looks at him. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but the last time that you queried a room like this, I had to rescue you from hungry materia vines.”
Miles signs,
Thank you, dear
. Then he says: “Point taken. But that was a trap laid by the Iblis. I don’t have such a bad feeling about this place.”
“Try it,” Selena says. “But take care.”
Miles approaches the cremains of the Seneschal. His expression goes blank. I feel the dark air skip a beat, as if the room is clearing its throat. Then Miles begins talking with his hands. There are some hand shapes that I recognize, like “power” and “demise,” but he’s talking too fast for me to connect anything. He touches his hand lightly to his mouth, then repeats the sign, which means “speak.” I watch my name turn lazily in the air above us. Maybe it’s just a metaphysical text gone wrong. Or the message is meant for my mother. Neither possibility excites me.
He’s silent for a few moments. What must a conference call with space feel like? I wonder. Stones usually just spit at you, unless you’re fluent in their language. Miles turns back to us, looking a bit queasy. I guess that’s my answer. Talking to space makes you carsick. He wipes his forehead, then says: “The room isn’t making sense.”
“Can you unpack that statement?” Selena asks.
“It contradicts itself. The space remembers fire and death. But it also remembers something being born. The Polybius magic was a part of neither. It came from somewhere else. The room says it doesn’t belong here.”
“Becka recorded it and took pictures,” Selena says. “That’s all we can do, since it won’t survive transport. Even if it did, we have no tests for smoke.”
Our house has become a fair. There are booths , tents, and a real Ferris wheel. I have to find everyone so I can ask them what magic is. First I get mini-doughnuts, holding the hot, sugary bag to my chest in place of a map. I find Derrick in the fortune-teller’s tent. The fortune-teller is Mr. Corvid’s head. Derrick shuffles the deck out of kindness. They both ignore me.
“What is magic?” I ask Mr. Corvid’s head.
“A grindstone,” he says. “It scrapes you away, until only what’s sharp in you remains, until your iron grief is undressed.”
I turn to Derrick. “What is magic?”
He keeps shuffling the cards. “An alphabet,” he says. “A syllabary. Its conjugations are lightning, monsoons, and tectonic feuds.”
I leave the tent feeling less sure of everything. I find Mia on the Ferris wheel, admiring its polish. Our small car rocks back and forth. I wish she would hold on to something, anything, but she has no fear.
“What is magic?” I ask her.
“A needle,” she says. “It’s terrible. It cuts, it snags us by our loops, it makes minced pizza out of us, and there’s a lot of pain because it’s hard to move when you’re two-dimensional and stitched into an arras. But it also makes fruit, and foxes, and other important things.”
I leave her circling on the Ferris wheel. I find Patrickplaying Skee-Ball. He hands me a Japanese body pillow, which he’s won. Holding it, I ask: “What is magic?”
“It’s like new pajamas. And Radiohead, I think.”
I take the body pillow and walk to the haunted house. I find Miles crouched underneath a table, pretending to be a disembodied hand in a bowl full of uncooked spaghetti. He waves at me.
“What is magic?” I ask.
“It’s several things,” he replies. “But don’t repeat them, okay? Hugging. Digging. Spelling. Sucking. Edging. Rimming. Meowing. Lying. Spitting. Presuming. Disinfecting. And Reverse Cowboy.”
I leave him and walk to the petting zoo. Modred is having some sort of colloquy with a Shetland pony. He has an endless supply of apple slices.
“What is magic?” I ask him.
“The teeth that made me,” he says, petting the animal lightly. “The sound of the mercy bringers in the morning, plunging their knives into whatever still
Miles signs,
Thank you, dear
. Then he says: “Point taken. But that was a trap laid by the Iblis. I don’t have such a bad feeling about this place.”
“Try it,” Selena says. “But take care.”
Miles approaches the cremains of the Seneschal. His expression goes blank. I feel the dark air skip a beat, as if the room is clearing its throat. Then Miles begins talking with his hands. There are some hand shapes that I recognize, like “power” and “demise,” but he’s talking too fast for me to connect anything. He touches his hand lightly to his mouth, then repeats the sign, which means “speak.” I watch my name turn lazily in the air above us. Maybe it’s just a metaphysical text gone wrong. Or the message is meant for my mother. Neither possibility excites me.
He’s silent for a few moments. What must a conference call with space feel like? I wonder. Stones usually just spit at you, unless you’re fluent in their language. Miles turns back to us, looking a bit queasy. I guess that’s my answer. Talking to space makes you carsick. He wipes his forehead, then says: “The room isn’t making sense.”
“Can you unpack that statement?” Selena asks.
“It contradicts itself. The space remembers fire and death. But it also remembers something being born. The Polybius magic was a part of neither. It came from somewhere else. The room says it doesn’t belong here.”
“Becka recorded it and took pictures,” Selena says. “That’s all we can do, since it won’t survive transport. Even if it did, we have no tests for smoke.”
Our house has become a fair. There are booths , tents, and a real Ferris wheel. I have to find everyone so I can ask them what magic is. First I get mini-doughnuts, holding the hot, sugary bag to my chest in place of a map. I find Derrick in the fortune-teller’s tent. The fortune-teller is Mr. Corvid’s head. Derrick shuffles the deck out of kindness. They both ignore me.
“What is magic?” I ask Mr. Corvid’s head.
“A grindstone,” he says. “It scrapes you away, until only what’s sharp in you remains, until your iron grief is undressed.”
I turn to Derrick. “What is magic?”
He keeps shuffling the cards. “An alphabet,” he says. “A syllabary. Its conjugations are lightning, monsoons, and tectonic feuds.”
I leave the tent feeling less sure of everything. I find Mia on the Ferris wheel, admiring its polish. Our small car rocks back and forth. I wish she would hold on to something, anything, but she has no fear.
“What is magic?” I ask her.
“A needle,” she says. “It’s terrible. It cuts, it snags us by our loops, it makes minced pizza out of us, and there’s a lot of pain because it’s hard to move when you’re two-dimensional and stitched into an arras. But it also makes fruit, and foxes, and other important things.”
I leave her circling on the Ferris wheel. I find Patrickplaying Skee-Ball. He hands me a Japanese body pillow, which he’s won. Holding it, I ask: “What is magic?”
“It’s like new pajamas. And Radiohead, I think.”
I take the body pillow and walk to the haunted house. I find Miles crouched underneath a table, pretending to be a disembodied hand in a bowl full of uncooked spaghetti. He waves at me.
“What is magic?” I ask.
“It’s several things,” he replies. “But don’t repeat them, okay? Hugging. Digging. Spelling. Sucking. Edging. Rimming. Meowing. Lying. Spitting. Presuming. Disinfecting. And Reverse Cowboy.”
I leave him and walk to the petting zoo. Modred is having some sort of colloquy with a Shetland pony. He has an endless supply of apple slices.
“What is magic?” I ask him.
“The teeth that made me,” he says, petting the animal lightly. “The sound of the mercy bringers in the morning, plunging their knives into whatever still
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