Read Online The Master Magician by Charlie N. Holmberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlie N. Holmberg
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back—hersmall investigation wasn’t worth losing her life in this glassy prison. But it was worth a try.
She stepped over a stalagmite, sidestepped until she could move around a web—the manifestation of a scratch—which was seemingly constructed of razor blades. It looped around itself like matted hair pulled from a hairbrush and reached to her midthigh. Ceony ducked under another web and got her skirt caught on a third. A quick tug freed it with minimal damage.
The floor bowed slightly past the wiry clouds, but beyond that she saw the glimmering veil of her destination mirror: a rather large one. She treaded carefully over the ice-slick, concave floor until she reached it, bracing herself for another cold wash.
When she emerged, she found herself in some sort of storage room, thankfully empty. The mirror she had stepped through hung frameless on the wall, about six feet high and four feet across, its surface marred with stains and scratches. Another, narrower mirror leaned against the opposite wall, supported on either side by bolts of unorganized fabrics.
Ceony blinked a few times, adjusting to the dimness of the room—savoring the momentary solitude. Two bare dress mannequins, one in disrepair, greeted her, and beyond them rested an old wooden shelf filled with poorly folded scraps of fabric, everything from satin to cotton to flannel. A box full of bits and cuts of fabric, too small to be of use to anyone, blocked her way to the door. Ceony heaved it aside—moving slowly, so as not to stir up too much noise—and stepped through the doorway into a cramped hall.
A dress shop.
Ceony spied down the hallway to a front area displaying premade gowns and coats, as well as fabric bolts propped on slim shelves against the wall for purchase by the yard. A large, middle-aged woman shuffled about the cash register, but she kept her backto Ceony. Ceony tiptoed in from the back and made it to the shelf of fabric bolts before the woman turned around.
She gasped. “Oh, heavens! You startled me.” Her hazel eyes glanced to the door and the chime hanging against it. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Oh, sorry,” Ceony said, forcing a light laugh. “I wanted to see if you had something for . . . a polka dot pattern I saw in a magazine. This is close”—she gestured to a pale-orange fabric with peachy speckles—“but not quite what I’m looking for.”
“Polka dot?” the woman repeated. She tapped her chin. “I do have a booklet you can look at if you’d like to special order something.”
Ceony gripped the straps of her purse in her fingers. “Oh, I may. There’s one more place I’d like to look, but I think I’ll come back.”
“Oh. All right, then. Take care.”
Ceony nodded and headed toward the door, but before its chime could ring she asked, “I just came in from the train—what part of Portsmouth am I in?”
The woman played with a lint brush on the counter beside her. “Portsmouth is eight miles south, dear. Not far. This is Waterlooville. Did you not see the sign?”
“Thank you,” Ceony replied. She stepped outside and counted the pounds in her purse, wondering if she should hire a buggy or make another attempt at mirror travel.
She pinched a few bills between thumb and forefinger. “A buggy would be safer,” she murmured to herself. The journey through the mirror in the dress shop had left her with a bit of a headache, besides.
She called the next buggy that passed and offered some weak instructions concerning Gosport—could she be dropped off somewhere in the middle?—and rode silently in the backseat. She spied signs for Portchester Castle on the way, and the great behemoth of a fortress hulked in the distance beyond her window. She wondered if Emery would be interested in touring something like that. She’dhave to ask, but carefully. She didn’t want him to wonder how she’d come up with the idea.
I just need to know
, she thought, fingering the clasp of her purse.
If
She stepped over a stalagmite, sidestepped until she could move around a web—the manifestation of a scratch—which was seemingly constructed of razor blades. It looped around itself like matted hair pulled from a hairbrush and reached to her midthigh. Ceony ducked under another web and got her skirt caught on a third. A quick tug freed it with minimal damage.
The floor bowed slightly past the wiry clouds, but beyond that she saw the glimmering veil of her destination mirror: a rather large one. She treaded carefully over the ice-slick, concave floor until she reached it, bracing herself for another cold wash.
When she emerged, she found herself in some sort of storage room, thankfully empty. The mirror she had stepped through hung frameless on the wall, about six feet high and four feet across, its surface marred with stains and scratches. Another, narrower mirror leaned against the opposite wall, supported on either side by bolts of unorganized fabrics.
Ceony blinked a few times, adjusting to the dimness of the room—savoring the momentary solitude. Two bare dress mannequins, one in disrepair, greeted her, and beyond them rested an old wooden shelf filled with poorly folded scraps of fabric, everything from satin to cotton to flannel. A box full of bits and cuts of fabric, too small to be of use to anyone, blocked her way to the door. Ceony heaved it aside—moving slowly, so as not to stir up too much noise—and stepped through the doorway into a cramped hall.
A dress shop.
Ceony spied down the hallway to a front area displaying premade gowns and coats, as well as fabric bolts propped on slim shelves against the wall for purchase by the yard. A large, middle-aged woman shuffled about the cash register, but she kept her backto Ceony. Ceony tiptoed in from the back and made it to the shelf of fabric bolts before the woman turned around.
She gasped. “Oh, heavens! You startled me.” Her hazel eyes glanced to the door and the chime hanging against it. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Oh, sorry,” Ceony said, forcing a light laugh. “I wanted to see if you had something for . . . a polka dot pattern I saw in a magazine. This is close”—she gestured to a pale-orange fabric with peachy speckles—“but not quite what I’m looking for.”
“Polka dot?” the woman repeated. She tapped her chin. “I do have a booklet you can look at if you’d like to special order something.”
Ceony gripped the straps of her purse in her fingers. “Oh, I may. There’s one more place I’d like to look, but I think I’ll come back.”
“Oh. All right, then. Take care.”
Ceony nodded and headed toward the door, but before its chime could ring she asked, “I just came in from the train—what part of Portsmouth am I in?”
The woman played with a lint brush on the counter beside her. “Portsmouth is eight miles south, dear. Not far. This is Waterlooville. Did you not see the sign?”
“Thank you,” Ceony replied. She stepped outside and counted the pounds in her purse, wondering if she should hire a buggy or make another attempt at mirror travel.
She pinched a few bills between thumb and forefinger. “A buggy would be safer,” she murmured to herself. The journey through the mirror in the dress shop had left her with a bit of a headache, besides.
She called the next buggy that passed and offered some weak instructions concerning Gosport—could she be dropped off somewhere in the middle?—and rode silently in the backseat. She spied signs for Portchester Castle on the way, and the great behemoth of a fortress hulked in the distance beyond her window. She wondered if Emery would be interested in touring something like that. She’dhave to ask, but carefully. She didn’t want him to wonder how she’d come up with the idea.
I just need to know
, she thought, fingering the clasp of her purse.
If
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