“Then it’s not only the other reality that never existed,” said Emily. “The spell ending that reality could be one of your false memories. Take away that ring, and none of it ever happened.”

“I think the Old Man might agree with you. Not sure I do.”

“What do you think?” asked the barman.

“It depends on the true nature of time.”

“Which is . . . ?”

Will laughed. “A limited number of people have a valid idea of what time actually is. Get them together in a room, and they’ll agree the common sense view is based in ignorance.”

“My common sense view, for example,” said Sapphire.

“Right.” Will hoped she would find his tone gentle. “Next those who think time is fundamental to the universe will argue with a group who believe it’s merely an emergent property, both opposed by thinkers holding time to be pure illusion. Break them into three parties along those divisions, and they’ll argue amongst themselves over details.”

“No consensus,” said Emily.

“Exactly. The Old Man can hardly be blamed for taking a simplified view, since nobody knows for sure.”

“Yet he could perform the spell.”

“You can build a clock without understanding the philosophical argument against the existence of clocks. In fact, it probably helps.”

“But what do you believe?” asked the barman.

Will took a sip of beer and swallowed thoughtfully. “Time exists, but it’s not the ever-changing river of events, past, present, future, that people imagine. It looks that way to us because we feel as if our consciousness moves through it. In truth, time is fixed and unchanging, with every event that has happened, or ever will, existing together.”

“So you’re saying the past still exists, and the future is already real?” asked Emily.

“No. This is where I get into trouble trying to explain it. When you ask those questions, you use time words. Past and future and still and already, those come out of the common sense view of time. When you understand what time is, past and already do not mean what you thought they meant.”

“What happens to free will?” asked Sapphire.

He gave her an astonished grin. “I was afraid I wouldn’t make you understand, but you already jumped ahead to the big question.” Will almost asked where she went to college but caught that mistake before it escaped his lips. “Free will is real, but like time itself, you have to look at it differently.”

“Hold up,” said the barman. “Lost me at the turn.”

Emily explained it to him. As she did, Will wondered how much of Crystal had gotten into her by way of the ring and his mind. Or should he take a close look at the books in the parlors. Were they more than decoration? Did the world’s best whorehouse house the world’s best whorehouse library? Perhaps Emily and Sapphire spent their downtime reading the great philosophers.

“If Will’s right that time’s unchanging, then any decision you’ll make tomorrow has already been made. When you catch up to it, you fool yourself into thinking you make it.”

“Not sure I believe that,” said the barman. “It feels like I make decisions. When you gals let me.”

“Good instincts,” said Will. “Some philosophers can argue against free will all night. Take them out to breakfast in the morning though, and they still look at the menu.”

“But if tomorrow’s decision is already made, I really don’t have free will.”

“It looks that way when you look at time the wrong way. Remember, tomorrow and already are time words. The decision is made, but the reason is because you make it.”

“Now you’ve lost me,” said Sapphire.

“Two down, one to go,” said the barman.

“No, no,” said Emily. “I’m fully as lost as you. So how is it I’ll make a decision even though it’s already made.”

“Stop,” Will said. “Ask that question without using a time word like already.”

“I’m not sure I’m prepared to give up such a useful term, but if you insist. How is it . . .” Emily ground to a halt.

Will smiled at the barman. “Harder than it looks.”

“No, I can do this,” said Emily. “The decision exists at a point in time. My conscious awareness is at a place before the . . .”

“Before is a time word. Not always wrong, but tricky.”

“If we’re discussing today a decision I’ll make to . . . Wait. Let me draw it.” When they worked together, they often literally compared notes. Paper and pencil were always at hand. Emily in particular found it helpful to draw while thinking. She grabbed a pale green notepad and sketched a line with a dot part way along it. “Here I am thinking, with no decision.” She drew another dot. “Here I am, having decided.”

“Good?” asked Sapphire.

“Good enough,” said Will.

Emily tapped the first dot. “I haven’t decided.” She tapped the second dot. “I have decided. The difference between those two places,” she traced the line from the first to the second, “seems to me like time passing.”

“Right?” asked Sapphire.

“Right,” said Will, “and well done. That difference is time, and this is a good way to think. Notice nothing on your drawing is labeled now or past or future because you don’t need those. Those are the illusions.” Sapphire and Emily nodded. The barman nodded too, but not too much and sort of sideways.

“Next,” said Will, “this path is you.”

“No. Remember, the line is time. The dot is me, not having decided.” Emily moved the pencil from the first to the second dot. “And this is me having decided.”

“Both exist,” said Will. “So, do we have two of you?”

Emily answered hesitantly. “No.”

“Of course not. This is you, and this is you, temporally separated stages of the same you. What you are isn’t you at this instant, or you at this other instant. What you are in the reality of spacetime is you at both instants, between and on either side of those instants, at each and every moment from your birth to your death.”

“Again please?” asked the barman.

Will held up his beer “If you make a bottle from glass, you give it depth and width and height. It extends in those three dimensions.”

“OK.”

“If I cut a slice out of the middle of this bottle, here and here,”—waving two fingers horizontally across the label—“I get a two dimensional piece: a glass ring.”

“Right. I can picture that.”

“But the bottle also extends in time, four dimensions in what physicists call spacetime. What you see when you look at the bottle, what most people think of as the whole bottle, is also only a slice. The bottle is actually the shape of a bottle in three dimensions and a long path in the fourth, from the place where glass is molded, to where it is filled with beer, to the distributor, a truck, a shelf in your cooler, a bouncy bottle shaped segment where you brought it out to me, and now this spiral through spacetime.” Will waved the bottle in a loop. “And finally this parabola.” He threw the bottle in a high arc so it smashed against an adobe wall at the edge of the patio. Sapphire jumped in her chair when the bottle broke.

“That path,”—Will’s waving hand indicated places where the bottle had been—“one end at a moment here on the patio, the other at a moment in an industrial plant, that path is the bottle. A bottle is not a three-dimensional glass shape. A bottle is a four dimensional path through spacetime, filled with glass, so if you slice it at any instant you get a three dimensional bottle. Ruby is the same thing.”

“A beer bottle?” asked Sapphire. Ruby grinned.

“A path. Ruby is not a moving point. She’s a path. Everything is a path. We are paths making up a four dimensional tapestry of objects in spacetime.”

“That does make sense,” said the barman.

“Does it?” Sapphire asked.

“It does,” said Emily. “He’s seen it.”

“I have,” said Will. “That tapestry is what I observe when I cast the Spell of Unweaving. I see the objects around me extended in time. I find the target, not the thin slice we usually see but the whole extended target, from its beginning to its end, and I pull it out.”

“Out of . . . ?” asked the barman.

“Out of time. Out of reality. It doesn’t just stop existing. It never existed in the first place.”

“Ay! Some trick.”

“And free will?” asked Sapphire.

Will took the notepad from Emily, flipped a new page and drew a line. “This is a ball moving on a straight path.” Beside it Will drew two lines, each coming in to a point and then bent away again, an X drawn not by crossing but by drawing first one side of the X and then the other. “These are two balls colliding. They move together and then apart. Each ball is a path, remember. Not a round object here and here and here and here.” He touched points on lines. “But the path itself. It only looks like a round object if you slice it at an instant. The ball is the path.” His tone was emphatic.

“Yes, I get that.” Sapphire’s tone was equally emphatic.

“Right. We say the reason these two paths bend is because the balls bounce off each other. But if I tell you all of time exists at once, you might think the reason the ball bounces is because its future path was bent. The ball had no choice. It was going to bounce because a bent path is its unavoidable fate.”

“Helpless little ball,” said Emily. The barman smiled.

“So, if you take away the other ball, the single ball still bounces?” asked Sapphire.

“No,” said Will, “of course not. If this ball isn’t here . . .” he erased one side of the X, “. . . the other ball-path changes.” He erased half of the bent line and drew it again straight. “We’ve written the laws of physics wrong. We say this will happen and then this will happen and then this will happen, a sequence of events, but the real way to see it is a collection of shapes: spacetime geometry. In schools, we teach when things collide momentum transfers, and then they move apart. If you look at it as I’ve seen it, you make a rule saying when you get a pair of intersecting shapes,” Will drew an X by crossing two lines, “those shapes always change to this.” He drew two sides again, the bumping balls.

“Or if you take one away, the other always straightens,” said Emily, “reweaving the time stub.”

“Exactly!” Will looked at Emily with the pride he would have in a good student. Professor Hilsat loved teaching.

“You’re not saying the ball has free will, are you?” asked Sapphire.

“No, but look at this path.” Will drew a single line with a bend in it, a sideways V. “This is you, and at this bend, you make a decision to turn.”

“All right.”

“If you look at this the wrong way, with the illusion of a special moment called now, you say that when you’re here,” Will touched the pencil at the beginning of the line, “you won’t be able to make a free-will decision to turn, because your path is already bent, so when you get to the bend the decision was already made.”

“Right.”

“Already!” Will stuck out his tongue and shook his head. “Bad old time word! If you look at this without illusions, it’s not you here and then here and then here. You understand this whole path is you. You, with the free-will decision to turn, look like this.” Will pointed at the bent line. “Or with the decision to go straight, like this.” He drew a diagonal. “The ball was never fated to turn. The ball-path bent because of the other ball. You’re not a person here fated to turn there; you’re the entire path, including the bend of your free-will decision. The decision you make tomorrow exists because you’re there making it. You’re not deceived by some illusion of free will. Taking into account the true nature of time, your free-will decisions of tomorrow are part of what you are.”

Emily asked, “When you said philosophers would argue free will all night, you were speaking from experience, weren’t you?” Will opened his mouth to answer, realized what she meant, and closed it again. He nodded sheepishly. She smiled at him in a way he had never seen before.

The barman went to get Will another beer and a round for everyone as long as he was up. “Remember, nothing important while I’m gone.” They agreed. They did not discuss anything important, but Emily and Will found unimportant things to say.

Sapphire breathed in a warm floral scent from the garden and appreciated the crystal tones of a mountain chickadee. This reminded her of moments she had enjoyed out here with books, but was also unlike anything she ever expected to do in her life. Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch was running well enough, but not as well as if Ruby had been undistracted. Sapphire found this no longer bothered her. At least, not much.

When the barman came back, he had a fresh question. “Your name was Free in the other reality, and it’s Will here. Free. Will. Does that mean something?”

“It means the Old Man had a strange sense of humor. He gave me the name as a joke. He didn’t believe in free will, so he called me that to remind me every day of what does not exist.”

Emily said, “I remember now, the Old Man explaining how we didn’t have free will. Crystal disagreed with him, although she could never convince him. Or you, now that I think of it. You agreed with him.”

“Free did. I don’t. I’m not Free,” said Will.

The Magical Individual’s Collective Authority

Second Annual Convention

July 13-15

Atlanta, Georgia, USA

Keynote Speakers

Concurrent Presentations

Magical Device Exhibition

Spell Workshops

Poster Sessions

Division Meetings

Election of Officers

Social Gatherings

Register with the enclosed form

or online in the MICA virtual world.

Join us for a magical time!

--------------------------

“For heaven’s sake, will you look at this?” Xerxes Golyam held an invitation for Taffy Tabor to examine.

“The way the text forms a mushroom in the middle is cute.”

“But the first line? They put the apostrophe in the wrong place. Honestly! Do they think this collective authority is only one magical individual?”

“That would be you, of course. Witches and wizards we have aplenty, but only one Xerxes.” Taffy enjoyed the blush this raised on President Golyam. “Here, let me see those.” She flipped through the stack. “I have a stain removal spell that will fix this.”

“We need the apostrophe moved, not removed.”

“Actually, you need the apostrophe and the S swapped.”

“A stain removal spell can do that?”

“When I remove a stain, it stays intact. As an apprentice I practiced cleaning grape jelly back and forth from one sleeve to the other. The stain maintained its shape anywhere I put it. Ink works the same way, just a stain on paper.”

“But we have hundreds of these. Surely your freezer cannot hold so many cats?”

Taffy laughed aloud. Xerxes wanted to mention what a musical sound this was but could not think how to work it into conversation.

