The Glass Magician (The Paper Magician Trilogy #2)(49)
Langston lived on the second floor, and the interior of his home surprised Ceony, though she couldn’t explain why. He had a large living room that bled into a small dining room, all with a wooden floor coated in a shiny, walnut polish. Electric lights hung from the ceiling in single-tiered chandeliers, and wide windows framed by cream-colored curtains added more brightness. The living room had a fainting couch, a wicker chair, and an upright pianoforte. A simple, half-filled bookshelf occupied the wall where the dining room started, and the dining room was equipped with a well-crafted wooden table and six chairs. Around the corner one way was a small kitchen, and around the corner the other way stretched a winding set of stairs to the second floor.
It all looked very clean, very tidy . . . and, compared to Emery’s crowded cottage, somewhat sparse. That had to be it, then. Ceony had grown so accustomed to Emery, who used every last inch of space in his home for knickknacks and pointless décor, that Langston’s town house felt empty. It felt temporary. And for her, it was, or so she hoped.
Langston showed her upstairs to the guest bedroom, which measured twice the size of her room at the cottage. It had a large square window with a wide sill on the far wall, a closet cut into the closest wall, a short nightstand painted with purple lilies around the edges, and a bed wide enough for three people.
“There’s a lavatory down the hall, and there are some clothes in the closet,” he said, gesturing to it. “My sister stayed with me a few weeks ago and left some things behind. She’s about your size, maybe a little bigger. You’re welcome to try them on.”
“Thank you,” Ceony managed. She tugged uneasily at her right index finger, receiving a quiet pop in return.
Langston searched for something else to say, but seemed at a loss for words.
“Could I at least get my dog?” Ceony asked. “I left him at the flat—”
“I really am sorry,” Langston said, “but you need to stay here. It won’t be for long, I promise.”
Ceony nodded, and Langston stepped out of the room.
As soon as she was alone, Ceony walked over to the window, but despite the warmth of the room, she didn’t open it. She looked out onto the city, from the small trees planted along the road to the women in posh hats and men chatting over cigars. They all seemed so happy. So oblivious.
Sighing, she slumped to her knees, resting her elbows and chin on the windowsill. Emery still harbored hard feelings toward her, and he had every right. Delilah did, too. And Mg. Aviosky. Only Mg. Hughes had commended her for her stupidity, and his compliments only rubbed salt into burns. Her mind spun, trying to sort out how to make amends, but she found no answers. Nothing better than apologies, which had done her no good so far.
Langston knocked on the door. “Here, this will help with that bruise,” he said. He handed her a bag filled with confetti, much like the confetti Emery kept in his icebox. The bag felt cold beneath Ceony’s fingers.
“Thank you,” she said. Langston departed with a nod, and Ceony pressed the bag to her cheek, wincing at the soreness beneath her skin. She must look dreadful.
She thought about cooking something, if only to thank Langston for his patience, but she found herself without the motivation. Langston, being a sweet man, did bring her some biscuits and honey at a quarter past six. She ate slowly, and not much at all. Her stomach felt too tight, despite her long stint without food, though she did guzzle the glass of water he brought with the biscuits. She chewed almost mechanically, thinking of her family and Delilah. Thinking of Emery.
She stayed up until midnight and slept only in fits, her mind cycling between Grath’s threats and her shadowy memories of Saraj from the paper mill, the night of the buggy crash, and the market.
She thought about Grath’s words: “It’s all in the material . . . Those blasted sealing words . . .”
But no one could break a bond, Ceony knew. That had been drilled into her at Tagis Praff, for choosing a material—those who had the option of choosing, at least—was a critical and final decision in the career of a magician. Somewhere in the timeline of his life, Grath had bonded to glass without proper authority—a felony in and of itself—and that bond couldn’t be revoked.
When Ceony finally fell asleep, she dreamed of mirrors, of Emery, and of Grath, on and off, until the rising sun finally gave her an excuse to get out of bed.
The next morning Ceony did find a pale-blue blouse that fit. Most of the skirts were both too wide and too long to sit comfortably on her, but she found a light-gray one in the back of the closet that fell to midcalf—shorter than what Ceony typically preferred. It must have been only knee-length on Langston’s sister, which made Ceony believe she had to belong to the Liberal Party, for no conservative woman would show so much leg, stockings or no. But Ceony’s own skirt had been terribly soiled, so she pulled on the new skirt and used a hairpin to tighten the waistband in the back. She combed out her hair, but without any spare pins or barrettes, she could only braid it over her shoulder.
Downstairs she found Langston eating a bowl of plain oatmeal at the dining table and reading an article in the science section of the newspaper titled “Polymaker Invents Cake-like ‘Polystyrene’ Plastic, Unsure How to Enchant.” He glanced up when Ceony approached, and thoroughly wiped his mouth.
“Have you heard from him?” Ceony asked.
Langston shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Can I get you some breakfast?”