The Glass Magician (The Paper Magician Trilogy #2)(12)

“It’s a Choice Reflection spell,” she explained. “You can make the mirror reflect whatever you picture in your head.”

“With just a command,” Ceony mumbled, thinking of Delilah’s covert whispering. She studied the compact in Delilah’s hands. There were very few spells Ceony could merely dictate to a piece of paper; Folding required just that: Folds. Preparation, foresight. Manipulation with creases and cuts. Gaffing, or glass magic, was the second quickest after fire magic. Smelting, or enchanting metal alloys, was the slowest.

Ceony tapped her fingers on the table. “It’s like story illusion.”

Delilah frowned. “Um, yes? I’m not sure what that is. But you face the mirror”—Delilah opened the compact and gazed into it—“and say ‘choice reflection,’ and think of exactly what you want—or don’t want—to see.”

She repeated the spell, closed her eyes, and showed Ceony the mirror again. This time Ceony wasn’t even in the reflection. Instead she could see the broad-shouldered man who sat alone by the window behind her. Clearly interested in their conversation, he craned his head for a better look.

Delilah cancelled the spell, snapped the mirror shut, and held it out to her. “A late birthday gift for you. Sorry I didn’t wrap it, but I thought the trick would be fun.”

Ceony’s lips parted as she looked at the mirror. “Oh, Delilah, it’s so pretty. You didn’t have to—”

“Take it, take it,” she laughed, shaking the compact at her.

Ceony took it with a smile and traced the Celtic ornament with her fingers as she slipped it into her purse. “Thank you.”

“My birthday is in December,” Delilah said matter-of-factly. “Don’t forget.”

“December eleventh,” Ceony said. “I won’t.”

Seeming content, Delilah relaxed into her chair, took a sip of water, and said, “Ceony, are you in love?”

Ceony, who had also taken a sip of water, sputtered as she struggled to swallow it. “Wh-What?”

“You just have this faraway, airy look lately. Like on the shuttle. And on your bike.”

“You mean the way you look when you’re around Dover?” Ceony teased.

Delilah stuck out her tongue. “I think he likes me. At least, he went out of his way to send me a paper dove after the dreadful thing with the mill. He’s two years younger, but he doesn’t look younger. That’s all that really matters.”

Their meals arrived, and between bites the two of them chatted about the paper mill, Ceony’s paper doll, and the new feather fashion in women’s hats. When Big Ben, north of Parliament Square, chimed one thirty, Delilah snatched up her paper napkin and dabbed her lips.

“I’m so sorry, Ceony,” she said, “but I told Magician Aviosky I’d attend a glassblowing appointment on her behalf at two, since she’s in Dartford. You’ll forgive me?”

Ceony waved a hand. “It’s fine. I need to head back, too.”

Delilah circled the table and kissed both of Ceony’s cheeks. “Let’s do it again sometime.” She dropped a few shillings on the table and hurried out the front door.

Tilting her bowl, Ceony scraped out the last of her bisque, but the chair across from her rattled before she could bring the spoon to her lips.

A broad-shouldered man sat down in the seat Delilah had just vacated. Ceony recognized him as the person she’d seen in the mirror.

She lowered her bowl.

Something about the man seemed familiar, but Ceony had a hard time pinpointing what. He looked to be in his early forties, with a well-built form and light, almost ginger-colored hair. Narrow, expressionless gray eyes watched her beneath thick eyebrows and a creased forehead.

“Can I help you?” Ceony asked.

The faintest grin spread just above his broad chin.

Ceony’s breath caught as her memory settled. She knew that chin. The nose looked wrong—a fake—but she remembered that chin, those eyes. She had seen them on a wanted poster at the post office. She had watched them lurk behind bars in the second chamber of Emery’s heart.

She had seen this man in the distance as she stood on the shore of Foulness Island.

Her mouth went dry, and her tongue hardened to a brick in her mouth. She gripped her napkin—her paper napkin.

Mind spinning, she managed to say, “You’re Grath Cobalt.”

The most renowned Excisioner in England, if not all of Europe.

She tried to slide her chair back—she couldn’t let him touch her!—but Grath hooked his foot around its front left leg.

No one in the restaurant noticed anything out of the ordinary. Not as far as Ceony could tell. She dared to glance at the main entrance to the restaurant, then to the back door behind her and to the left. What would he do if she screamed? He sat so close, and it would only take one touch for a spell . . .

She smoothed the napkin in her lap, keeping her eyes on Grath as she formed a half-point Fold.

“I’m impressed you recognize me,” Grath said with a lopsided smirk. His long canines made him look like a cat. “Smart girl.”

“Posters of you are everywhere,” Ceony replied, trying to sound nonchalant. She glanced at the waiter three tables over.

Grath yanked her chair forward. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Let’s get this chat out of the way. I have places to go.”