“Stop being silly. It is not always cats. I have a trout I am certain will be magical enough for this job. I can do the whole stack in one go.”

“If you are sure it will not be a bother. We could get them reprinted.”

“Not in time to mail tomorrow. No, you leave these to me.” Taffy tucked the invitations back into their wrapper and put the package in her handbag.

“What an interesting purse.”

“Genuine alligator. Made it myself. Have a look.”

“You made this?” Xerxes examined the bag’s bumpy seams and shining green surfaces. “From scratch?”

“I was vacationing in Florida. The ’gator was a lucky find, loaded with magic, delicious steaks and excellent hide.”

“You are full of surprising talents.” Xerxes returned the bag. “I appreciate how you have used them the last few weeks. You have been a lucky find for MICA. And for me.”

It was Taffy’s turn to blush. “Say, that trout is pretty good sized. After I extract the magic, I should have it for dinner, but it would be too much for one person. Would you care to join me this evening?”

Xerxes considered this offer while Taffy tidied things that were already tidy. “I suppose we could go over some of those schedule changes after we eat.”

“Yes, I suppose we could.”

This second MICA would be larger because organizers were getting better at advance promotion and because attendees at the first convention were enthusiastic when they spoke of it with other magic users face-to-face and at the online site created as MICA’s primary electronic medium. Serious three-dimensional computer realms were one of those ideas that were always about to become a big deal but never did. A far-flung community used to unusual methods, magic users took to the virtual world as no group had before. 

It was admittedly not the most efficient means of communication. Early online meetings consisted primarily of avatars explaining to other avatars about how to be an avatar, but this animated body-conscious format leant itself to communicating the physical techniques of spell casting. The site became popular for the same reasons MICA did; it was accessible, informative and fun.

In the weeks leading up to the conference, the site hosted chats with scheduled presenters, spell workshop previews, games and dance parties. Xerxes had been initially skeptical of cartoon choreography so was astonished at how popular these virtual dances became and at how much he enjoyed attending one once Taffy talked him into it. He later discovered she had gotten the DJ to work his favorite songs into the dance mix.

Participants regularly expressed disbelief when they learned the only real magic used in the MICA site was to augment the speed of non-magical technologies. The hosting company did what it could, but their equipment was not up to demand. The Spell of Enhanced Bandwidth became one of MICA’s most popular.

All in all, a fine crowd was heading to Atlanta for the second MICA. Even Nomik Motchk was flying in on his private jet. He had purchased it, rumor said, following a bad travel experience and a pledge to never again board a commercial airliner.

Motchk’s personal secretary had joined the MICA Non-Magical Affiliate, a group very unofficially called the Leefer League. His avatar, a giant lizard with brightly colored feathers, had become a well-known figure in the virtual community. He had registered his master for the conference and booked a corner suite on the top floor of the convention hotel. Xerxes had been relieved when Motchk did not come that first year, but now, with the organization up and running, he was pleased to see Mexico’s master of time magic would be attending. After all, MICA existed not to open divisions between magicians but to close them.

Ruby’s Dreamland Ranch had never closed for a holiday, a cause of grumbling among the staff. Emily considered staying open during MICA but knew their reputation was slipping already. She did not want to chance operating even a few days without magic so decided the brotheling public could use a rest. Sapphire and the barman would remain in Nevada, oversee long postponed maintenance projects and take a well-deserved vacation.

Will and Emily were going to MICA because Emily had suggested Abigail Arnold as their entry point into the secrets of Nomik Motchk. “If he’s crafting some nefarious plot, we’ll get nothing from him directly. Peregrine Arnold may have information but has locked himself up tight. His daughter, however, has begun to travel the way her Daddy once did. Abigail will be at MICA for sure. She’s young and inexperienced, the sort of material I can work with.”

“You think you can get into her head?” Will asked.

“Probably not. But I can show you how to let me back into yours, and with that, you can work your way into the Arnold castle by the Abigail gate.”

“Where Peregrine will run him through with a lance?” the barman asked.

“Assuming Will’s recollections of his online call are accurate, Peregrine never saw Will’s face nor heard his name. If reputations are an indicator, Will should have a better chance with Arnold than with Motchk. Who knows? Maybe the old fellow will take a nap after dinner and Will can sneak upstairs for a quick peek at papers in his study.”

It sounded doubtful but was the best option anyone had come up with. Emily would teach Will to let his defenses down so she could fine-tune his behaviors during encounters with Abigail.

“What? I’m not charming enough on my own?”

“We’ll be using the existing Hilsat charms, but we’re coupling those with my vast experience. Or do you believe you’ll be able to tell, in the first few minutes after you meet her, exactly what Abigail Arnold wants and exactly how to give it to her?”

“When you answer,” Sapphire said, “list the other women you’ve done that for.”

Will decided to do it Emily’s way.

Will Hilsat and Toby Bis had sat out the first MICA, attending only virtual events. At the second MICA, President Golyam was delighted to have Professor Hilsat making a public presentation of his magical research, although disappointed Hilsat’s number two would not be attending. Toby Bis felt Atlanta was not an adequate destination, reportedly having said, “You go through Atlanta, not to it.”

An online convention schedule allowed attendees to plan their days in advance. Most presentations would not be broadcast. This was done to assure the membership had reason to attend in person, a system that would be abandoned in later years as having served convention organizers more than the organization.

The description of Professor Hilsat’s presentation, A Multicultural Mathematical Approach to Temporo-Spatial Metamagical Structures, had particular appeal to Peregrine and Abigail Arnold. Daddy did not travel to Atlanta, but Abigail and her friend, the magical genealogist Jinasu Mao, attended the presentation the first morning and spent that afternoon getting to know Professor Hilsat and his work. He was a charming man, unusually graceful and confident, with some mystery as to his background. Abigail found him rather exciting.

Together, they encountered another mystery in the hotel coffee shop, a leefer named Dexter Toole who had recently inherited a pack of playing cards that only appeared to be magical. A pleasant group, including Will, Abigail, Jinasu, MICA’s president Xerxes Golyam and the restaurateur Lalo Kabrak, decided to form a party the next evening at the Observatory Lounge to hear a performance by Jake Blake, a coffee shop employee who also sang. They would try to solve the playing card mystery. Abigail and Jinasu would work on the Will Hilsat mystery as well. This second MICA was Abigail’s first, and she was having a fabulous time.

The sign reading “Observatory Lounge” was printed on an arrow pointing straight up. Xerxes craned his neck and whistled. Fifty stories above was a glass floor, tables, chairs, barely visible people, a glass ceiling and the stars beyond. Lalo arrived in time to join Xerxes in the elevator.

“I am surprised you did not bring the Tabor woman.”

“Taffy had a necromancer SIG event.”

“Pity.” Lalo touched his head. “Did you feel that?”

“Ears popping as we go up?”

“Nice. It adds to the effect.”

Xerxes and Lalo did not gasp when the elevator doors opened, although many first time arrivals at the Observatory did. Steel beams supporting massive sheets of glass were bent so floor and ceiling appeared to curve outward from the center of the room, giving the impression the entire nightclub was inside a gigantic lens.

“Who would think to put a glass room on top of a skyscraper in such a way the city is not visible?” asked Xerxes. “That must be what makes the stars so bright.”

“Look,” said Lalo, “they have placed lights in the atrium below so they mirror those stars in intensity. If I were not always so original, I would steal this.”

“You will use it for inspiration.”

They stepped out of the elevator onto a beautifully polished floor. “Notice this ring of traditional woods and carpeting under the outer tables.”

Xerxes stood at the brink and looked down. “For people afraid to walk across glass five hundred feet in the air.”

“Exactly. Even a railing to protect us from falling off an edge from which we could not possibly fall. Thoughtful.” Lalo’s gaze took in everything while Xerxes paid the cover charge. “The stage hovering in the middle of the room on a ring of light, it is like a spaceship. The tables a fleet of smaller craft around it.”

“Place does good business. You have to wonder how a guy from the coffee shop next door plays a room like this.”

“I am sure Jake will be fine,” said Lalo. “Oh! Do you hear that? It is one of mine.”

“One of your what?”

“That sound. My audio psychologist designed it.”

Xerxes listened to the ambient noise. “Pleasant. Unobtrusive. Unidentifiable. Sort of natural but not anything specific.”

“A calculated acoustic pattern to replace background music. No audience should listen to recorded songs on inferior speakers between live sets, and no local musician should be expected to perform immediately after someone else’s national hit. But silence suppresses conversation, which in turn suppresses sales, so we created this sound.”

“You are saying these people stole it from you?”

“No. I posted it for free distribution.”

“On the MICA sight? Magicians run this place?”

“I doubt it. I posted on a regular public site that distributes sounds.”

“Why give it away to the competition?”

“This is too important to restrict to one enterprise. I often go out to enjoy music. I released the sound, and this evening my pleasure will be enhanced because of my generosity. As will that of our friends, I am sure.”

Will, Abigail, Jinasu and Dexter were already seated around the far side of a table situated in a gap in the railing. Dexter, his chair on glass, was enjoying the view down fifty stories to the lobby below. Will was seated well back on the wooden outer ring. The ladies sat between them. Jinasu, beside Dexter, wore an elegant burgundy cheongsam. Abigail was lovely in a little black dress. Xerxes and Lalo joined them, sitting next to Dexter over glass.

Jake Blake emerged from behind a partition. “Lalo. Abigail. Everybody. Good to see you. Is this place great?”

“Amazing,” said Abigail. Everyone expressed agreement.

“How are the acoustics?” asked Lalo.

“Between two sheets of glass? Not as bad as you might think. Stick around and judge for yourself. They tell me the trickiest parts of construction were getting the sound right and dealing with spills.”

“Spills?” asked Jinasu.

“Booze on glass,” said Jake. “A microchannel surface prevents a drink sloshed on the ground from sending the next dancer down on his butt. The real trick was getting that texture clear. Takes a special machine to clean it.”

Dexter slid his foot along the floor. “Too bad my uncle didn’t have something like this. Might have saved his life.” Dexter’s uncle Alexander, his fatal poolside accident and his highly successful businesses, were the topic of discussion until Jake had to rejoin his band preparing for the evening’s performance. Drinks and snacks were ordered, with Lalo playing a significant role in their selection and magical enhancement. Everyone was well satisfied.

A general discussion of the day’s events included praise for MICA and its officers. Xerxes reported with pride that attendance was doubled and that every presenter so far had managed to present. Lalo and Jinasu, both participants in the first MICA, agreed things were going better this year. Xerxes turned to Will and Abigail.

“How have you two newcomers been getting along?”

“Great,” said Abigail. “I will definitely come next year.”

“I should hope so,” said Will. “Meeting you . . .” He paused, looking into Abigail’s eyes and then around the table. “Meeting all of you has been the best part of MICA.”

“As it should be,” said Xerxes.

“I have collected contact information from absolutely everybody,” said Abigail. “The conference is great, but getting to meet you people, to know we will see each other again in the future, is what makes it really worthwhile.”

Daddy, said a voice in Will’s head. “I hope Abigail’s father can attend next year.”

“Oh, yes! Daddy would absolutely love it.” After a moment though, Abigail’s face fell into a look of concern.

Will leaned near and touched her hand. “What is it?”

“Nothing you can help.”

Jinasu was looking at the stage. “Somebody is up to something.” Colored beams flicked reflections off chrome instrument stands. The background sound peaked in intensity and then faded, leaving no tune running in heads and everyone sensing this audible void needed filling.

The band came out from behind the partition, seven musicians and Jake. As they made their way to the stage, it was clear that these were people who enjoyed each other’s company. They began playing without introduction. The music was contemporary, intelligent, but not so challenging as to be unpleasant. Jake initially stood with eyes closed, listening along with the audience. When he finally sang, he had a fascinating voice used in ways that were startlingly passionate. Lalo nudged Xerxes, winked and then turned his chair away from the table so he could concentrate attention on the stage.

While the band performed, Xerxes asked Dexter to bring out his cards, which he was only too happy to do. Xerxes leaned across behind Lalo, occasionally giving Dexter suggestions as he played various types of solitaire. Jinasu moved in time with the music but still paid close attention to the games. Without taking his eyes from the cards, Xerxes chatted about a reception he had hosted in the Presidential Suite. Jinasu offered observations on every witch and wizard he mentioned. Xerxes took Nomik Motchk’s participation as a good sign.

