Tarot: The Fool

At the edge of the dying day, in the twilight, he finds a spot in the fence where the tall metal bars are warped, just big enough to slip through them. Inside the cemetary, the leaves do not stir. The wind does not rise, despite its howling just beyond the gate. All sound is muted by the cold, hard-packed cemetary loam. His breathing keeps the silence at bay.

He follows the curving pathways through aisles of tombstones, glancing at those with particularly elegant inscriptions, or topped with tall stone angels whose features have been worn away by time and the wind.

He stops at the only spot he recognizes, standing in the shadow of the mausoleum as the first of the stars appear, glittering in the sky like a scattered handful of diamonds. The metal doors are chained, but as he stares at it, the padlock unlocks with a series of echoing metallic thunks. He reaches for the gates and pushes them open. They protest wildly, with a noise like the squealing breaks of a train, and stop half-way, but it is lost in the sudden tempest.

The wind pushes against his back, making his coat billow around him. The leaves swirl madly, and voices whisper in his ears, longingly, though the words are too numerous for him to catch entire sentences. "... come... just another... closer to us... like falling asleep..."

A voice that sounds as though it is speaking as much within his head as without rings like a bell over the cacophany of jumbled whispering. "Why are you here?"

He pauses, and when he speaks, his voice sounds dark and wild. "I want to live forever."

Something sighs against his neck, warm and sad. The voice comes again, soft as fur. "This is not living."

But the gates open fully, and the darkness pulls him inside, like the cold hand of a child.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

In Dreams And Death

I wrote a letter to death, to thank him/her/it for his/her/its services to the world. I felt death was perhaps underappreciated. I wrote it on lined paper and put a return address on the envelope and only DEATH in the centre.

I worried someone would think it was a joke and it would reappear in my mailbox stamped Return To Sender, but it did not return.

I waited a day, a week, several months, as the leaves died and my conviction died with them.

When the letter arrived, in a black envelope with my name in silver ink, I had to sit down. The world seemed to pinwheel around me as I clutched for the arm of the porch chair.

The handwriting was neat, and smudged. Later, I would ask if he was left-handed.

He said little but that he appreciated my letter and hoped to meet me soon, though not on professional terms.

I kept the letter in my pocket until he came to the house.

He was a young man, my age and also ageless. Pale, with dark, watchful eyes. He moved like a cat, from shadow to shadow, lithe an nimble. He asked to stay the night.

I learned that his hair did not stay one colour. As he slept, it was the glossy black of a raven's feather. And when I yawned myself awake in the morning, it was the rosy gold of dawn, made rosier by the sun through my window.

He stayed a second night. Not a third. He came and went. He was a busy man. But he came back, propping his scythe up against the wall (he said it came with the job; it was an aesthetic requirement, it was expected) and sinking to the bed as if pulled by an anchor.

"It must be the loneliest job," I said, once.

He paused before answer, running a slender finger along my wrist. "It isn't. I am hardly ever alone. And I recall most people I come for. Everyone comes to me, in the end. And most meet me in the beginning. It is more like being constantly lost, and constantly found."

"Are you lost right now?" I asked.

He stared at the space on the inside of my elbow where my veins converged, like the perspectives of a room or the lines on a map. "Not at all," he said.

"Then it must be a thankless job," I said. He laughed, and it was a sound like the first crack of thunder, and the first bird song of the morning.

He did not have a way with words. But he had a way with silence. When I was diagnosed, his silence filled the hospital room as he sat on the bed beside me. Quiet and soothing. I fell asleep to it, like a lullaby.

I woke up, and the heart monitor was no longer beeping like a metronome.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he took my hand.

The world began to fade as he raised the scythe, like a reflection rippling into nothingness.

"Don't be. Thank you," I said.

The scythe flashed like a sliver of silver moon as he brought it down. I closed my eyes and in the darkness, I was found.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Dismissals

The party tonight is tense and quiet. The entire company is on edges, as though waiting for some calamity to take place and having difficulty wiling away the hours while they do. The conversation on the porch halts frequently, or dwindles into sparse pockets of discussion. The game, a previously popular topic for the market-folk, is avoided entirely and pointedly, and the guests are too distracted to maintain a conversation about art or theatre for too long. Many attendees grab a glass of champagne and disappear into the maze, drawing some close companions with them, to distract themselves. No one comments on the strange occurrences within the market of late, but they turn every corner with weariness, as though certain they will encounter a ghost of some sort.

Alice tries in vain to catch Eli’s attention, but he eludes her at every turn of the maze and later is lost in the collection of suits on the porch. He spends most of his time in the company of Bethany, only straying when he is persuaded into conversation with some other market-company member.

Mr.Marshall seems especially strange, and it catches Eli’ attention more than once. The proprietor stares at the lanterns or the flickering candles in their candelabras, then slips back into conversation, as though his attention has never wavered. He laughs rarely, and surveys the company with a haunted expression, which Vivienne can only coax him out of with excessive amounts of wine. His usually vivid countenance is faded.

It makes no difference except for the few glasses that Mr.Marshall seems to knock over when he is not paying attention. When a large decanter of brandy becomes a victim of Mr.Marshall’s careflessness, Eli catches it and rights it, setting it down on the spotless tablecloth. Mr.Marshall mumbles to himself about clumsiness and eyes Eli.

He continues to eye Eli as the night progresses, but Eli attributes it to little more than the numerous glasses of wine or brandy in his hands.

The arrival of the food is a relief; attendees can blame the lack of conversation on the delicacies rather than their own unease. Bethany stays by Eli’s side in the silence until Mako whisks her away to admire a particular bower of exotic plants in a corner of the garden.

Eli absently sips from his glass as he avoids Alice’s attention until Michael draws her into the maze to distract her.

“Mr.Kells, Mr.Marshall would like a word with you,” Vivienne says, suddenly at his elbow.

