Chapter Text
The Handbook for the Haunted
“One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—
One need not be a House—
The Brain has Corridors—surpassing
Material Place—”
— Emily Dickinson
Prologue
Kaz Rietveld stared and stared, his eyes narrowed in concentration, as the silver coin danced between the graceful fingertips of the magician. In the pale lantern light, he could see the flying fish stamped into the soft metal, its scales shimmering as it leapt from knuckle to knuckle. Skimming the surface of the waves, it moved faster and faster, its dorsal fin slicing the air like the bowsprit of a merchant ship setting sail from the harbor.
Then it vanished entirely.
With an impish grin, the magician bared his palms, spreading his fingers wide.
“Again,” Kaz demanded. “Show me again.”
His older brother groaned, his glum face buried in both hands. Jordie was seated on one of several overturned wine crates. The crates had been arranged into a makeshift amphitheater near the entrance of the Blue Paradise. When the brothers first spotted the performance, the magician had been conjuring birds from bright bursts of flash paper. The staves had been nearly empty then, awash in the warm glow of the setting sun. But now the cobblestone streets had grown dark, illuminated by colorful paper lanterns strung across the murky canal water. Waves of tourists had been streaming past them into nearby gambling halls for the past half-chime, the barkers stationed outside each club shouting over each other, promising cheap girls and even cheaper liquor. Jordie could easily ignore such temptation. However, the sweet scent of fresh waffle batter, wafting from a nearby street vendor, was proving much more difficult to ignore.
“I thought you wanted waffles?” Jordie whined. “A heaping plate smothered with apple butter? Puddles of syrup sweet enough to rot your teeth?”
But Kaz merely shook his head. “Again.”
The magician laughed, his teeth flashing white in the lantern light, and the coin reappeared.
“One last time,” Jordie grumbled. “Then we are leaving. No arguments.”
Jordie crossed his arms. His dour expression made him look much older. In fact, Jordie’s scowl bore an eerie resemblance to the expression once worn by their long-suffering schoolmistress back home. With a dull ache, Kaz realized he missed how Jordie used to behave. Wild. Carefree. For years, they had swam together in the old mill pond, their heads thrown back in laughter as they took turns swinging from a rope into the sun-warmed water. They had always made it a contest to see who could create the biggest wave. But those sunlit afternoons were long gone. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Kaz felt the childish urge to push his brother into the nearby canal. The water would be much colder this time of year, but he could still imagine the satisfying splash.
But before he could act on this impulse, something else caught his attention.
The magician was studying him. He winked when their eyes met. Then, with a theatrical flourish, the magician plucked the silver coin from thin air, holding it motionless between two fingers and his thumb. The flying fish glimmered in the low light, frozen mid-leap above the waves.
“Pay close attention,” the magician instructed.
Kaz leaned forward, hardly daring to breathe.
And then the coin was moving, more slowly this time, catching the light. It traveled back and forth between his fingertips—once, twice, three times—before the magician abruptly closed both fists. When he opened his hands once more, each palm was frustratingly empty, the coin nowhere to be found.
Kaz let out his breath in a huff of defeat. Jordie was already on his feet, tossing a copper penny into the upturned bowler hat at the center of the circle of wine crates. It landed amidst a handful of crumpled purple bills and stray coins with a muted clink. Glancing down, the magician pressed one hand to his heart, bowing low in gratitude. When he straightened his back once more, his eyes were alight with mischief.
Then Kaz finally saw it—the barest glimmer of silver in the crease between two fingers. He furrowed his brow. But before he could take a closer look, the magician stepped forward, clapping him merrily on the back.
“Don’t forget to practice,” the magician said. “In front of a mirror if you can.”
Kaz frowned, confused, but his brother was already tugging at his elbow.
“Come on, Kaz,” Jordie said, yanking him in the direction of waffles. “That is enough magic for one night.”
Mutinous, Kaz dragged his heels, muttering under his breath until they finally reached the crowded waffle cart. But then the smell of batter washed over him. He fought to keep his scowl firmly affixed on his face. When Jordie finally handed him a fresh stack of syrupy waffles, his mouth started to water. Begrudgingly, he took his first syrup-laden bite, and the missing coin was temporarily forgotten.