Abigail, whose attention had been divided between Will and the music, stiffened at the mention of Motchk. “I crossed his path in a hallway this morning.”

“What do you think of him?” asked Xerxes.

“Our family has known him for years. He was rude to me, but I would expect nothing else.”

“What sort of cad could be rude to you?” asked Will. When he tried to think what to say next, the voice in his head said dance. Soon he and Abigail were swaying together on that highly implausible floor.

Lalo thought Will and Abigail made a graceful pair suspended among the stars, their movements pleasing to watch, as if they had been dancing partners forever rather than meeting only yesterday. Lalo suggested he and Jinasu join them. They were not half bad themselves. As the moon rose over swirling couples, Lalo made mental notes for future restaurants.

When the band’s first set ended and the dancers had returned, Jake came down from the stage and appropriated an empty chair from another table. He sat a bit out from the circle, between Lalo and Dexter. “What’s up with the cards?”

“Hang on, Jake,” said Jinasu. “Music first. That was marvelous. I love dancing in the night sky.”

“Oh, me too,” said Abigail.

“Jake, you are fantastic,” said Lalo.

The praise mounted when Jake revealed, in response to a question, that he wrote his own songs. Abigail was excited by this, as it was a talent she had never encountered before. “How on earth do you do that? I cannot imagine it.”

“You can’t imagine how I write music?” Jake’s eyes had locked on hers. “You’re magical. You must do lots of things I couldn’t imagine.”

“Nothing like that, Jake. It was absolutely gorgeous.” Abigail leaned toward him as she spoke.

True, said the voice in Will’s head. It was not what he expected, but he went along. “It was gorgeous, Jake. You have a true gift.”

“You see.” Abigail smiled dazzlingly, first at Will and then at Jake. “You have new fans.”

The smile brought Jake to a halt, but only for a moment. “Enough of my rave reviews. Those cards of Dexter’s—have we learned anything?”

“All right.” Jinasu waved her hand over the spread. “Dexter, what have you and Xerxes been doing here?”

“I’m not sure.” Dexter looked to Xerxes for enlightenment.

“First I had him on Aces Up, a quick solitaire to play and a hard one to win, but he won it every time.”

“No surprise,” said Jake.

“What I was looking for was how he played.”

“And how was that?” asked Jinasu.

Xerxes shook his head. “Badly. He threw away his options, filling in open slots to no purpose. He knows the rules but nothing of the strategy. Understandable, I suppose, since he always wins anyway.”

“The point of this being?”

“The cards make Dexter a winner but not a good player. They are doing the winning without his help.”

“Maybe he is a brilliant player,” said Abigail. “Maybe his strategy is so innovative we do not recognize it.”

“Dex,” said Will, “you’re a genius.” Dexter smiled, though doubtfully.

“That is why I had him play Clock,” said Xerxes, “unique among the solitaires in that it does not require a person.”

“How’s that?” asked Jake.

“You deal cards to twelve locations, representing numbers on the face of a clock, and a thirteenth pile in the center.” Dexter demonstrated as Xerxes described the game. “Turn the top card in the middle.” Dexter did. “He turned a six, so he puts it under the stack at the six position and turns that top card. He got a nine, which goes under the nine pile, and so forth. Any time he gets a king, it goes back in the center, where he turns that top card. He wins if he turns all the cards on the clock before turning the last king.”

“OK. Why doesn’t that require a person?”

“It is purely mechanical. Whatever card Dexter turns determines where that card goes. The game has no decisions and no strategy. A machine could play it for him.”

“Your odds of winning are one in thirteen,” said Will. People looked at him questioningly.

“Will is a mathematician, you know,” said Abigail.

“And he is right,” said Xerxes. “If the last card in the preordained sequence is a king, as one card in thirteen is, you win. You may as well shuffle the deck, flip it over, and call yourself a winner whenever the bottom card is a king.”

“So Dexter is getting a king every time?” asked Jinasu.

“He played three rounds of Clock and won each of them. Nothing he does controls that. It is the cards alone.”

“Thirteen cubed,” said Will. “One chance in 2,197.” Everyone, including Abigail, ignored this.

“Let me try,” said Jake. He finished playing the game Dexter had begun and lost it when the fourth king appeared with the four, three, two and jack piles yet to be completed. “You’re right. I feel no responsibility for that loss.”

Abigail thought this was pretty funny. While laughing, she locked eyes with Jake long enough that it worried Will.

At this moment, two attractive young women, dressed provocatively, yet with an elegance that excused the provocation, stood up from where they had been sitting by a third person and strode across the glass floor toward the magicians’ table. Their movements were graceful, lively and undeniably sexy. “Dr. Hilsat! I told Zoe it was you. What’re you doing here in Atlanta?”

“Yolanda. Zoe. How good to see you. Everyone, these are former students of mine. Ladies, this is my friend Abigail Arnold.” Will continued introductions around the table. Polite greetings were exchanged.

Yolanda and Zoe stood on either side of Will’s chair. They leaned in close, attempting to engage him in a private conversation. Will went along at first but then made it clear through words and gestures that, although he was glad to see them, he wanted to focus attention on his friend Abigail. The girls seemed slow to take the hint until Will, after hearing songbird silently spoken in his head, pointed out Jake Blake was sitting across the table. The girls, it turned out, had absolutely loved Jake’s voice and switched their attentions. This did not bother Jake in the least.

Abigail had found the arrival of Will’s students strangely disconcerting. She was not used to being among so many new people. Although she enjoyed it, she had been relying on the support of friends to keep her unstressed. Jinasu of course, but Abigail had not realized how much she was also leaning on Will until he was drawn away. How had he become such a good friend in such a short time?

When the girls moved to Jake, Will looked at Abigail with an expression that, in her mind, said it all. Will took her hand. She shifted her chair closer to his, leaning on his shoulder. When Jake had to rejoin the band on stage, the girls went back to their table, but first Zoe, who was truly gorgeous, leaned over to whisper in Abigail’s ear a single word. “Lucky.”

Yes, thought Abigail. In this place, with these people, especially this man, I am the luckiest girl in the world.

As he was preparing for bed, the engineer’s phone rang. The salesman was attending MICA and had called earlier to have technical questions answered for a prospective client. His mood was exuberant because, he had said, “Motchk chose not to fling me off a balcony. Instead he walked me into the President’s Suite for a reception full of opportunity.” The engineer thought this might be the salesman again. 

When he hit the button, however, it was Nomik Motchk who appeared on the screen. Motchk, seeing panic on the engineer’s face, had to suppress a laugh. He suppressed it well enough that the panic remained in place.

“Good evening. Am I calling at too late an hour?”

“No! Certainly not, sir.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I had a chat yesterday with one of your salesmen.”

“Did you?” The engineer swallowed involuntarily. “Yes, you did. I am sorry. We had problems with specifications. Very sorry. Beyond our abilities. I could not be more sorry.”

Motchk cut the man off before he could apologize again. “I understand completely.”

“You do?”

“You are not the first people of whom I have asked the impossible.” Before that moment, the engineer would have bet Motchk could not smile, but once he did, it was not so bad. “Reality imposes limitations.”

“Yet we hate to disappoint a client.”

“I am glad to hear you say that. You see, I have another project. It is not exactly what your company does, but your business card says, ‘other magical needs, large and small.’ Based on what my friend Mrs. Hoolbruke tells me, I think you may have the skills I need. Interested?”

“Of course, Mr. Motchk. We will do anything we can.”

“I am sure you will. Have you experience with fungus?”

The band had finished its second set. Jake was sitting between Dexter and Lalo again. Dexter’s cards were spread on the table but with no progress in trying to understand them. Then Xerxes made a suggestion. “I want you to play a new game, one I have invented for you.”

“OK,” said Dexter. “What are the rules?”

“Simple. Shuffle the deck.” Dexter gathered the cards and shuffled three times. “Good. This is a game I call Fill Me In. The goal is to accumulate information.”

“About what?”

“Anything.”

Xerxes’s words confused Dexter, but he felt better when he looked around the table and saw he was not alone.

“What you are going to do is turn over a card. If we learn no more than the identity of the card, you lose. If we learn anything else, you win. Got it?”

“I think so.”

“Good. To be sure, please repeat the rules.”

“I turn a card. I win only if we learn something beyond the identity of the card.”

“Perfect. Keep the rules fixed in your mind.”

“OK.” Dexter whispered to himself, “learning wins, no learning loses,” over and over. Everyone at the table was watching him now.

“As of this moment, you are officially playing Fill Me In.”

Dexter turned the top card and placed it face up.

“What is that?” asked Jinasu. “A bunch of sticks?”

“I was hoping for text,” said Xerxes. “Still, this is a start.”

“But what is it?”

“A tarot card. The six of wands.”

“Did I win?” asked Dexter.

“You did. We have knowledge we did not have before.”

“What?” asked Will. “That we have six magicians present?”

“Five, actually,” said Xerxes, “unless Jake or Dexter is a wizard. I do not see other MICA members here tonight.”

“I already knew you were magicians,” said Dexter.

“The new thing you know is those cards are ready to talk. Now we need someone who listens in their language. I have just the person: Madame Selseket.”

“Oh, no,” said Lalo. “This is not a good idea.”

“Please, Lalo,” said Dexter, “I’ve made no progress in months. If Xerxes has a plan, I say we go for it.”

“It was not my idea.” Xerxes smirked. “It is in the cards.”

“This is a waste.”

Colors flowed over Lalo as the taxi passed through pools of light, forsaking shining towers of convention hotels to enter a landscape of lower stature lit courtesy of advertisers rather than architects.

“Play Fill Me In.” Xerxes commanded from the front seat. Dexter, sandwiched between Jake and Lalo in the back, obeyed. A game played with a single card fits nicely in a crowded cab. That card was thrust forward between front seats until a wave of illumination made it visible for Xerxes to identify. “Two of wands.”

“Sounds right,” said Jake. “Two wizards in the cab.”

Lalo sniffed. “Dexter, tarot is not magic. It is simple fraud. The reader takes your money and tells you what you want to hear wrapped in a load of occult nonsense.”

Xerxes responded to charges from the back seat. “Madame Selseket is not magical. That I freely admit.”

“Selseket?” asked Jake. “Why do I know that name?”

“She works here in Atlanta. I have known her for years. The cards want to talk tarot, and Selseket is as good a reader as any.”

“Your old friend will read for free?” asked Lalo.

Xerxes laughed. “No, but we might get tea.”

“It’s your decision,” said Jake. “What do you think?”

Dexter looked at the card in his hand. “I have to do something with these. I can afford it, Lalo. If the choice is to consult a possible fraud or to go home, can’t I take the chance?”

“If you insist, but you have been warned.”

“Did I insist?”

“No matter.” Xerxes had the driver pull over to a storefront obscured by painted emblems, nocturnal inhabitants of an arcane zoo peering from dark barred windows. “We have arrived.” An electric symbol of infinity hung over the doorway inside a protective cage, casting gridded cyan glow into the street. Lalo took in this scene and shuddered.

A second cab pulled up. Jinasu got out, and Will with Abigail clinging to his side. Traveling in caravan across a strange city at night was a new experience for Peregrine’s daughter. The destination added to this strangeness. Even their companions from the other cab seemed briefly unfamiliar. Will’s arm was reassuringly strong.

“Are we going in?” asked Jinasu.

“She has not unlocked the door yet,” said Xerxes, “but she knows we are here.”

“Psychic?”

“I phoned ahead.”

Sliding bolts were heard. A thin cloud of sweet smoke wafted out, followed by a large and heavily bejeweled hand gesturing them inside. One by one each passed through the narrow doorway.

A block short of that door, a third taxi pulled up. The sole passenger emerged and sent the cab on its way. Emily Putnam walked the final distance, halting by the window of the tarot reader’s shop. Her arrival was observed but not noticed. This had been the pattern of the day—at the morning presentation, in the hotel cafe, in her meeting with Will in a hallway. Men who had stared at Yolanda and Zoe in the Observatory Lounge saw three people at the table but would later be unable to recall if the third was male or female, light or dark, young or old. It was not invisibility, but it was good enough.