“Of course,” Eli says, putting down his glass. He follows the assistant inside and down a labyrinth of hallways to Mr.Marshall’s study, which Eli has visited only a limited number of times before. It is in even worse disarray now than it was then. It is littered with half empty decanters and bottles of wine, and paper on every surface. Stacks of newspapers from months ago sit in piles against the desk and walls. There is a path through the chaos toward the desk, though Eli cannot imagine Mr.Marshall having the capacity to work in such a cluttered space.

Mr.Marshall paces behind the desk. He does not look up when Vivienne deposits Eli in the middle of the room.

“Mr.Kells, sir,” she announces him.

Mr.Marshall does not respond except for a single wave of his hand, to which his assistant bows her head and turns gracefully on her heel. She leaves, and closes the door behind her.

“Is something the matter, Mr.Marshall?” Eli asks.

Mr.Marshall stops pacing and looks at Eli as though noticing him for the first time. “Is something the matter? You would have to be blind not to think it. Especially you.”

“Me, sir?” Eli says. The tenor of his voice does not change, but something akin to dread makes his hands tighten into fists behind his back.

“I want to know what… nonsense, you have been doing. How you do your act, and why you have come here,” Mr.Marshall says.

“I came here because I was hired as a performer, sir.”

Mr.Marshall hits the desk, slamming his palm against it sharply enough to upset a bottle of ink and send several documents flying off the desk. They fall to the floor with a rustled sound like flowing water.

“Do not tell me lies. I can tell when you are being dishonest with me. What is this?” Mr.Marshall holds up a locket, silver, with a long chain, and stained with something dark brown.

“That is mine, sir,” Eli says. His hands shake with the impulse to reach for the locket. “It was for a trick of mine that did not go exactly as planned.”

“Trick? What trick?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with, sir,” Eli says.

Mr.Marshall drops the locket to the desk with a clatter. The chain slides over several piece of paper and half off the desk.

“Not my concern? Everything that happens in this market place is my concern. What has been going on behind my back?” Mr.Marshall says.

“Behind your back, sir?”

“Do not try to dissuade me. I know you have been doing something, making some… mischief, vandalizing the market. I have a right to know what goes on in my market.”

Eli grits his teeth. “Nothing has been going on in the market that has not been going on since the market’s inception, sir.”

“This has something to do with your act. Is it those beasts of yours?”

Eli does not respond.

“You have unleashed ghosts on my marketplace, sabotaging the entire game. With that girl and her monsters. For what purpose?” Mr.Marshall demands.

“I cannot say,” Eli replies, meeting Mr.Marshall’s gaze steadily.

“Why would you keep it a secret? Deception will do nothing for you at this point,” Mr.Marshall snaps.

“I cannot tell you, because I do not know the purpose of our game, myself. I am little more than a puppet in this affair. And how very apt you are to call them ghosts and monsters, as though you did not condone the raising of ghosts and monsters everyday for entertainment. They have plagued the market since opening night, as constant as all. And I cannot be dismissed. I must remain here and conclude my game.”

“And who else is playing this game? Is it the Fairchild siblings? Or that monster-girl? Miss Morgenstern?”

Again, Eli says nothing.

Mr.Marshall moves around the desk, clutching at its edge as he wavers on his feet. He stands as tall as he can while he addresses Eli.

“You can leave, now,” Mr.Marshall says, his voice rising. “And you can take that harlot of yours with you.”

The doors slam shut of their own volition, rattling on their hinges. Several crystals hanging from the chandelier shatter into dust. Eli glares at Mr.Marshall with darkened eyes.

“Do not ever, ever, call her that again,” he says.

Eli steps closer to the desk and to Mr.Marshall. “This game will conclude, and I am being kind enough to try not to let the market conclude with it. You will continue with your management and fancy dinners as you always have. You will.”

Mr.Marshall can barely stammer a response. His tongue feels heavy and his mind is foggy as he tries to formulate words.

As he stutters, Eli reaches for the locket on the desk and slips it into his pocket. He pours a glass of brandy from the decanter on the desk, which is splattered with ink, and presses it into Mr.Marshall’s hand.

“Have a drink, sir. To settle your nerves,” Eli says, as he wipes his inky fingers on his black vest.

Mr.Marshall nods, looking confusedly between the glass and Eli.

Eli pats the pocket of his coat once more, before turning and departing the room.

Mr.Marshall raises his glass to his lips once, then hesitates. He sets it down and looks at the desk, eyes flickering back and forth across its surface as though searching for something.

“She was here,” he says, to himself.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

On The Verge Of A Verdict

It is some time after the incident that Bethany has enough time to contact her former instructor. It is more difficult than she first thought, as she has not seen him in months, and has never had the need – or desire – to call him to her. There has been no opportunity to see him in quite a while. He has left no indication of where he is, and in his absence, there is no sign that he will come back.

She considers writing him, but surmises that his address has likely changed (if it was ever accurate at all). She does not know where he is, so she summons him to the market.

In the daytime, when the market is no more than a series of erect and slightly colourful stalls, Bethany removes from her suitcase a piece of handkerchief, frayed with age, and lights a candle. She holds the cloth over the candle until it catches light, then sets it aside, watching it burn without charring.

She is watching it so intently that she does not notice immediately when her former instructor appears behind her.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

She reaches toward the fire and places her hand gently over it. Smoke snakes in the space between her fingers. When she removes her hand, the handkerchief sits in one piece, not even hot to touch.

Bethany turns to face her instructor.

“What is it that you want?” Her instructor asks.

“Why can I not touch him?” Bethany demands.

“Because we made it so,” says the vested man, simply.

“Why? What am I being punished for?”

“You are not being punished. It is more of a precaution and a barrier, of sorts,” her instructor says.

Bethany’s hands tighten. “What does that mean?”