Balancing his own stack of waffles, Jordie guided them through the crowds until they reached Goedmedbridge. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the ledge overlooking the West Stave, watching the gondels drift lazily through the water. Leaning against his brother, Kaz stuffed his mouth with warm dough, peering down at the stream of monsters below. The revelers along the western canals had donned the costumes of the Komedie Brute. Their grotesque masks loomed like strange creatures, prowling the canal waters, unearthly and beautiful. There was a scarab queen, decked from head to toe in black and shimmering green. Eyes bulging from their masks, gray-clad imps ferried their passengers downstream, their horns piercing the night sky. Each new mask might have once haunted his nightmares, sending him fleeing to cower behind his father. But instead he felt warm and safe, his head resting on his brother's shoulder. When the paper carton was empty, he licked apple syrup from his fingertips before letting his drowsy eyes drift shut, his limbs suddenly heavy.
He did not know how long he had been sleeping when Jordie prodded him awake.
“Come on,” Jordie murmured. “Time for bed.”
Kaz blinked, bleary-eyed, as his brother hoisted him to his feet. They slowly traveled east through the winding city streets, stopping once along the way to purchase two large bags of candied quince paste, cut into gelatinous squares wrapped in wax paper. Kaz nibbled sleepily on one of the squares, and then another, stuffing the sticky wrappers in the pockets of his coat.
Only when they finally arrived at the boarding house—their bellies bloated with sweets—did Kaz discover the silver coin nestled amidst the wax paper wrappers.
His eyes widening, Kaz held it up to the firelight, tracing the delicate ridges along the edge. The fins of the flying fish flashed in the warm glow of the hearth, its silver scales glistening as he turned the coin over and over between his fingers. The Church of Barter was stamped onto the back of the coin, its spires reaching heavenward like the prongs of a pitchfork. The first time he glimpsed the cathedral in person, he had felt a strange thrill of terror, remembering the twisted tines of the plow the day his father died.
Jordie did not let him practice that night. Instead, Kaz stared at the dark ceiling, rubbing his thumb over the cool metal. In the days that followed, he spent hours squatting in front of the looking glass, rehearsing while his brother searched for work. He held the coin between his thumb and forefinger, letting it drop into his opposite palm in front of the mirror. He spent one full day, his eyes squeezed shut, attempting to simply will the coin out of existence. It remained resolutely solid. But after that, he thought he might understand. Perhaps the coin did not vanish at all. Perhaps it was a trick. Make the audience believe the coin was in one hand, then palm the coin in the other hand. But the first time he attempted this strategy on his brother, he had not been quick enough. The coin slipped awkwardly between his fingers.
“It’s in your other palm,” Jordie observed, dismissive. “Pull on your boots. Mr. Hertzoon said you could wait at the coffeehouse.”
Kaz glowered as he knotted his laces. But soon he was drinking hot chocolate, perched on the counter, practicing with the coin in the reflection of the silver coffee urn. He twisted the coin between his fingers again and again, his face contorted in concentration. He soon grew frustrated. It did not matter how hard he tried. His fingers were still too clumsy. The coin was too large, too conspicuous. It did not fit neatly in his palm.
Each day when he returned to the coffeehouse, Jordie would laugh before pointing to the hand where the coin was hidden.
“Still not fast enough,” Jordie said. “But don’t feel too bad. Saskia might even fall for it now.”
“Saskia?” Kaz asked, his nose scrunched.
“Mr. Hertzoon’s daughter,” Jordie explained, impatient. “Don’t you remember? Mr. Hertzoon invited us to dinner tonight at his house in the Zelver District. You can play with Saskia while we talk business. You might actually be able to trick her.”
* * *
Saskia was, in fact, not easier to trick. She was far too pretty, far prettier than her father. She wore her thick hair tied back with a silky red ribbon, and freckles dotted her pale cheeks like constellations. When she watched him—her pale eyes narrowed—his palms started to sweat, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest. He kept fumbling the coin. She grinned, apparently delighted, each time she spotted the shimmer of silver slipping into his shirt sleeve. On his third failed attempt, the coin clattered to the ground.
“It’s a clever trick,” she said gleefully, picking it up. “But you need to practice more.”
Red-faced, Kaz snatched the coin back, shoving it into his pocket. But his embarrassment was quickly forgotten when Saskia introduced him to their lumbering hound, a silver-haired Kaelish setter. The dog nosed his pocket, letting out a gentle wuff upon discovering the shortbread biscuit he had squirreled away for later. Kaz let the dog lick the crumbs from his hand, feeling a pang of homesickness as he remembered the grizzled barn cat they had left behind. The cat used to climb in through the window and curl up around his head, purring loudly in the dead of night. Da had always frowned when he found the ginger hairs left behind on his pillow, but he never barred the window.