Xerxes, Dexter and the rest had entered a strangely angled corridor. Tall tapestries displayed images of kings, queens, knights and pages. One wished to examine them from a distance but lacked the space. The person who had beckoned them inward flowed around a corner, rainbow skirt swirling as she vanished. When they reached the bend, they found her already seated at a table in an irregularly shaped room.

“Xer-xes.” Madame Selseket dragged out the name. “Wonderful to see you.” Her voice was surprisingly deep.

Perhaps, thought Abigail, she has a cold.

Xerxes bent down, giving her the opportunity to kiss him on both cheeks. “You as well, my dear.”

“You locked the door behind you, yes?”

“Of course.”

“And Lalo. How long has it been?”

“Too long.” Lalo did not bend.

“Liar! You would have been happy to avoid me forever.” Madame Selseket laughed gaily. “And who are your other friends? Such a mob in my humble hut. Do we sell tickets, Xerxes? Should I charge by the head?”

Xerxes made the introduction of Jinasu, Abigail, Will and Jake. “And this is Dexter Toole, the man we were hoping you could read for this evening.”

“Dexter Toole, always a pleasure to meet a fellow seeker on the path to enlightenment. Please sit, Dexter Toole.” Madame Selseket indicated chairs. Dexter sat in one. She gave a deep nod of her head, as if to suggest he had chosen wisely. “And the rest.” She waved a hand around the table.

Xerxes and the ladies took the remaining seats. Will realized the wall behind him was the painted inside of the front window. The corridor must split the tiny shop on a diagonal, doors beyond leading to the remaining half of the oddly divided space and probably a stairway.

“I love this room,” said Jinasu. “What beautiful tapestries you have.” Walls were covered from floor to ceiling with images of men, women, angels and a devil, holding arcane objects, in poses evocative of mystery. Colors were rich, with shimmering highlights in threads of copper, silver and gold.

“I think of it as a temple,” said Madame Selseket.

“When you see the infinity sign over the door, it suggests anything could happen here.”

“Yes, the lemniscate.” Madame Selseket savored the obscure term. “You will notice the lemniscate as well on this tapestry.” She indicated an image: a man wearing a tunic belted by a serpent biting its own tail. On a table before him were a goblet, a sword and a five-pointed star. He held a wand in his raised hand. Below, silver-threaded letters on black identified The Magician.

Will pointed to the infinity symbol floating above that magician’s head. “Lemniscate of Bernoulli.”

Madame Selseket raised her eyebrows.

“That one is, anyway.”

Everyone looked at Will uncertainly.

“The set of points in a plane located such that the product of their distance from two foci is equal to the square of half the distance between those foci.”

People continued to look.

“The one outside the door doesn’t fit the formula as well, but it’s probably harder to do in neon tubing.”

The looks remained uncertain.

“Recognizing curves and their equations comes up a lot in my work.” Will heard a word in his head. Enough! For once, he had anticipated it.

“Ah,” said Lalo, “the word lemniscate is Latin, adorned with ribbons, so the line must be a ribbon hung from your two foci.”

“Fascinating,” said Madame Selseket. “Thank you folks so much for dropping by this evening to enlighten me. Was the first lesson free, or do I owe you?”

“We will negotiate a small deduction from your fee,” said Xerxes. They both laughed, but only a little.

“Shall we move on to the reading?” She pulled a stack of large cards from a hidden shelf beneath the table so they appeared as if by magic. She began to shuffle.

“Yes, but we have a special request. We need you to use Dexter’s deck.”

“Unusual.” She set her cards aside. “But not unheard of. Anything for a friend of yours, dear Xerxes.”

Dexter passed his cards to Madame Selseket, whose hand was large enough to easily palm the entire pack. She held it up for everyone to see.

“What’s this? Tarot for toddlers? Grinning monkeys?” She turned her hand to examine the deck. “Juggling a star, a moon, a rocket and whatever that is.”

“A comet, I think,” said Dexter.

Will felt a tingle up his spine but had no idea why.

“This doesn’t even feel like a full tarot deck.” She turned the cards face up and fanned them: hearts, diamonds, clubs and spades. Her large nose wrinkled in disapproval. “Am I dealing blackjack?”

Xerxes took the cards from her and handed them back to Dexter. “Fill Me In.” Dexter flipped the top card from the deck. It was The Magician from the tapestry.

“Card tricks?”

“Call it an experiment. Play along and Dexter will double your usual fee.”

“You shame me with talk of money, but in the spirit of science, I accept.” Madame Selseket took the cards from Dexter and shuffled them. She laid ten in a pattern on the table and then turned one over: the nine of diamonds. She turned next the jack of clubs and three of hearts. “I’m not sure where this is going.”

“I must admit,” said Xerxes, “it is not tarot.”

“Dexter needs to do it,” said Jake. “Remember when I played solitaire with his deck? I lost. They won’t work for other people.”

“Of course,” said Xerxes. “If Madame would humor us, Dexter holds the cards. You tell him where to put them, when to turn them, but he does the manipulation.”

“The art of the tarot is famously flexible.” Madame Selseket gave the cards to Dexter, had him shuffle and directed him in placing them face down on the table, explaining as he did that the first six formed the Celtic cross and beside it a column of four cards called the staff. She had him turn a card in the center of the cross. It was the six of wands.

“Here we go,” said Jinasu.

Madame Selseket’s words, uncertain at first, gained confidence as each card Dexter turned was now a familiar member of the tarot pack. She spoke with him as new images were exposed, asking questions, making suggestions, modifying those suggestions based on Dexter’s responses. Reading cards she told a story of Dexter’s inheritance, his struggle to learn its meaning, his seeking people to help him, these good people around him now. When he turned the sixth card, The Sun, in the location she identified as indicative of his near future, she was particularly positive in describing good fortune this inheritance would bring.

Dexter and most of his friends were pleased. Lalo, however, caught Xerxes’s eye and frowned. Xerxes nodded in resigned agreement. A typical tarot reading, Madame was pulling information out of Dexter and feeding it back to him. An entertaining experience perhaps but not revelation.

Now the reading moved from the cross to the side of the layout. Dexter turned the bottom card in the staff, pronouncing aloud its label, “The Drowned Father.”

Madame Selseket stopped and stared. A smile spread across her face. She directed Dexter to turn the remaining cards. As each was revealed, her smile grew broader. Dexter turned The Idolatress, The Cyclops and The Void.

“Xerxes, you dirty son-of-a-bitch. You actually had me going.” Everyone looked at Xerxes, who shrugged.

“What is happening?” asked Jinasu.

“You don’t know?”

Jinasu shook her head.

“Xerxes is having fun with us, dear. These cards . . .” Madame Selseket indicated the staff. “These aren’t real tarot. The Drowned Father? Look at his eyes.” She produced a descending two-octave squeal. “Pearls!” She laughed alone. Everyone else was only confused. “They’re from ‘A Tarot Terror.’ The poem by T. E. Stearn?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jake. “I’ve read that one.”

“These are Stearn’s cards. He invented them for the poem. A real tarot deck includes no Idolatress or Void.”

“Selseket!” Jake slapped his forehead. “I knew I’d heard that name before. Madame Selseket reads the cards in ‘A Tarot Terror.’”

“I took my professional name from the poem. Xerxes must have figured that out. He set this up.” Madame Selseket glared accusingly at Xerxes, who appeared baffled. “You did, darling. Denials won’t be accepted.”

“No, I swear. This is a true night of mysteries. I had no idea what was going to happen here.”

“Nonsense. You don’t fool me, you old goat.” She half-stood and gave Xerxes a quick hug.

“It does not matter,” said Lalo. “We were getting nowhere anyway.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dexter. “I thought it was going well.”

“Lalo is right,” said Xerxes. “It was not.”

Madame Selseket brushed over the last four cards with an airy wave of her hand. “I was doing fine until we diverged into literary fantasy.”

“Nothing wrong with the reading, your usual good work, but we have not told you the whole story.”

They did. Madame was not easy to convince, having already decided this was a prank. It took Dexter’s playing hands of Clock to bring her around to taking it seriously. By the time she did, the entire party had moved upstairs to her kitchen, and everyone was drinking tea.

“You did your best. We appreciate that, but it did not get us anywhere,” said Xerxes. “I am sorry I wasted your time, Dexter.”

“And your money,” said Lalo.

“It was an honest effort,” said Dexter, “and I appreciate that. It’s too bad nothing came of it though.”

“I disagree,” said Jake.

“With what part?” asked Jinasu.

“It wasn’t Xerxes’s idea to go the tarot route. That came from the cards themselves. So did The Drowned Father and The Void and those others from the poem.”

“True.”

“I think we’re going in the right direction. We need to keep going.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Dexter needs to do it all. He handles the cards, and he does the interpretation.”

“I’d have no idea where to begin,” said Dexter.

“Can you teach him to read tarot?”

“Right now?” asked Madame Selseket. “One does not master the arcana overnight.”

“Give him a first lesson. See how it goes.”

Madame agreed to try, particularly when Dexter mentioned willingness to pay for every valuable minute.

Will suggested he and Abigail pass the time with a walk while the lesson took place. Madame Selseket intimated this was not the safest neighborhood, especially at night, but the two magicians were sure they could handle whatever came up. Abigail did not say it, but she was ready for a moment away from this tight swirl of new people. Jinasu, sitting with Lalo on a couch as they sipped their tea, half rose before she realized she had not been invited to join the couple heading down the stairs.

“Jake,” asked Xerxes, “ever play tarot?”

“Play it? I didn’t know you could.”

“Lalo and I will teach you. Jinasu, join us?”

Jinasu patted Lalo on the arm. “Would you like to?”

Lalo shrugged. “A fine game, provided the cards are not also used in telling fortunes.”

Their hostess assured them that a deck in an end table drawer had not been employed professionally, so held none of the ill luck Lalo feared. Four players gathered around a coffee table while in the kitchen Madame Selseket showed Dexter the basics of a reading.

“What do you think of Madame Selseket?” asked Abigail. She and Will had stepped out onto the street in front of the shop.

“You realize when most people around here think of magic, he is probably what comes to mind.”

“He?” Abigail’s eyes opened wide. As those magically enhanced orbs reflected neon infinity, Will noticed for the first time how beautiful they were.

“You didn’t know?”

Abigail tried to stifle a giggle.

“With that voice?”

“I thought she had a cold.” Abigail was desperate to stop her laughter from being heard in the rooms above.

Will joined her in suppressed merriment. Each, seeing the other’s struggle, only laughed harder. They ran a short distance away, stopped and caught their breaths.

“I doubt we’ll make the early sessions tomorrow.”

“Definitely not,” said Abigail. “But this evening has been well worth it.”

Shadows shifted behind her. Will realized it was Emily, arms raised, palms out as though she might step forward and take Abigail by the shoulders. It appeared as if Emily would use magic to control the girl, but Will knew he was the puppet in this show. When Emily’s lips moved, Will heard her word and knew Abigail would not. Reason.

“Yes, and you’re the reason.”

Abigail’s eyes widened again. “What do you mean?”

“It’s your presence that makes this night worthwhile.” Will had not known he would say that, but he saw the words had a positive effect.

Abigail moved closer. “Do you really feel that way?”

Will heard Jake whispered in his head. “Every man you’ve ever met feels it. I’m the one to tell you.” His tone was serious. It was odd for Will to be struggling to follow his own conversation.

“Do you think Jake feels that way?”

What was all this about Jake? But the word Will heard in his mind was yes, and this inspired action before speech. He took her in his arms in a single natural movement, forceful and gentle at the same time, the way he always wished it could be with a woman.

“If you weren’t here . . .” His voice communicated in those few words emotion of a depth that startled them both. He brushed stray hairs back from her face to better see those beautiful eyes in moonlight. He kissed her. He realized, as he felt her response, he must be doing a damned good job of it. Emily was a master of her craft.