“To prevent your… unfortunate attachment to him from deepening.”

“This game has nothing to do with him. I can focus on the game completely with any interference. Isn’t that why you put us here? To deal with the other market-folk? To see how we deal with that?” Bethany says.

“You know nothing about the conception of the game. Do not assume otherwise,” Her former instructor says.

“Undo it,” she says.

“No.”

“Why not? It has no effect other than holding us physically apart.”

Bethany waits, scowling at him, and briefly recalls being in this same position when she was young. A little girl in lace and ribbons, scowling at the man who rescued her from the museum.

“You two are not students/no longer students. You are competitors. You are on the opposite sides of a scale. You do not touch. No matter which way the scale tips, or if you are equal, you remain separate. Do not attach yourself to that gutter rat.”

“Gutter rat? You found me in the basement of a museum,” she says, struggling to keep her anger in check.

“And I trained you to be one of the finest competitors this, or any, game has ever had,” he says. “Do no throw it all away on some boy you hardly know. If you do, you throw away everything.”

Bethany clenches her fists at her sides. The scarfs and textiles around them ripple in a slight breeze, blazing with colour. “What do you mean?”

Her instructor smiles, though it is not, Bethany realizes, an expression of genuine happiness. “The loser of the game forsakes all ability to resurrect. You will not raise anything, ever again.”

For a moment, Bethany cannot speak. Her throat aches as though it is suddenly full of glass.

“That is the verdict?” she whispers. The decision is more terrible than she had imagined.

“I let you have your little tryst with Mr.Marchand,” her instructor continues. “But you can rid yourself of any delusions of love toward that boy. Remember, you purpose is to beat him.”

“You have never been so adamant about isolating myself from anyone before,” Bethany says. “Why now?”

“I have never truly believed you were in a position to loose.”

He starts to leave, then pauses. “Do not call on me again.”

He turns and walks down the avenue, slipping into a shadow and disappearing.

The handkerchief on the table begins to crumble into ash, the wind sweeping it away into nothingness.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Art by Karol Bak

Angels Falling, Burning

There is a tale that says that all the world's blood that flows, from battles and wars and murder, converges in one place. A namless place. An ancient place. The battlefield where, once, the angels fought. Their blood, golden and rich and beautiful, posioned the ground. Scorched the earth, so it is burnt black as a lightless day.

Gabriel's punishment was merciless. The angels are unkind. Their beauty is harsh, their law is harsher. The angel looked into the faces of the Nephilim, the sons of the angels and mankind, and saw rot. Saw the sins of the fallen angels, which would be forever forgiven because of their beauty. He saw prey.

Golden as sunlight.

Black as sin.

Art by Silvia C. Text by Lucie MacAulay

Opening Night Part I: Games

The boy anticipated that he would disappoint his instructor, and himself. He feels almost like a novitiate to some Arcanum of syllabary, as he takes up position by the table and his black notebook, open to the night sky, and the birdcage with the dead dove at the bottom.

His first performance, Eli finds himself watching the crowd’s every reaction, and focusing on the dove more than he needs to. He soon concentrates more on the audience than the raisings.

There is a pattern in the reactions of the audience, revulsion at the dead animal, or its death, confusion, curiousity, and a mixture of horror, disbelief, and wonder when it blinks and breaths and meets their eyes with its own.

But some audiences react more strongly, some are less impressed, some do not beliebe in it and only clap politely as they would for a common street magician. Eli finds their reactions influence his performance, indicating when he should make a flourish, or how long a dramatic pause should be.

Now he finishes his performance and bows lowly as the crowd disperses.

Mr.Marshall informed the company only the day before that the game would commence at midnight precisely. Eli’s performances are scheduled such that his performance nearest to midnight ends five minutes prior. Now, faced with only a few minutes until the beginning of a game he does not know how to play, he feels unsure. His hands shake slightly as he opens his cage and gently puts the dove inside, next to the dove from his interview with Mr.Marshall.

When he is not performing, Eli’s supplies and resurrection paraphernalia is kept in a small tent erected in the shadow between two stalls. It takes only a minute to move his table, his cage, his leather bound book, into the tent, and when he is finished, he stands in the concourse, glancing around at the vendors, each keeping an eye on some timepiece, eyes/gazes flickering to clocks or pocket watches as the hands tick closer to midnight.

“Are you looking for a place to start?” a lady from one of the stalls across the avenue calls to him. Eli startles. He walks closer to her and replies, “I’m not sure how to start.”

“You have to find a starting point. Mr.Marshall has set up hundreds by now,” she says, then pauses. She eyes Eli with an almost amused expression. “This is your first time playing a game like this, isn’t it?”

Eli blinks at her a few times before nodding his head.

“You can start with us,” she offers. “We’ll help you.”

A man, younger than Eli, though the same age as the girl, he guesses, appears from behind the stall.

“I am Alice Fairchild,” the young lady says, holding out a hand covered in a white lace glove. “And this is Michael.”

“Elidor Kells,” Eli says, taking the hand and shaking it. He shakes Michael’s hand too, though the young man takes it reluctantly, and releases his grip shyly. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Fairchild, and Mr.Fairchild.

“I forbid you to call me Miss Fairchild. In fact, refer to neither of us by our surnames. Please, call me Alice,” she says.

Eli hesitates, then nods. “If you will call me Eli.” He pauses and glances at the other stalls, where vendors are glancing at their wrist and pocket watches. “How do we start?”

“We’ll help you,” Alice says again, and grasps his hand. Eli almost steps back in surprise, as Michael comes to stand on Alice’s other side.

“Don’t worry,” Michael says, quietly.

Before Eli can ask why he would worry, and if he should, something begins to happen.

Elements of the market are slipping away. Becoming softer and paler. They appear like ghost images layered overtop on another. They fade until everything is transparent.

When Eli puts his hand up to touch the tender crinkling paper of a swaying lantern, he feels only a slight resistant, like pushing against wind. There is the merest hint of heat as his fingers pass through it.

Then his hand falls away as Eli is overtaken by a sudden wave of dizziness that feels as though he has been thrown, but instead of landing on firm ground continues to fall through the open air.

The world around him shifts between light and darkness, never settling. Dots of colour dance across his vision.

Eli feels lighter, weightless, as he stands. And still slightly dizzy.

Beside him, Alice and Michael are already standing, though they seem disoriented too. Alice turns to him, watching him with concern as he dusts off the knees of his trousers. “Are you alright? The first time is always bothersome.”

Eli nods, slowly. He blinks. “What happened?” he asks, when he finally notices that they are in the market, but it has changed significantly.

Everything in the market is pale, save for themselves. Alice and Michael appear particularly vibrant in comparison, with their bright eyes and colourful outfits. They are the only substantial things.

“Think of it as a diluted state. You’ve been diffused. You’re less concentrated, like wine poured into a jug of water. Only, instead of the jug, it’s a market,” Michael says.

“You’re on another layer of the market,” Alice says, trying to clarify it to Eli.

“But we’re still in the market?” Eli says, as he focuses on the sensations around him. He has the impression that he is not within the market, but overlapping it.

“Of course. Where else would the game take place?” Alice says, laughing.

Michael smiles at the expression on Eli’s face. “This is what we use the starting point for,” he says.

Alice turns to Eli as she smoothes her skirts. “Supposedly, people used to be able to dilute themselves without a starting point. Now you have to find a spot to…”

“To step from one layer of a place to another,” Michael finishes for her.

As his vision/sight sharpens and focuses, Eli realizes that he and the Fairchild siblings are not alone. Other members of the market company are just as vibrant, and they are walking among their transparent surroundings with a purpose.

They pass through stalls as though passing through water, moving from avenue to avenue without the need for turns or intersections. Eli can see someone dressed in bright scarlet from six avenues away, appearing like a red dot in mist.

“You’ll get used to it,” Alice reassures him, looking at his discombobulated expression. “And you’ll be able to dilute yourself on your own.”

“So long as you are in the market,” Michael appends.

“But we should really start looking,” Alice remarks.

Michael hesitates before saying, “If you would like to start this game with us-“

“Oh, yes. Please do. Games are always much more fun with company,” Alice says.

Eli glances around, unsure even where to begin looking. “Yes. That sounds great.”

As they begin to traverse the pathways of the market, Eli learns more about his companions and their roles in the market.

The Fairchild siblings, while adopted, look deceptively similar. Both have the same fine cheekbones and pale complexions, and the set of the mouth that makes them look mischievous and childlike, though one of them is more reserved in person, and his eyes are often solemn compared to his foster sister’s. Alice is more outgoing and capricious than her brother, but Michael is perceptive and thoughtful. While she is the more imaginative of the two, and thinks up most of their endeavors, Michael is pragmatic about details, and catches his foster sister’s oversights when they occur. Together, they compliment each other well, and those that do not know them well enough would swear that they are brother and sister.

They have many talents, but the majority of their skill lies in the design of miniature buildings, which they carve from all manner of materials, and sell when the market opens. Alice draws out their concepts, sketches of balconies and doors and ornate stairs, and Michael calculates measurements and angles. The results are ornate and painstakingly detailed palaces and mansions no bigger than a shoebox.

Their current project involves carving a palace from ice, with turrets to hold small flames. Alice insists the fire is essential for that aesthetic quality, but they have only succeeded so far in one tower out of many staying solid in the presence of their body heat, let alone a small flame.

Alice walks beside Eli, speaking for most of their journey. After a time, Eli feels perhaps they are talking and walking more than they are actually searching. The Fairchild siblings appear to be paying more attention to him than the game.

“I’ve heard that his is the first game he’s held,” Alice whispers conspiratorially as she leans in.

“The first game?” Eli repeats.

“I know,” she says, eyes glittering as Michael nods gravely. “I’m not sure how he’s going to do it. It’ll be very difficult to manage something so big. For a first time. But,” she lowers her voice further. “I’ve also heard he hosts wonderful parties.”

“I did not know people played games like this,” Eli says, ducking his head in embarrassment. “I knew nothing of other sorts of manipulations and… magics, before I came here. I did not know others could do what I have been taught in secret.”

Alice looks at him in surprise, and Michael offers a small smile of sympathy.

“Where did you learn it all?” Eli asks.

“Our instructor taught us, of course,” Alice says.

“You were taught, too?”

“Everyone here was tutored,” Alice continues. “Our teacher once mentioned that students weren’t always privately tutored. They learned in schools. Large universities or academies hidden from the rest of the world-“ Michael begins, before his sister cuts him off.

“It isn’t hard to hide things from the rest of the world. They don’t look very hard,” Alice remarks.

“-and the only students in the academies who were tutored were the special ones. The gifted ones. But those ended a long time ago. The last academy was in Vienna, before it fell,” he says.

Eli is silent, pondering the existence of an entire community of others who were perhaps trained like him. He wonders why, with brief annoyance, his instructor did not mention it.

“You get to perform in the middle of the concourse. Mr.Marshall must think you’re very special. It’s quite a privilege,” Alice says, suddenly.

“I’m… sorry?” Eli says.

“Don’t be,” Michael says as Alice waves his apology away.

“I don’t care, so long as the game is played fair,” Alice says.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Yuletide Cheer

The wind is bitterly cold, and the darkness of night is all-consuming. Haunting and desolate. But within the market, the avenues and pathways are alive with holiday spirit. The icy rime on the edges of stalls sparkle in the moonlight, and in the light of the festive street lamps that have been erected in the busier intersections. The chill smells of peppermint and chestnut and sweet mulled cider waft through the air, and appropriately boisterous customers clasp bags of steaming confections to their chests, inhaling their scents along with that of their woolen scarves. In the dark depths of winter, the market shines as warmly as an ember.