Quite a bit of time passed pleasantly. Then the sound of a clearing throat was heard. Will looked up. Emily, if still present, was lost in darkness. Jinasu had poked her head out the doorway beneath the glowing lemniscate.

“Sorry to interrupt, but you two have got to see this.”

Will and Abigail went to the door, past Jinasu and inside. Jinasu stood in the doorway, looking into the street as if she might have seen someone. She had, but it was nobody. She went in, locking the door behind her.

The three of them went up. In the kitchen they saw everyone standing around the table. Only Dexter was seated. No one was speaking. Abigail almost laughed again when she realized Madame Selseket was the tallest person in the room. How had she not noticed before?

As they drew closer, they saw Dexter moving cards rapidly over the tabletop—sliding, rotating, flipping. The cards had no fronts or backs, no hearts or spades, no wands or pentacles, no juggling monkeys. Pictures, shapes, colors difficult to identify, it was impossible to know exactly what they saw. Only Dexter, with manic concentration on his face, seemed to understand what was going on, and he spoke not a word.

“Spooky,” said Will.

“But still not magic,” said Lalo.

“There is no magic,” said Madame Selseket.

“Not in these cards.”

“Not anywhere. Magic is only things we don’t yet understand. Once science figures it out, this stuff you people call magic will be another college course.”

“Perhaps,” said Lalo.

“A pair of cynics,” said Xerxes.

Dexter continued to manipulate his cards. Sometimes a surface would almost move or glow, but it was never the one directly observed. At other times a card placed above the rest at some odd angle would fall to the table unusually slowly.

“What is this?” asked Abigail.

“No idea,” said Xerxes.

“I think,” said Jake, “we’ve found Dexter’s game.”

Back at the hotel, it was nearly dawn when Will and Emily finally had a chance to compare notes. She insisted they meet in her room, seated at a table by the window, curtains closed, with her mobile computer between them.

“Yolanda and Zoe.” Will stretched and yawned. “Is that what women want: to be the envy of other women?”

“Not every woman, but Abigail Arnold loves it. She may have a rivalry going with her mother.”

“I thought you couldn’t read her mind.”

“Not magically.”

Will accepted this. By now he had enough experience of Emily’s non-magical skills to respect them. “I wasn’t sure what we were doing when you had me praising Jake’s talents. I thought I sensed an attraction between him and Abigail.”

“You sensed that, did you? If we weren’t interfering, those two would be wrapped around each other tonight. He’s totally smitten with her.”

“I can understand. The eyes in particular.”

“Yeah.” Emily spoke the single word with a snap. “Abigail didn’t notice Jake until he sang.” Emily had a softer tone now. “That boy has the voice.”

“So everyone says. Why was I gushing over him?”

“You agreed with her opinion. People enjoy being told their preferences are right. Next time you go out to eat, listen to your waiter.”

“OK, but was it such a great idea for me to be my potential rival’s biggest fan?”

“You identified that rival, and instead of tearing him down, you built him up. That shows confidence. Abigail craves confidence, especially with Daddy crumbling.”

“Peregrine?”

“You didn’t catch that? Oh, yeah. Did you notice how she stiffened when The Drowned Father turned up?”

“No. Interesting. But back up. Why the change in plans? Why throw the girls at Jake?”

“To distract him. You must admit they were distracting.”

Will nodded strong agreement.

“Given a choice between Abigail and a pair of dreams come true, not only did you make the right selection, Jake made the wrong one.”

“No wonder she prefers me. I’m quite a guy.”

“A masterpiece.” Emily reached across the table to brush imaginary lint from Will’s sleeve. “Now, the cards.”

“Who cares? I’ve had enough of those damned things. I admit it’s an interesting phenomenon watching Dexter make them do tricks, but nobody understands them. Leave that mystery to Xerxes and Lalo. The cards have nothing to do with us.”

Emily turned her device so Will could see the screen. Nomik Motchk was pictured before shelves of books in his study, the scene of his famous announcement. She tapped a button, and Motchk began to speak.

“I am going to tell you the truth about magic. When I say magic, you think of something like this.” He lifted a hand. The camera zoomed in on a playing card he was holding, the three of clubs. He turned it around and back again. It was now the queen of hearts. “That was not real magic. That was a trick.”

“Hold it,” said Will.

Emily clicked a button to stop the video. 

“Reverse.”

She touched the slider beneath the image. Motchk turned the queen, and Emily let the video stop, tightly framing the back of the card: a juggling cartoon lizard.

“Holy shit! A rocket, a comet, a moon and a star. When did you notice this?”

“Motchk has had that deck with him at the ranch. He shuffles it constantly but never plays a game. We were both so focused on Abigail, I didn’t make the connection with Dexter’s cards until Madame Selseket described them out loud this evening.”

“What does it mean?” asked Will.

“No idea, but we need to split up after this conference. When Abigail takes you home to meet Daddy, I’m going to follow the cards.”

“I can’t handle Abigail by myself.”

“She’s so into you right now, even you couldn’t mess it up. Anyway, you only have to keep her attracted until you get inside the castle, where Peregrine is the goal. My particular skill set would be of no help there.”

“You’re sure?”

“Abigail isn’t going to invite me home. I doubt I could get close enough to have any effect from outside the castle walls, and I don’t think we should let Dexter out of sight.” Emily tapped the image on the screen. “Do you?”

It was not that Emily had been wrong. No one else from the teams in Nevada or Virginia was available or qualified to trail Dexter Toole and his mysterious cards. The skills Emily had employed to get Will into the Arnold castle truly would be useless on Peregrine. Now that Will was in though, had been in for months, he wished Emily still served as his puppet master. With her magically charged words inside his head, he suspected he would not have bungled his way into this sticky circumstance.

The nightmarish quality of his situation reminded him of Free Hilsat’s struggle through churned earth in the Old Man’s backyard. This memory from the day of Crystal’s death was surprisingly vivid and startlingly painful. Was the breaching of magical protections to allow Emily into his head why Will was remembering those distant events so clearly?

Having removed his dark shirt, he now yanked off his white undershirt and laid it flat on pavement while recollecting soil, dust, stone, a horrid sound and Crystal’s lifeless eyes in his mind as if only hours ago. He did not have hours. Every second wasted on Free’s sorrows meant days lost in Will’s life. He concentrated on hesitation’s intolerable result to inspire himself to bite deeply into an index finger, a most unpleasant way to draw blood. A sharp blade would have made this easier, but Will had flown to England, and airport security precluded pocket knives.

Knowing it was important to appear confident, he had needed to put on a brave face at the airport. He had convinced even himself. He felt more relaxed traveling to England with Abigail than he had flying to Atlanta with Emily. Despite Emily’s absence, Abigail remained infatuated with Will clear across the ocean. He had still been her exciting new fellow when she brought him home to meet her parents.

She had taken him around to the back of the castle, to the postern gate, explaining that going over the drawbridge and through the gatehouse in front would take forever. Will now realized, when one hears the word “forever” in the home of a time wizard, one must take it literally. His second mistake. The first, he thought as he dragged his painfully bleeding finger over his undershirt, had come in paying too much attention to goals and not enough to methods.

When Abigail had introduced him to Mother and Daddy, he found them to be charming. That Mrs. Arnold was so much younger than Peregrine, younger even than his daughter, was not unusual. Such pairings are seen often if one member of the couple is beautiful and the other can afford a castle. That Mrs. Arnold was younger than Abigail, despite being her birth mother, was odd, but Will understood time magic. When it was mentioned Mrs. Arnold was a leefer, and Will revealed he had been raised by non-magical parents and was damned proud of it, he was practically a member of the Arnold family.

Peregrine in person was a reasonable guy, and Will had found it easy to talk to him. Too easy. Will jumped at the chance to hint to Peregrine the real reason he had come. Will badly underestimated how quickly Abigail would recognize what was going on, how her innocence had been abused in the service of getting him into her father’s house. Once Peregrine guessed that Will was the pushy cartoon character who had contacted him from the MICA site, Abigail went from adoring to outraged in . . . not actually less than no time but close enough.

Somewhere Abigail had learned an exotic spell. Rather than properly appreciating how fitting it was to be chased by dragons through a real English castle, Will frantically struggled to avoid slashing claws, snapping teeth and roaring jets of flame. Abigail’s scaly pets closed off his route to the postern gate, so he was forced to double back.

He moved with the power of magic to speed him, but so did the dragons. They were not much bigger than horses, but there were a lot of them. They seemed to be everywhere, and although the damned things could not fly, some managed impressive hops. Still, after fleeing through the gardens surrounding the castle keep, as he crossed the grassy courtyard and saw the stone arch through the gatehouse with its unobstructed view straight to freedom, he had believed he was going to get away.

A long tunnel through thick walls connected the courtyard to the drawbridge and then to the outside world. In ancient times this entrance would have been guarded at murder-holes, openings in the ceiling through which defenders could drop large stones or pour buckets of hot oil on intruders below. In the Arnold castle a different technique was employed, one requiring no armed attendants yet protecting against both attack and escape.

Halfway down the tunnel, Will’s magical presence had triggered the trap. He knew it was a problem when daylight faded to black, brightened and faded again. The closer he got to the drawbridge, the faster days passed. An experienced time wizard, he caught on quickly and returned to the dim center of the passage, thus saving himself from rushing into the extremely distant future.

Experimental steps back toward the courtyard set time flowing faster again. Recalling Abigail’s words about taking forever to get through the gate, Will suspected the temporal curve to be asymptotic: the closer he got to either end, the faster time would fly. Before he could exit, the sun would enter its predicted expansion and consume the earth, galaxies would drift apart, and the universe would thin to a frozen darkness only technically distinguishable from the void. Even understanding the trap, it proved impossible to remain exactly centered despite his best efforts. Every person he knew would soon grow old and die.

During the seconds it took him to understand these things, summer leaves outside the tunnel seasonally turned. This was a nice effect. If Peregrine had not built subtle photon filters into his spell, Will could have been held in simple darkness or burned to a crisp by incoming light from a multitude of days. He had to admire such spell crafting. Although Will was also a masterful time wizard, his own spells would be of no use here. In the few moments it would take him to cast, Peregrine, observing from outside in normal time, would have weeks to determine what Will was up to and counter any spell at leisure.

Will saw only one way out, and he lacked a needed marking pen. He was writing a message he hoped would be of interest to the brief human flickers he glimpsed from time to time at the tunnel’s inner end. Most of these looked like Abigail. He did not think anything he wrote, not even, “I am so sorry,” in his own blood, would have an effect on her.

Sometimes though, he thought the flickers were Peregrine, and once or twice Mrs. Arnold or a servant. They went by so quickly they were hard to make out. One of the servants reminded him of Crystal but was gone again before he could be certain he had seen her, a panic induced hallucination colored by the memories from his ring perhaps. At any rate, the family did not appear to have forgotten him. Not yet. But who knew when the Arnold household might tire of looking in on their prisoner?

He kept his message as brief as possible, writing carefully with the only materials at hand, knowing the cost in weeks to correct mistakes. The instant he finished, as he raised the shirt in front of himself, he noticed ground visible in the courtyard under the flying sun and moon was covered with snow. He wondered if Abigail would agree to have Daddy let him out before the castle crumbled to dust.

Peregrine Arnold heard a knock at his study door. Between its strokes, he finished reading a few pages. As he readjusted time back to normal, the knock rose in pitch and velocity. “Come in.”

“Daddy.”

“I suppose you would like your Mother out again this afternoon. It would be my pleasure. I know how much you two enjoyed the snow yesterday. It was good hearing you laugh together.”

“Yes, that was fun, but I have another topic to bring up, one that might be important.”

Peregrine shifted full attention to his daughter. “What is this important matter?”

“Do you remember saying that before Nomik Motchk could be dangerous he needed things he could not possibly have?”

“I should not have told you. That was a portion of a subject best forgotten in its entirety.”

“But you did tell. One thing you said Motchk required was more magic than he could possibly possess. I remember because you mentioned all the magic users on earth standing on each other’s shoulders. You said that, did you not?”

Peregrine felt a chill. “What are you getting at?”

“Come with me. You need to see this.”