There is an unprecedented number of visitors in the market place, even considering it is the Winter Solstice.

Eli’s performances are increasing, but tonight it is so cold that he cannot do more than a few at a time, and finds himself retreating to his not to collect a knit scarf and his gloves. As he wanders through the market, in search of a warm beverage, he appears like any other half-frozen patron.

It is not long before Bethany appears at his side, in a deep purple coat with a cable-knit cream scarf. She appears less cold than he, but her cheeks are pink and her eyes are bright.

“You have a performance scheduled right now,” Bethany remarks.

“As do you,” Eli counters.

“Then we are escaping together.”

They walk close enough to one another that he can reach out and take her hand, but instead he links arms with her, tucking his hands back in his pockets.

There have been only stolen moments for them, recently, as the market travels and they have other company to attend to. They look forward to their too brief meetings, and dread the moment they end, prolonging it as much as they can without drawing suspicious from other members of the market company.

“You look as though you have a secret,” Eli says, watching her smile as they walk.

“I do. But that is not why I am smiling. I have something much better than a secret,” Bethany replies.

“What is that?” Eli asks.

“I have been experimenting with resurrection,” she begins.

Eli is silent, in curiousity and jealousy. Resurrection has, lately, stirred discontent within him. He years to expand his abilities.

“I split up the threads and use only some of them to raise the body,” Bethany says.

Eli blinks. “You- what?”

“I divide the threads, and tie only some of them to the subject,” she repeats.

“Does that work?” Eli asks, struggling to understand a concept that betrays most of his methods.

“Not so far. Not for more than a few minutes. The subject does not seem strong enough to stay alive too long.”

“Is this the work in progress you were going to show me at Mr.Marshall’s party?” Eli asks.

Bethany nods.

“I wish I could do such a thing,” Eli admits.

“You could, if you were allowed.”

A light snow has begun to fall. In the amber lantern-light, it appears as though the snow is on fire.

Eli pauses to look up at the lanterns. They are not lit, but sway colourfully in spherical cages made of interlocked black metal. He pauses and frowns and reaches up to touch one. “When did this happen?” he asks.

“After the incident with the lantern in Prague,” Bethany answers, gazing up at the lantern. When Eli removes his hand, the lantern swings to and fro, creaking in the silence. “It’s a precaution, to prevent the market from going up in flames.”

“I almost feel as though I should be worried by the number of precautions that are taking place after incidents occur,” Eli remarks.

“I wonder if our instructors foresaw so many casualties,” Bethany says, bitterly.

“They may be part of the game,” Eli says, thoughtfully, as they continue on, weaving in and among the mass of people.

“If only we could prove to our instructors that perhaps they are both wrong,” Bethany says.

“Or that they are both right,” Eli says.

Bethany nods. “That their thoughts may work together. You may push limits, but only by a necessary degree.”

“A collaboration of sorts,” Eli muses.

“I doubt Mr.Marshall would not allow it,” Bethany says.

They emerge in the market square, and upon smelling the warm sweetness of melted chocolate, Bethany insists they try a spiced hot chocolate that burns their throats in more ways than one.

Eli cannot tell if it is the beverage or Bethany’s presence that warms him.

“What time is your next performance?” Bethany asks him, as they sit on a bench by the flaming bronze centerpiece. The lanterns have turned silver, so the entire marketplace is full of a dusky wintry light.

He glances at her once, and they way she holds his eyes is sublime. “It does not matter.”

Art by Tanya Bjork

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Almost Lost

Eli removes from the pocket of one of his jackets a corn dolly, long removed from Bethany’s own collection.

Eli reaches up to his collar, where the ends of his hair curl around his fingers. Carefully, the boy holds a lock of hair away from his head, pulls it taut, and saws at it with the knife. Slowly the lock of hair is cut, and he secures it to the doll with a piece of string wrapped around its waist.

Eli removes the silver locket from around his neck and opens it. Beneath a lock of hair similar to his own, only a few shades lighter, is a picture of his deceased mother. He cannot bring himself to risk it in the raising. He removes the hair and ties it to the doll.

Eli replaces the silver locket around his neck, tucking it under his collar.

Eli approaches the centerpiece with the doll in hand, and gently rests it upon the open bronze pages of the book. The locks of hair shine in the flickering golden light.

Eli removes the knife from his pocket, and without hesitation, slices the skin of his palm. While he tucks the knife away, he holds his bleeding hand above the doll, until several drops of blood trickle and fall from his skin, soaking the doll.

He steps back.

His blood darkens in the firelight.

Eli stares at the doll several seconds before the wind picks up, and the doll begins to grow.

Bethany watches the sun begin to dip lower than the tops of the gate around the market. The iron spikes are edges with gold. As she watches, they are lit so from the sunset that they appear doused in liquid gold.

Bethany is preparing to depart the market – to find a café or a library in which to occupy herself before the market leaves that night – when something happens.

It courses through her like a wave, with such force that she begins to tremble. Her vision fades, then returns, and when it does so, she peers up and down the market pathway, but there is no one there.

Still, she can feel it. A disturbance in the air. It slithers under her skin, even before she shuts her eyes.

She concentrates on the feeling of the market, searching each avenue for the source of the strange feeling creeping up her spine.

His empty book flutters beside him, but Eli does not notice. He murmurs under his breath, an amalgam of English and the language of symbols that he normally traces with his fingers, rather than his tongue.

His gaze does not waver from the doll, as its corn limbs soften, lengthen.

The words become a litany as he stares at the entity. He does not so much as blink as it stirs.

It’s heart beats once. Twice.

In a terrible second, Eli’s intentions take form in Bethany’s mind. She is out of her tent and racing through the avenues toward the market square faster than she thought possible.

The doll lifts its hand. Hollows form where its eyes should be.

The locket burns where it rests against Eli’s chest.

Bethany runs through the avenues with her gown billowing behind her in a ripple of green silk, splattered with mud as she sprints through puddles. She is going too quickly to stop, yet when the pain hits her, in one wave sweeping through the entire market like a gust of wind, white hot and sharp, she crumples and falls to the ground. The pain sears through her vision as she staggers to her feet and runs.

The doll lifts its head, and its eyes have barely met Eli’s when it begins to collapse. Eli’s heart stutters. The flames around the bronze book shift, and they are black as ink, rising into the air with plumes of coal-dark smoke. The doll flares with light, golden and brilliant like sunlight.

From the end of the avenue, Bethany spots the market square, full of light. She blinks several times as she sprints, increasing speed.

Bethany pauses at the edge of the market square. When she finally spies Eli, he is just a blur of shadow before the light becomes too blinding.

Bethany closes her eyes and blindly grasps at the fading golden glimmer in the darkness behind them.

The light fades as quickly as it began.

For Eli, the moment of the resurrection lasts much longer. He floats in a colourless, timeless space. He feels suspended. Waiting. He tries to wander but he isn’t sure if his body is moving. He feels diluted, as though he is playing the market-game, but there is nothing to ground him to the market.

Eli tries to place himself somewhere in the market. He thinks of Bethany’s stall, pictures the cages.

What follows is a sudden and intense moment of pain. White hot, as though he is being pierced by hundreds of knives at once.

When the pain recedes, Eli becomes award that feeling and sound have returned. He blinks several times before sight also returns.

Eli is lying on the ground in the market square, his back flat on the hard packed earth, an hour or so before sunset.

Bethany kneels beside him, holding his hand in hers, watching him with concern.

“What happened?” Eli asks.

“I could not bind you to anything permanent,” she says, dark eyes glistening with tears.

“What do you mean?” The market is coming into focus, and there is something missing from the square that he cannot specifically place.

“The resurrection failed. It was trying to pull you in, to raise your mother with your life. I had to bind you to the market. And your mother… is gone. I don’t know where she is. She came back, but she isn’t substantial. I’m sorry.”

Eli sits up. He still feels light, but some of the weight of the natural world is returning to him. “You binded me to the market?” he repeats.

“I had to. It won’t last forever. The market cannot support you and your mother. We have to find a way to unbind one of you. Though I don’t think we an safely unbind you,” Bethany says.

She holds his hand even as he stands.

When Eli glances around the market square, he realizes the shadows are longer, the stalls dimmer. The flames that have burned around the centerpiece since the market’s opening night are gone. There are not even curls of smoke replacing them. It is light-less.

Bethany squeezes his hand, and his attention returns to her. A single tear is falling down her cheek as he takes her into his arms.

“We have to find your mother,” Bethany says, when she has found her voice.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Whisper in the Roses

The roses were white when I first planted them. White as snow. When the wind blew the gate open and their petals fluttered madly, they looked like snow.

They were beautiful, but not extraordinary. At first.

The youth who sold them me, a gangly young man with sage-green eyes and a smile as warm as embers, told me they were anything but ordinary. "Just water them once a day for maximum colour. And a little love never hurts." Then he offered me a cup of darjeeling before I left.

They grew as tall as my window sill, and at night I watched the moonlight turn them blue. the next morning, when I went to water them, they were blue, as though they drank they drank the sky.

After sunset, they were soaked in a colour like fire.

After a thunderstorm, they were the pale purple of a forked tongue of lightning.

On one hot night, when the smell of roses wafted through my window and drew me into the garden, they pulled from me tears. I cried as I have not cried in months. Over the rose garden.

My tears spread like a stain and the roses turned sage-green.

The next morning, the green-eyed man appeared at my gate, with a smile and a fresh cup of darjeeling.

"I told you they just needed some love," he said, handing me my tea.

Art by Alphonse Mucha

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Opening Night Part III: Ceremony

The girl spends the majority of the evening executing her number of scheduled performances before midnight, when the official opening ceremony will take place. Bethany wishes that perhaps she had some time to recover from the earlier shockwave, the one that seemed to happen only minutes after she was bound to the game, which nearly knocked her over with the force of it.

Her performances are scheduled tightly together, but because she can only do a limited number of them in one night, Bethany’s breaks are long. They take place in the times when the concourses are not too busy, when there are fewer potential audiences. She takes long walks through the concourses and pathways, roaming around the market as though she were any other patron.

She surveys the market with a mixture of amusement and delight. Some attractions are mundane tricks she is sure she could duplicate, given time or instruction. Others are complex spectacles of extraordinary wares or performances. She is sure she sees a merchant selling small mason jars carrying tiny stars, though they appear like small blue flames to the passing crowds.

The girl tests herself by distinguishing the stalls selling enchanted wares – textiles that change colour, or masks that change shape to suit the wearer’s needs – from the vendors that enchant their customers.

She passes a stall in which a couple laughs. They have signed away a year of their lives each in exchange for a hint about the future. They do not believe it, as the gentleman behind the counter directs them to the signature line, but Bethany thinks they should not be so hasty to sign.

She passes a stall full of dolls, many of which are in kimonos similar to the one worn by the petite Asian lady standing beside them. The doll-maker smiles at her, and dozens of dolls behind her hold similar expressions. Still, it is a warm gesture, which Bethany returns.

She finds herself on the opposite side of the market, and though the hour of her next performance is coming closer, she cannot bring herself to go back just yet.

The pathways here are now filled with silver light, like a softer layer of moonlight. The avenues are not busy, but that is because a crowd has gathered in one of the intersections, attracting attention from the pathways around it.