They went downstairs, pulled on warm coats and passed through a door at the base of the stone keep. It was an unusually pleasant winter day, cold but calm, with only an occasional gust stirring up snowflakes to spin and sparkle in the sunshine. As Peregrine and Abigail strolled past statues and fountains, through frosted gardens and across the buried courtyard, it became clear where they were going.

“He is not completely naked, is he?”

“No, Daddy, no other clothing has come off, but your guess about his blood was right.”

“He has written us at last? After what he did to you, it had best be an apologetic bloody message.”

“That was months ago. You know I am beyond it.”

“So brave.” Peregrine gripped his daughter across the shoulders. “Your mother and I are proud.”

They arrived at the gatehouse and the opening through the castle wall. Peregrine peered into the tunnel. Will Hilsat was an unmoving silhouette brilliantly framed by sunlit bridge and snowy grounds beyond. “I cannot see a thing.”

“Use a spell, Daddy.”

Peregrine cast the seeing spell. Now he detected tiny movements inside the temporal pocket, droplets crawling through the air, flung from an injured finger. The prisoner’s face displayed desperate hope. The messaged undershirt was held up far enough that its crimson letters could be made out.

“Mag?” asked Peregrine. “Meaning what?”

“An abbreviation. I told you I saw those meters at MICA. They detect magic in units called mages. One mage is equal to all the magic possessed by an average magic user on an average day. And K is a thousand, of course.”

“Oh dear.” Peregrine looked back down the tunnel at the message Will had written for him.

N M

=

100K

MAG

“I suppose we had best find out exactly what he means.” Peregrine cast the counterspell.

Will finished raising the undershirt, took a deep breath and realized Peregrine and Abigail were at the end of the tunnel, not flashing past in an instant but simply standing. Shadows cast by the sun were not racing across the ground. An icy winter draft blew over Will’s bare torso. Knowing his message had been read, he wrapped the undershirt around his bleeding finger.

Peregrine called into the tunnel. “Can you think of anything you wish to say to my daughter?”

“Yes,” Will called back. “Yes, Abigail, of course. I’m deeply ashamed of what I did to you, Abigail. It was selfish, cruel and wrong. I did it because I thought I had to, but I shouldn’t have done it. I’m very, very sorry.”

“Right,” said Abigail. “Got it. Over it. Now what do you mean by the message on your shirt?”

Will walked carefully toward them, his voice ringing off the tunnel walls. “Nomik Motchk is extracting magical petroleum everywhere on the planet for collection in a facility in Yucatan.”

“Magical petroleum? Rubbish!” said Peregrine. “Even if such a thing exists, how would he use it? Does he hope to fuel a magic bus?”

“Necromancy.”

“Do not be ridiculous. Nomik is one of the most powerful wizards who ever lived. Necromancy?”

Abigail looked at and then pointedly ignored Will’s bare chest. Her glance revealed things Will would not have noticed before his collaboration with Emily. All Will could read of Peregrine was his skepticism. Will came close enough to speak normally.

“I’ve studied the basic necromantic spell. It requires no scaling. That’s why it can be done by anyone with a wisp of magic in them. The spell works the same to extract the magic from a faintly magical guppy or the world’s most magical whale. Even the whale isn’t terribly magical, but the combined energy of billions of plants and creatures accumulated over the eons? With that, Motchk can do a thing no magic user has ever done before.”

“What?” asked Abigail.

“I have no idea, but I believe your father has.”

“Are you getting cold?” asked Peregrine.

“Yes, now you mention it.”

“Go back and get your shirt. Put it on. Then we will see what can be done for that wounded finger.”

Will glanced down the tunnel. Dark cloth lay on the ground at the location where he had been trapped from summer into winter. He eyed the faces of Peregrine and Abigail Arnold, wishing he were able to read them as Emily undoubtedly could.

“Right.” His back to them now, he hesitated. He took a deep breath and then walked into the tunnel, took up and put on his shirt. Out far ends, the day was passing normally. Will returned to the courtyard. He walked past Peregrine—thank you—and then Abigail—thank you.

“Why will you not ask my husband to patch that finger better for you? It may never heal completely if not given proper care.”

“I think Peregrine left it only nearly fixed as a reminder for me to be less of a fool in future.”

“Good idea, then,” said Mrs. Arnold. “Perhaps everyone should nip off a fingertip.”

“I hope it does me good,” said Will.

Peregrine had brought Mrs. Arnold out at Abigail’s insistence since this was a family matter, and the entire family had a right to be present. Then Abigail had declared she was fine with the whole situation, could think of nothing to discuss, and if anyone wanted her she would be in her rooms. Peregrine needed time to contemplate the new information Will brought and would do so in his study. This left Will standing by a fireplace enjoying a relatively worry free moment, with Mrs. Arnold seated on an antique settee. Will wondered if the furniture had been new when Peregrine acquired it.

Mrs. Arnold was looking at him. Will felt he should speak. “Your husband’s spell structuring is excellent.”

“After twenty years, he still astonishes me.”

“Does he?”

“Yes. Of course, not being a witch, I don’t understand the details, and I spent most of those years suspended in time, but he tells me everyone respects what he can do. They certainly did back in the days before we married.”

“I respect what he does,” said Will. “I’d love to see how he sets the gatehouse trap. That’s a masterful piece of work.”

“Your handling of it impressed him.”

“Really? I didn’t feel I was doing that well.”

“He said you did everything exactly as you should. At first, we looked in two or three times a week to see how you were progressing. When you centered yourself in the temporal curve, he said it showed you had a real grasp of the nature of time. Most people would have wasted years bumbling about.”

“Well, I’ve seen time magic before.”

“He also said you had a quick mind because you didn’t waste time trying to use magic to escape.”

“No, I could see that wasn’t going to work.”

“When you bit your finger, he was positively delighted. Abigail thought you’d attempt a blood curse, but Peregrine said you were too smart for that. In October, when Abigail was ready to let you go, Peregrine refused because he had to see what you were going to write.”

“Did he? So, I’d have gotten out quicker if I’d simply stood there looking sad?”

“Perhaps. I rather wish you had. Your message upset my husband quite a bit.”

“I’m sorry. It must appear to you I go out of my way to disturb members of your family. You see, I need to have some questions answered. They involve, well, my own family, sort of.” Mrs. Arnold looked concerned. “Not my real family, but . . .” Will was uncertain what to say.

“I understand. Families can be complicated.”

“Yes, they can. I did some stupid things because it was the only way to gain Peregrine’s attention.”

“You should have written to me. If I’d known of your problem, perhaps I could have talked to him.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I know why.” Mrs. Arnold’s expression was suddenly downcast. “Because of what I am.”

“Because you’re not magical? Nonsense. I told you, my parents are pure leefer, and I’m proud to be their son.”

“It’s not just that I’m a leefer. It’s that I’m Peregrine Arnold’s wife and the mother of his magical daughter. Wizards don’t dwell with blood relations. Poor Abigail. People say terrible things. We try to protect her, but it’s not possible. You must have grown up with a similar situation.”

“Not really. I wasn’t involved in magic until an adult.”

“How on earth did that happen?”

“Another one of those time magic twists.”

“I see. Well anyway, in our case, everyone thinks less of Peregrine because of me. And what does that make me?”

Will was not sure how to answer.

“It makes me the thing that makes people think less of Peregrine, that’s what it makes me. For most of his old friends, that’s what defines me. I’m the creature who drags down his reputation.”

“That’s not right,” said Will. “People shouldn’t be able to make you, the object of their prejudices, feel somehow responsible for that prejudice.”

“I knew you’d understand. When I heard of your non-magical family, I felt, here’s someone who will relate to what Abigail and I go through. I was terribly disappointed when you hurt her.”

“Mrs. Arnold, I’m so sorry.”

“You seem like a nice man. I’m trying to picture how you could have come up with such a beastly scheme.”

“Actually, I wasn’t the one who did that.”

“No?”

“I have people working on the Nomik Motchk problem. It was another member of the team who suggested using Abigail as the way to reach Peregrine, but it was my responsibility. I should have considered Abigail’s feelings and rejected that proposal.”

“Professor Hilsat, the person who came up with that idea, was it a woman?”

“Why yes? Does that sound to you like the sort of thing a woman would think of?”

“Not necessarily, but might this woman go by the name of Darcy?”

Crystal is Emily is Darcy is Brandi is Ruby. Will’s level of worry went back up. “Possibly. You know how magic users are with their names.”

Mrs. Arnold stood and walked to a window, gesturing for Will to follow. She pointed down to the garden. “You see the fountain beside the trees?”

“I do.”

“And the statue next to that fountain, the one that looks like a witch casting a spell?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the woman?”

Will peered at the motionless figure. “You know, I believe it is. How long has she been like that?”

“Darcy showed up here some weeks after you did. She was pretending to be a non-magical person. We hired her as a domestic. She came well recommended by a family we know in town. Darcy had a skill for moving about the castle unnoticed, useful in a servant, but Abigail found her in places she had no business being. She always had convincing stories of why she was wherever she was so Abigail let it slide. Then one day Peregrine caught Darcy using magic to force her way into his study. He threw a spell against her and put her in the garden. The couple who had recommended her claim to have no knowledge of her now, say they do not recall mentioning her in the first place.”

“Your friends are telling you the truth, Mrs. Arnold. Darcy’s particular skill is manipulation of non-magical people.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“I suspect she was trying to find out what had happened to me. You’ve nothing to fear from her, from either of us. We’re on the same side here, Peregrine, Darcy and me. The sooner we start working together, the better.”

Peregrine had reentered the room without Will noticing. “I wish I were sure of that.”

The old wizard had not been gone long, but Will knew he could have created plenty of time to think things through. “Let’s release my friend. She and I will sit down and tell you everything we know. After that, you can make up your mind what to do with us.”

“I have a better idea.”

The look on Peregrine’s face made Will suspect this “better idea” was not one he would enjoy.

The study door was a vertical barrier resisting magical assault. Blink. The surface was horizontal. This effect put Emily off balance. To catch herself, she reached for a wall no longer there. The richly decorated corridor was gone.

This was the simple room in which she and other servants took their meals. The object replacing the study door was a bare table at which sat Will Hilsat. She had last seen his immobilized form frozen in the act of tearing off his shirt, a look of desperation on his face. He was dressed and peaceful now. She almost greeted him but recognized that, despite other improvements, Will was still not moving.

Opposite him sat Peregrine Arnold, master of time and multiple varieties of magic. This was the man who had fought Nomik Motchk to a draw, the man she, in the guise of Darcy the serving girl, had been deceiving. Apparently the deception was over. Emily was suddenly conscious of limitations in her own magical skills.

“Ruby, sit down.” Peregrine’s face was stern, his voice emotionless.

Emily sat. She was damp. The sleeves of her serving blouse were dusted with melting snow. It had been early autumn when she tried to get into the study. Now she was shivering from the cold of winter. This was wrong, but a greater wrongness struck. What had he called her?

“I am going to ask you some questions. Your future, as that of your friend Will, depends entirely on how satisfied I am with your answers. Do you understand me, Ruby?”

She nodded. She was no longer Darcy. He had called her Ruby twice, intentionally letting her know he knew. How much did he know? What had Will revealed? Had the name Ruby been given up voluntarily or taken by force? Things were beyond her knowledge and out of her control, a combination Emily had consistently worked to avoid since escaping the darkness of apprenticeship under QiLina.

“Whose idea was it, using my daughter as a means to get to me?”

Clearly there was no point pretending she and Will had not conspired to enter the castle. It was good she knew this. Peregrine’s question, though, held too much emotional potential. Her answer might set the old man off in some dangerous manner. She did not know how the conversation had been going, nor how best to answer. Her impulse was to put the blame on Will and negotiate for freedom. Who was Will to her? It was his fault she was here. Had he already betrayed her? If this were to end in disaster, who better than Will to take the fall?

Yet she had been so worried when Will failed to return from his mission to contact Peregrine. Genuinely worried. Will looked confident now. Was that on purpose? Before he was immobilized, had he adopted that expression as a message to her? She tried to read his mind, but it was not available. When she had found him in the time trap at the castle gate, he gave off an aura of thought, extremely slow but at least present. Here and now, Will may as well have been carved from stone. Peregrine’s thoughts, actively protected by magic, would be equally inaccessible.