To her left and right, patrons are streaming past her to get a good view of whatever has drawn the attention of their fellow patrons. The girl, in the spirit of investigation and intrigue, joins the hustle. She finds a spot where she has a view between spectators, though the vantage point blocks her of an immediate face to put to the act.

From the first moment, in which a hand pulls a silk square from atop a cave, revealing a dead dove on its bottom, she knows this performance will be anything but ordinary.

The spectators part inches more, and she can see the man, who is barely a man, holding the cage for all to see.

The routine is clearly practiced, though he is not quite yet a consummate performer. He adds flourishes and smiles to his act, but his focus remains more on his work than the crowd.

There is a very small flash of light, purely quintessential, the girl knows, when the man in the dark suit holds the dove out, murmuring beneath his breath.

The dove’s soft coo is confirmation of what she already suspects.

The audience’s reaction is immediate, with several gasps followed by uproarious cheering and exuberant clapping.

His green eyes slide over her, as he smiles at the audience. He bows lowly and the dove flutters on his arm.

She smiles and claps politely. Finding her opponent/discovering her opponent’s identity, is not the challenge she foresaw/thought it would be.

While he is still bowing, though also gently settling the dove into its cage, she slips away, out of the crowd and into the light shifting from silver to pale gold.

She continues down the path, winding around corners, up and down avenues, feeling both lighter and heavier than she did earlier in the evening. After some time she emerges in the market square, where the air is rich with sweet aromas and the market hums with chatter.

The girl watches the statue of the book, light up by the lanterns around the square. Dread creeps up her spine, and excitement. She has the impression that the game, the game, will officially begin with the opening ceremony. On the stroke of midnight.

She waits in the crowd, inconspicuous with her black coat drawn around her, casting surreptitious glances at the watch on the wrist of the gentleman next to her, while she waits.

Boisterous patrons shift around her, taking no notice of the girl standing still in the market square. She thinks perhaps she is invisible in the milling crowd. It is not until the first pillar of twisted metal, one of several erected around the square, standing taller than any stalls, blazes to life with warm amber flames, do the market-goers stop. The gentleman’s watch reads ten to midnight.

There is a cacophony of murmurs and whispers, but when nothing happens immediately after patrons lose their interest. Their attention is drawn elsewhere and they continue to wander to various locations and oddities.

At nine to midnight, the next pillar lights, across the square. Several patrons let our shrieks of delight and surprise that quickly become laughter.

At eight to midnight another pillar blazes. A minute later, another.

When the penultimate pillar is lit, the crowd waits in hushed anticipation. Their eyes are fixes on the lights around them as they collectively hold their breath.

The flames, as suddenly as they appeared, vanish. Conversation halts entirely. For a moment the entire market is silent, encompassed in a quiescence. Not even a breath stirs the air. Then, then the ceremony begins.

They launch into the twilit sky with a shower of sparks. They streak over the crowds in a multitude of colours. One by one the market square shifts between vivid shades. It is first a shimmering deep blue, then following that is a deep violet.

Sparks the colour of rich wine succeed that.

The next is a still-deep rose red.

The market square is bathed in the colour of warm orange-red flames next.

It shifts to buttercup yellow, after.

The final streak of colourful sparks is such a deep green that for a moment the crowds appear as though they are within a giant luminescent emerald. Their cheers erupt with a canopy of sparks and small golden flames that ignite the air above the bronze statue of a book in the centre of the square. As the sparks fall, some of them land on curls of protruding metal and produce small dense clouds of billowing golden smoke.

Several patrons jump back, startled, but they are obviously delighted.

When the smoke clears, the bronze statue is covered in small flames dancing atop the metal.

The reaction is instant and exuberant. Several spectators that were preparing to leave and explore further avenues decide to stay, buy a cup of cocoa or cider, and talk while they watch the flaming bronze book.

In the light and spectrum of colour, the girl waits for an indication that the game has started. A sign. A feeling. There is nothing save for the bronze hue lighting the square, and the girl cannot tell what she is feeling, or what to do since the game has not started.

A moment later, the shockwave hits her.

The entire market square shudders, though judging by the giddiness of the surrounding patrons, it is not an all-encompassing effect.

As the crowd is doused in colour, she feels suddenly unstable.

In the shifting crowd, the girl is jostled with such force that she stumbles and falls forward. And arm goes around her waist to steady her.

When she glances at the gentleman who holds her upright, she sees he is not much older than herself, and in a suit of such deep violet that is it almost black.

“Excuse me, Miss. Are you alright?” he asks, raising his voice above the din of the market square.

“Yes, I- I just…” She finds it difficult to speak with the ground still tipping beneath her. And she is trembling violently. “There isn’t much room…”

“I can help you to a more spacious area if you do not mind being crowded for a moment,” the gentleman says.

When the girl nods, he takes her gently by the arm. The gentleman leads her on still-unsteady legs through the throng of patrons, who are still marveling over the opening ceremony, to a shadowed alcove between two tents.

In the darkness they have a modicum of privacy, and while she knows better than to stand in darkened alcoves with strangers, she feels enchanted by the distant lights and the aftereffects of the ceremony. And still lightheaded.

The gentleman keeps his hold on her arm, though he takes a step back, despite the lack of room. “May I inquire what happened?” he asks.

“I felt rather dizzy,” she says to him, with a smile. “I apologize if I startled you.”

“You need not apologize,” he assures her. His accompanying smile is warm and enigmatic, his expression difficult to decipher from the dim light and unfamiliarity, but he appears amused and politely concerned.

“Jean-Marc Marchand,” he introduces himself, holding out a hand to shake.

The girl responds, with her name – or a version of it, and shakes the proffered hand.

“Is there someone to whom I may escort you?” Mr.Marchand inquires. “Did you arrive with anyone?”

“No. I didn’t not exactly arrive. I work here,” she says.

“You do? I would not have thought it.”