“Please answer my questions, Ruby. Things will go better for you if you do.”

Ruby. Not Emily. Will had given up a name but not her true name. Did that mean he had spoken uncoerced, giving only information he wanted to yield? She could worsen their situation by revealing too much. On the other hand, if she told Peregrine things he already knew to be false, what would that bring? She decided on limited honesty, bending truth to her advantage where possible, counting on her ability to read signals as they arose. “We needed a way to reach you, to tell you things Will felt you should know.”

“Why use my daughter?”

“We considered a number of options, but you’d protected your home so well.” A man who lived in a castle was sure to like that bit. “Abigail was the only reliable way to get inside. We meant no harm to you.”

“Or to Abigail?”

“No, of course not. I mean, I think we could have handled that part better. We should have given more consideration to her feelings.”

“But it was your idea?”

Emily nodded.

“I shall see to it you have an opportunity to apologize to Abigail in person.”

Emily nodded again, although the offer held no appeal. 

“You did not infiltrate yourself into my home to apologize though.” Peregrine’s voice should have been challenging, his expression offended, but it was not. He was giving nothing away.

“I came here to rescue my friend Will.”

“By breaking into my study?”

“I was hoping to find information that might tell me how to safely dispel the trap that held him.”

“Were you going to do anything else?” It was not an accusation, just a question.

“No.” Of course, if she had happened to come across a pile of documents with Nomik Motchk’s name on them, she might have had a look, but she saw no reason to clutter up her answer.

“Who are you?”

Good. Here was a question Emily could take as impolite. She intentionally put a challenging tone in her response, hoping for a reaction that might be revealing. “You don’t expect my real name, do you?”

“Of course not.” Peregrine’s voice stayed level, a statement of fact with no offense taken. “I hoped you might give me some idea who was entering my home. Your profession, perhaps. Where you come from.”

“I’m in business in the United States. Nevada, near a ghost town called Beowawe.”

“What business?”

“Entertainment.”

“I would think a ghost town would be a poor location for someone in the entertainment industry.” Emily heard no hint in his tone suggesting quotation marks around the word entertainment. Did he already know what she was or what skills she used in her work? With no hope of reading his mind, she could not read his face or voice either. Peregrine might have the makings of a poker player. 

“People travel,” she said. “My clients can afford to come to me.”

“Who are your clients?”

“My clients have nothing to do with Will, or you, or any of this.”

“Then how do you happen to be involved here?”

“That’s a long story.”

“We have time.” He allowed himself a smile.

She supposed Peregrine was a man who always had whatever time he needed, but Emily wanted to get things moving. She had to knock this guy off balance. More truth was a risk, but she decided to chance it. “Will came to me at my place of business, a brothel. They’re legal in Nevada.”

Peregrine’s smile faded to a neutral expression revealing no emotion, but he hesitated as though he did not know what to say next. She had surprised him. That felt good. At last he was not in complete control. “So, you met Will as a customer at your house of prostitution?”

Emily laughed. “He’s not that kind of person.”

“What kind is he?”

“A math teacher who became a wizard. Will’s idea of a good time is plotting a curve or teaching someone else to plot one. Seriously, he loves that sort of thing. He wanted me to leave my business and do scientifically magical research with him. Trying to raise up the fallen, you know.”

Peregrine glanced at Will, a genuine expression on his face at last. Emily could hardly believe what she saw: relief and then, was that pride? Yes! He hid it in an instant, but she had seen. Peregrine liked Will and wanted him to be a good guy. Here was material Emily could work with.

“Why did he come to you? What is your connection?” The voice was flat and the expression stern again, but it was too late. Peregrine Arnold had given the game away. He might be a hell of a wizard, but Emily knew now he was no poker player. Better yet, she saw he would be an utter failure in any attempt at sustained deceit.

OK. What to say next? Why had Will come to her? She did not think the truth, that Will wanted to employ her to pick people’s brains, was what Peregrine needed to hear right now. But the old wizard had made another mistake. He had asked his question in two parts. She could jump to the second, the connection between her and Will.

She decided to tell Peregrine about the time stub. Since technically it never really happened, she would not be giving anything away, and it was a good story. She could emphasize the brilliant apprentice wizard’s sacrifice to save a fellow student. If Peregrine wanted to like Will, he was going to love this.

“Will and I knew each other in another reality. That sounds crazy and is going to sound even crazier, but it’s true and will make sense when I tell you everything. We were students together. Our master was a time wizard, much like you. I was a good student, but Will was better.” That last bit might not be true, but Peregrine would accept it. People believe the things they want to hear. “I cast a spell that went disastrously wrong. A magical staff was involved. Will decided to save my life by unweaving that staff.”

“Unweaving?” Peregrine’s voice had a quiver to it. “What do you mean by unweaving?” Was her story affecting him so much already?

“Will was prepared to sacrifice himself, his world and everything in it, to save me. He unwove the fabric of time, pulling that staff out of reality so all it had done was undone. His reality was ended to save . . .”

“Damn it!” Peregrine jumped up from his chair. “Damn it to hell!” He cast a spell. Emily could see his hands were trembling so hard it made the casting difficult, but he managed it anyway. She had no idea what to protect herself against, but she was not the target. Will Hilsat turned his head, looked at her and smiled.

Peregrine stepped to the door. “I am sure you two kids have a lot to say to each other. Have a chat. Stay here. I will be back.” He vanished.

“How’s your interrogation going?” asked Will.

Emily was looking at the door through which Peregrine had disappeared. “I’m not sure. Nice to have you behaving less like furniture, though. We should escape while our host is letting both of us move at the same time.”

“Not yet. We’ve still not learned anything.”

“Nothing to show for months of work. What have we been doing with ourselves?”

“I thought you were following a deck of cards.”

“I did for a couple of weeks. Then somebody noticed we’d not seen you in a while.”

“After only two weeks?”

“Toby Bis, I think it was.”

“Good man, Toby.”

“I like him. Although he insists I shouldn’t use contractions when I speak.”

“Yes. We’ve had that conversation.”

“Our fellow magic users sound like robots.”

“Like movie robots, which never did make sense. Any programmer who could write an artificial intelligence should have no problem adding a routine changing I am to I’m. Robots will say I’m conscious long before they are.”

Emily nodded. “I suppose so.”

“Why do you use contractions?”

“QiLina, my mentor, never taught me not to. Turned out she and her own mentor had a huge disagreement about it. QiLina had an independent streak.”

“I find that believable.”

“Do you? And why do you use contractions?”

Will held up the ring on his thumb. “No mentor. Bad habits of a non-magical childhood are hard to break.”

“I see. Anyway, Toby volunteered to take up the Dexter watch while I came after you.”

“And nobody came after you?”

“I left orders. One wants only so many villagers drowning in the same well.”

“How do you think of things like that?”

“I run a real business.”

As quickly as Peregrine had left, he was suddenly back, but it was clear to Emily he was no longer the cold interrogator. That was good. The role did not suit him. He dropped a hurriedly gathered stack of documents on the table, sat and began paging through them, sorting sheets into various piles. She wondered if these were the papers Will had come to see.

To Will, Peregrine’s manner suggested someone doing research in a library. Occasionally the youthful old wizard looked up, almost ready to speak, but then bent his head over his work again, flipping back and forth between pages, making comparisons and checking facts. He pulled a pencil from a pocket, did a calculation, dropped the pencil absentmindedly among the documents and shuffled his way deeper into the stack.

Will wondered if he should speak, but Emily seemed satisfied to sit and watch, so Will took his cue from her. It was a long time before Peregrine looked up again.

“One hundred thousand mages?”

“That’s an estimate.”

“Arrived at by what method?”

Will described Motchk’s refinery modifications, the volumes and schedules of shipments to Yucatan. When Will detailed the ninety-mage measurement he had made in the back of the storage closet in Port Harcourt, Peregrine found his pencil and did another calculation. He was satisfied but then displeased with the result.

“You are sure the unweaving actually exists?”

Will looked puzzled. Emily said, “I mentioned our past.”

“Did you? Our past? In that case, yes sir. I’ve cast the Spell of Unweaving.”

“Where?” asked Peregrine. “When? In some alternate reality or here?”

“Here.” Will held up his thumb. “I wasn’t originally a magic user, not until this ring arrived. It brought memories of a wizard who had cast the unweaving, undoing the existence of his world. I thought the same thing you must be thinking now. Unweaving couldn’t be real. Of course, at the time I didn’t think magic was real either. Even after I came to accept magic and to practice it, I still found the unweaving difficult to credit. It was years before I had a staff and was ready to try the spell.”

“But you did try it?”

“A small test. I proved to myself that it works, but I’m not sure I can prove it to you.”

“Why not?” asked Emily.

“Because it will not have happened,” said Peregrine. “That is correct, yes?”

“Exactly,” said Will. “I can cast it, and during the remainder of the time stub, you two will know I did. When the stub runs out though, the spell was never cast. We’ll be in a new reality. I’ll have additional false memories in my ring, but you won’t remember the spell or the object I cast against. You’ll have only my word the spell worked.”

“Let me wear the ring.”

“An important part of what I am today is in that ring. If I take it off, those memories vanish forever.”

“Teach me the spell. Let me cast unweaving for myself.”

“It’s the most complex spell I know. It took me years to learn, and even if you could cast it, you’d still need the ring to remember. False memory is built into the spell as a safeguard. You can’t cast the unweaving without it.”

“How many rings like yours exist?”

“I’ve only seen one other, in the same reality from which this came.”

“Who had it?”

“We called him the Old Man. In this reality, he is Nomik Motchk.”

Peregrine moaned, resting his forehead in his hand. “You do go out of your way to make me unhappy.”

The prisoners exchanged glances, uncertain what to say.

Peregrine looked up again. “Can we make another ring?”

“I’ve spoken with people at MICA. Xerxes Golyam knows someone who could get it done. I might already have another, except I spent the last six months admiring the view from your gatehouse.”

“Let us work on that. It would be good to have a spare.”

“If we’re working together now, perhaps you might tell me why you’re so interested in the unweaving? Do you believe Nomik Motchk may be planning to cast such a spell?”

“I cannot say for certain. That is why you need to get inside his study.”

“Hold it,” said Emily. “We’re here because we figured this place was easier to get into than Motchk’s, and look how that worked out. No way is Will breaking into Motchk’s house.”

Peregrine looked into Will’s eyes. “I can get you in.”

“How?”

“I know the place inside and out. I spent a lot of time there as a young man, even as a child.”

“Were you a student of El Padre?”

“I was a guest. A friend.”

“A friend of . . . ?” asked Emily.

“Nomik Motchk. My mentor was a friend of the Father and Grandfather. He would take me when he went to visit them. Nomik and I got along well. He was a brilliant student. We had shared interests. I liked his sense of humor. This was before what happened to him.”

“Before the accident,” said Will. “And that’s when you and Motchk stopped being friends?”

“No, we were still friends then. God knows Nomik was changed by it. He never believed it was an accident, you see. Neither did the Grandfather. They took it for a supernatural attack. They may have been right. I was not present and could not say, but the accident was not what ended our friendship.”

“It was your marriage,” said Emily.

Peregrine winced against a painful memory. “The man clings to his prejudices.”

“There’s been construction at the house since you knew it,” said Will.

“I am not saying it will be easy, but armed with my knowledge of the basic structure of the place as it was, and with my spell-casting skills, you should be able to get in and out again.”

“Whose casting skills?” asked Emily.

“Will’s and mine combined. Let us be honest, here. Will is good, but Nomik and I are better. Will needs to learn everything I know.”

“Everything? Do we have time for that?”

The two wizards looked at Emily.

“Never mind. Silly to have asked.”

“Thank God! Where the hell have you been?” Sapphire mixed relief and fury. “Why no call before this? And why the hell are you laughing?”

“It struck me this must be what a girl goes through if she stays out all night and comes home late to Momma.”

“All night! We haven’t heard from you in months. I almost gave you up for . . .” Sapphire choked in emotion.

“I’m in a time wizard’s castle. Things are different. It’s been months for you, but I only experienced weeks.”

Sapphire struggled to recover her composure. “That has to be the poorest excuse a momma ever heard.”

“No worries, Momma. I’m fine. Will’s fine, too. Probably having a similar conversation right now with Toby Bis, or his own momma, but fine otherwise.”

“Is he?”

“He says he’s having the educational experience of a lifetime. We both are. Will is getting a condensed course in being a master of time.”

“Is that so?”

“Perry says Will, with backgrounds in mathematics, New World magic, and spacetime, understands things better than Perry himself ever did. You should see them. Sometimes Perry starts to teach a spell, and before Will finishes learning, they’ve rewritten it together.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Perry lets me sit in on the lessons. I don’t have Will’s background in math, of course, but I have my memories of his memories of time magic. I keep up pretty well.”

“How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you call before? Did you forget we have a business?”

“It only started today. Most of the time since I last saw you, I’ve been a statue in the Arnolds’ garden, but that was straightened out this morning. It was too early to call the US, so we did a week of lessons before we broke for tea. I know that sounds confusing. It’s this time magic thing. It’s absolutely fascinating. But I’m sorry I had you worried. How’s the Ranch getting along?”

“We reopened without you, coasting on our reputation, doing the best we can, but it’s not the same.”

“I’ll get back as soon as possible, but with everything I’m learning, I can’t pass up this opportunity.”

Sapphire sighed. “I suppose I understand.”

“I couldn’t ask for a better partner to run the place in my absence.”

“You may not feel that way when you return. I don’t have your skill at negotiating contracts. Costs are up. So are customer complaints. And we had trouble with the maintenance work.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You remember the special fungus you wanted replaced in those pipes to your control room?”

“Yes.”

“We can’t get it.”

“What? Why not?”

“Someone bought up every scrap. Your supplier says it’ll be a year before he has any in stock.”

“Is he kidding? Who needs that much magical fungus?”

“A magical engineering firm. They’re buying it for some client’s project, paying whatever it takes to get it all. Is that going to be a problem?”

“While I’m not there doing magic, you don’t need it. When I get a chance, I’ll call our supplier. But no rush. It sounds like you have things under control. I must rejoin Perry and Will.”

“Under control isn’t good enough. You get back here as soon as you can.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Take care of yourself, and call me tomorrow. Real tomorrow.” The screen went dark.

Real tomorrow. That was cute. Emily would have to remember to call tomorrow, whenever it came.

She tucked her phone away and looked up to see Peregrine entering the room. He had Abigail with him. Emily’s happy mood at seeing Sapphire was dispelled. She had not been looking forward to this. She had a good idea of how it was going to go, what had to be achieved, but knew it would not be pretty.

“Ruby, you wanted to speak to my daughter.”

Emily could see what Peregrine had in mind by the position he took, stopping at the door and letting Abigail proceed into the room. Emily made it a point to appear uncomfortable. “Yes, I do. Abigail, I owe you an apology. What I did to you was inexcusable.”

Abigail cut her off before she could get further. “I keep telling people, I am over it. I am a big girl. I can deal with these things. I accept your apology on the condition we do not bring it up again.”

“Agreed. And thank you.”

Peregrine, satisfied, began to make his exit, but Abigail was not actually finished. “How did Will get to be so good at deceiving people? Why are such men like that?”

Here it was, the thing Emily had anticipated, the challenge that was also the opportunity. Abigail was opening up to her, but doing so by giving her the cue for a denunciation of men in general and Will Hilsat in particular. This did not fit the Will-as-hero scenario Emily had used with Peregrine. She had only one way to deal with this.

“It wasn’t Will. It was me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Peregrine remained in the doorway. “Yes, what does it mean? In detail, if you please.”

Perfect. He was demanding that Emily reveal exactly what she wanted to reveal. This story would have the double advantage of being true and of reinforcing Peregrine’s identification with Will through a shared character trait.

“Will lacks the talent for deception. I wasn’t only responsible for the plan to deceive you. I was the deceiver.”

Abigail huffed in disbelief. “I am pretty sure it was Will who kissed me.”

“You are not claiming to be a shapeshifter, are you?” asked Peregrine. “I have a friend who has made a study of transmogrification. It does not go nearly as far as people imagine. Significant changes in body mass are unsustainable beyond a few minutes.”

“No, although one can get around that problem. But no, Abigail, you were with Will, only he wasn’t in control. The mechanics of deception were entirely my doing.”

“And how is that managed?” asked Peregrine.

“My magical specialization is manipulation of others. For example, when I came here to rescue Will, I met one of your servants in town and inspired her to choose a new direction in her life. Then I caused a couple whom you trusted to recommend me for the position her departure left open. They weren’t even aware they did it.”

“Are you saying Will did not know what he was doing?” asked Abigail.

This was the tricky bit. Emily had to keep Will guilty enough to be believable but not so guilty as to be despised. “For such an extensive action, it was necessary he participate voluntarily, even if reluctantly. He knew what he was doing, but as I said, Will doesn’t have the flawed character to be a real deceiver. It’s not in his nature. That, I’m ashamed to admit, was entirely my work. My flaw. My fault.”

“What do you mean by manipulation?” asked Peregrine. “Could you take control of me?”

“Not without consent. I can manipulate leefers without their knowledge, but experienced magic users need to let me in. After convincing Will that using Abigail was the only way to get to you, I had to show him how to let down his defenses. Even with cooperation, I can’t control anyone, magical or otherwise, for extended periods.”

“No, I would think not. It would have to be a strain on magical reserves. How exactly do you . . .”

“Daddy, I can see this discussion will be lengthy. If you will excuse me, I have other things to do.”

“As long as you are satisfied with the apology.”

“Yes.” Abigail was leaving the room. “Beyond satisfied.”

“Now Ruby, these manipulations of yours, they remind me of a form of magic I ran across in Africa. Those spells had a physical component, a tuber substituting for a wand.”

“Physical component? That reminds me, I needed to ask you a question. When you and Nomik Motchk were friends, did you ever play cards together?”

“Cards? Yes, I suppose. In fact, I am sure we did.”

“Do you remember a deck of cards with juggling lizards on the backs?”

“Lizards? No, I do not think so. I recall a pack that had an eagle in a cactus. It was clutching a snake, not a lizard. National symbol, or some such thing.”

“But no juggling lizards? No comets or rockets?”

“Comets?” Suddenly Peregrine was interested. “Lizards and comets. Why do you ask?”

Abigail had come outside, not so much to be somewhere as not to be somewhere else. She saw Will running through snow in the courtyard. He would suddenly pop forward, crossing a dozen feet in an instant, but then move sluggishly as if through dense transparent soup. At the edge of the garden, Abigail brushed off one end of a wide iron bench. She sat behind a low stone wall over which she could watch Will’s exercises.

At first, he seemed unaware of her presence but then maneuvered a meandering path across the courtyard toward her. He approached the wall between them. “Time field.”

“Yes, I know.”

Will jumped over the wall and sat down on it, facing her. He was panting from his exertions. “Your father set it up for me to practice. He’s showing me how to spot temporal irregularities.”

“Daddy did the same for me when I was a child.”

“How old were you?”

“Six or seven.”

“You were lucky to have a great teacher at an early age.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Your father is brilliant. I’m ashamed how much time magic I didn’t know. I used to think I was an expert.”

“Daddy said something similar. You two appear to have fun studying together.”

“As a matter of fact, we do.”

“It is strange for me to say this, considering how we met, but I am glad you came here. I think you are going to be good for Daddy.”

Will stood, walked a short distance to the bench, brushed off a spot not too close to Abigail and sat.

“I’m truly deeply sorry I . . .” He saw the look on her face. “You’ve had enough of that, right?”

“Right.”

“Sorry for apologizing then.”

She smiled weakly.

“And sorry for that last one. And sorry for . . . Damn. Stuck in a loop.”

She laughed politely.

Will looked at the walls around them, seeking a new topic for conversation. “With the quantity and quality of time magic done around here, some parts of this castle must be much older than others.”

“That is usually true of castles. They do not build them all in one go. When Daddy first got this place, parts of it were already centuries older than other parts.”

“Were they?”

“They still are today, although not necessarily in the same order.” They both laughed now. Abigail studied the courtyard. “Can you guess what Daddy used to do to help me understand the time field?”

“No. What?”

Abigail stood, took a step toward Will and slapped him on the shoulder. In three long strides, she was at the garden wall and leapt across it, shouting back to him. “Tag. You, Professor, are it.” She turned and, in an instant, was halfway across the courtyard.

Will jumped to his feet and went over the wall after her. His first move was a mistake. He found himself oozing through a slow time pocket as Abigail danced like lightning around him. Soon though, he caught on. The role of “it” was exchanged many times. The combination of temporal irregularities and varying snow depths made tag a wilder game than Will had ever imagined possible. Laughter echoed off courtyard walls.

Then Abigail held up a hand, signaling for Will to stop. He had no idea what was coming now. She bent down, stood and threw a snowball that, accelerated by a time pocket between them, hit Will in the face at almost the instant it left her fingers. He bent to gather snow for a ball of his own. When he stood, she was running. He took a few steps after her and was hit by a projectile she had launched from an earlier position, one delayed in its arrival. Will realized a snowball fight in a time field was going to be even crazier than playing tag.

Upstairs, Emily heard laughter and went to the window. In the courtyard, Will was bending down in the snow. Abigail was sneaking up on him. She threw a snowball that stuck in the air, ran around it and stood directly in front of Will. He came up holding a snowball of his own to find Abigail three feet away and unarmed. He raised his hand to throw. She dropped to her knees in the instant before the snowball she had thrown earlier broke free of its time pocket, flew over her head and directly into Will’s face.

Emily’s laugh was an expression of relief. This was exactly what was needed. Peregrine had joined her at the window. He turned the handle and swung the casement open. “Will,” he called, “you need to anticipate multiple layers of future, or you are going to be soaked.”

Will looked up, wiping snow from his neck. “Crystal, get down here. You have got to try this.”

“He is right,” said Peregrine. “We should join them. A snowball fight in a time field is good training, Crystal.”

“All right, but if I start calling him Free, please throw me in a snowbank.”

“Agreed. I will race you down.” Before the sound of his words had faded, Peregrine was gone.

Emily followed. She knew it would be wise to let both of the Arnolds get in some snowy shots at her. It would ease the tension.

And Will had called her Crystal. This produced in Emily an emotional reaction, but she was not sure which emotion. She would need to figure that out.

“The rising sun gilds wooly towers in molten bronze.” Peregrine nudged up a plastic shade, one already up as far as it would go. “This is why I take a window seat. How do these people resist this view?”

In the next row forward, Abigail leaned across Emily as though she were going to look but instead took the opportunity to speak quietly enough that Daddy would not hear. “Ten thousand years.”

“For ten thousand years human beings dreamed of flight. Now we fly, but do we appreciate it?” Peregrine shook his head. “We watch movies, take naps, work on our damned devices.” He waved his hands to indicate guilty parties throughout the first class cabin.

“Half his lands,” whispered Abigail.

“The man who built that castle we live in . . .”

Abigail rolled her eyes back to her magazine.

“He would have given half his lands for this opportunity to soar above the clouds. No matter how often I do this, I never tire of it.”

Will’s eyes were fixed on the bulkhead at the front of the cabin. He was sure airline employees knew what they were doing but felt he should be ready in case a head in a pilot’s cap poked around that wall, pleading for assistance. Not that Will would have any idea how to assist. “You do seem to enjoy flying.”

“Absolutely mad for it.” Indeed, Peregrine bounced in his seat in a manner suggesting he might be daft. “I had forgotten how much I love to fly.” He gazed out the window, admiring gaps between clouds through which tiny farms, roads and villages appeared. “The people who spend the most time up here are the ones who forget. Give them a miracle, and they are ecstatic. Same miracle third time around, they cannot be bothered.”

“Human nature, Daddy.” Abigail did not look up from her magazine.

“I am human. No matter how often I fly, I am always amazed. I do not understand why everyone does not shout for joy each time their plane takes off and stare in wonder out the window until it lands.”