“I suppose it is not so obvious when I am in cognito,” she says, glancing down at her black coat.

“I am lucky. My own outfit is inconspicuous enough that I can avoid being recognized as a vendor without disguising myself.”

The girl’s brow furrows. “You work in the market?”

“Indeed. I believe we have missed the beginning of the game,” he says, smiling apologetically. “My sympathies, Miss Morgenstern. We could of course begin immediately, but we are already well behind, I think.”

“Please do not call me Miss Morgenstern. Bethany will do. At least we did not miss the opening ceremony,” she says.

“It was spectacular,” he agrees. “I did not expect to win the game tonight, anyway,” he adds, after a thoughtful moment.

“It was a magical ceremony,” Bethany says. “Very beautiful.”

“You are beautiful,” Mr.Marchand says, and her cheeks flush.

“Thank you.”

“Do you feel steadier now?” Mr.Marchand asks.

“Very much, thank you.”

“Bethany,” he says. “Do you require an escort back to your booth?”

She smiles. “Mr.Marchand, of course I do not require an escort. But I would love for you to accompany me, if it does not interfere with your schedule.”

Bethany accepts his out-held arm once more and accompanies him into the busy concourse. They walk on, taking twist after turn, stealing glances at one another underneath the swaying lanterns.

To anyone else, they would appear like a couple enjoying the warm summer night beneath the stars.

Art by Nati

Text by Lucie MacAulay

A Trigger

As Eli waits for his instructor to appear, he paces back and forth, and occasionally glances back at his notebook. His flat is in complete upheaval. His collection of notebooks, usually in perfect chronological order, has been unshelved and each book lays open on some surface or the floor, empty pages open to the ceiling.

He looks at the clock again, waiting for a knock on the door.

It does not arrive for several minutes, and when it resounds in the messy flat, Eli opens the door with such forces that the hinges rattle. His former instructor faces him silently, waiting in the threshold for his former student to speak.

“What is this?” Eli says, holding up his notebook, blank but for his signature on the inside of the front cover. Each note, every symbol, has been erased.

“It is your punishment. A temporary handicap,” his instructor says.

“I need this. I cannot do anything without a safeguard. Why would you take it from me?” Eli asks, through gritted teeth.

“I did not determine your punishment.”

Eli lowers the notebook, scowling as he drops it beside the door. “Then who did? Your opponent? What can he punish me for? Is this not against the rules?”

“You interfered with your opponent’s work. You broke the rules. It is within his right to punish you.”

“She gave me permission to do it!” Eli says.

“Nevertheless,” his instructor says, calmly. “It was against the rules.”

“Then why did you not tell me? Why didn’t you give me a concrete outline of what the rules are? You are making this game more impossible for me than it already is,” Eli says.

His instructor does not move from his position, though his hands clench by his sides. “You are being incredibly dramatic about this,” he says.

“You have no idea what it is like, to watch every move I make, to calculate all the consequences at every turn I take. It is exhausting, but still it is not enough.”

Eli’s instructor replies calmly, but his eyes are narrowed. “It would not be nearly so exhausting if you did not divide your attention. Your focus is on the game.”

“A game, which you have designed specifically so I could not excel?”

“It has been designed for no such thing.”

“She continues to push boundaries, using different magics-,” he says the word to get a reaction from his instructor, but receives none. “- to test her limits and push them. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

“You are not exactly competing with her; you are proving a point,” his instructor says.

“What point?”

“You resurrects right before their eyes, which you can only do because none of them believe it is real. If they could comprehend it, it would keep them up at night. They would never allow it. She conceals her skills, which only further proves that not everything is possible and that impossible things are best hidden or left alone. She is there to push boundaries, you are here to prove that there are boundaries.”

As Eli glares at his former instructor, several birdcages suspended from the ceiling sway, drawings coos from their distressed inhabitants. The blank pages of the notebooks around them flutter.

“You are letting your emotion trump your vision,” his instructor says, over the flutter of bird wings and the rustle of paper. “You are here to prove a point, and the game is the way in which you will do so. That is all.”

“Nothing I have done since I met her has been to prove your point. I have been pushing myself to impress her. To challenge her. Everything I am doing is, in part, for her,” Eli says, his voice rising. “She tells me I can do anything, and watching her, I believe it. You have always told me the exact opposite. How am I to trust you at all?”

“Do you believe you love her?” His instructor says, and his expression is, for the first time Eli has ever seen, clearly angry. “You are setting yourself up to lose. To fail. To get hurt.”

“Because you have always been so concerned for my welfare,” Eli says. “Your first priority is winning this game to prove your point.”

“I have not cosseted you, it is true,” Eli’s instructor admits, “but you’ve received an education that betters most in the world and will enable you to do or learn almost anything else.”

“It can give me nothing that I want,” Eli says. “It is a way for you two to claim reward without suffering the consequences. You fight by proxy because neither of you can stand to be wrong.”

His instructor puts his hands behind his back and regards his former student silently for some time. “That is not true,” he says quietly.

“It is. There is nothing beneficial to anyone but yourself, in this game.”

“You are benefitting. You are learning that resurrection is not the answer to everything.”

“It is the answer to some things,” Eli says.

“Not your mother.”

“But it would work, wouldn’t it?” Eli presses. “My blood for her blood. I would only need a body to bring her back to.”

“Sympathetic magic is not sufficient for that scale of resurrection.”

“According to you, nothing is,” Eli counters.

“Resurrection does not work when the subject has been dead that long. That was one of you first lessons.”

The small glimmer of hope Eli has been harbouring is almost crushed by his former instructor’s words, but when his eyes fall to the empty notebook beside the door, his conviction is reaffirmed.

He barely glances at his instructor’s face before he slams the door in it.

His instructor lifts his hand to knock, then hesitates. When he hears nothing but silence beyond the door, he turns and departs.

Text by Lucie MacAulay