Later that evening, Mr. Hertzoon leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing both boys over the dinner table. The last of the dinner plates had been cleared away by the doughy-faced maid, the warm tureen of hutspot replaced by a crystal decanter of dark whiskey. Mr. Hertzoon was working on his second glass, his ruddy cheeks ruby red from the liquor. With a magnanimous grin, he nodded at Kaz. “I hear you know a bit of magic, lad.”
Kaz felt the tips of his ears grow warm. He glanced warily at his brother before nodding.
“A bit,” he mumbled.
“Fair more than a bit from what I hear.” Mr. Hertzoon lifted his hands in a toast, the amber liquid sloshing in his glass. “Go on then,” he said. “Show us what you can do.”
Saskia gave him an encouraging smile.
Kaz reached slowly into his pocket, pulling out the silver coin. His fingers trembling, he held it palm up between his finger and his thumb. Picturing the sheen of the silver coffee urn, he let his right hand drift towards his left, pretending to take the coin into his other hand. But instead of gripping the coin, he grasped at empty air, fanning his fingers with a theatrical flourish. With a sudden surge of confidence, he let the coin fall backwards. It slid along his wrist, slipping beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeve. He closed his fingers into an empty fist. Then he opened both hands to reveal his bare palms. Kaz looked towards his brother. Jordie was blinking like an owl. He seemed begrudgingly impressed.
Mr. Hertzoon let out a rough bark of laughter. “Now, that is a fine trick, lad. Have you ever worked with a deck of cards?”
Cheeks pink, Kaz shook his head. “No.”
Mr. Hertzoon took a generous swig of whiskey, smacking his lips before setting the glass on the table. He nodded at Jordie. “See to it your brother practices with a deck of cards when he’s older,” he said. “He could make fine coin one day dealing at a luxury establishment.”
Jordie frowned. “With all due respect, Mr. Hertzoon, my brother won’t end up working on the staves. Not if I can help it.”
“I meant no offense,” Mr. Hertzoon boomed. “Kaz is clearly a clever young lad—just like his brother. I should have known he meant to go into business too.”
His eyes shining, Jordie puffed out his chest, straightening his back with pride.
“Speaking of business,” Mr. Hertzoon continued, scratching his tufty sideburns. “How would you feel about investing a small sum in the company stocks?”
Jordie burst into a dazzling grin.
* * *
Jordie whistled cheerfully the entire walk back to the boarding house. Kaz could not carry a tune to save his life, but when they crossed the Zentsbridge, he started whistling as well. He had finally done it. He had made the coin disappear. That night he set the coin in a place of honor on his bedside table. But why stop at coins? he thought. As his eyes slipped shut, he dreamt of birds disappearing in bright flares of flash paper. He dreamt of white rabbits peeking timidly from bowler hats. He dreamt of daring escapes as locks fell, utterly useless, to the ground.
In the morning, buttery sunlight streamed through the window. Jordie was still snoring quietly when Kaz slipped out of bed, kneeling in front of the foggy mirror. The coin vanished again and again and again. Soon he was careening around the room, pocketing bits and bobs to see if he could vanish them too. He only stopped when a pillow smacked him in the face. Kaz blinked in surprise, turning to see his brother burrowing beneath the blankets once more.
But in the weeks that followed, he quickly realized vanishing was all too easy. After all, entire families could vanish overnight. Coffeehouses too. The stack of kruge tucked into their mattress dwindled down to pennies. The safety of the boarding house soon followed, replaced by a hovel beneath the Goedmedbridge. His leather boots were snatched from his feet. His belly went empty. And when they grew desperate enough to trade the silver coin for a paper cone of fried potatoes, the vendor laughed at them before shooing them away.
The coin was a counterfeit, fabricated from an alloy of cheap metals.
When the plague bells started ringing, the streets went empty save for the rats scurrying along the drain pipes. In the eerie quiet, Kaz could hear the muted whisper of the wind through the eaves. The crowds had vanished, but the body men prowled the canals, illuminated by the ghostly glow of corpselights. In the crushing dark of early morning, Kaz watched as twisted bodies vanished into flatboats, piled high like discarded porcelain dolls, their pockmarked faces distended with bloody sores. But still he clung to his brother, trembling like a rabbit cornered by baying hounds. He no longer dreamt of daring escapes. Instead he dreamt of apple blossoms and drying hay. He dreamt of the summer breeze drifting through the barn while the fieldhands threshed the winter wheat. He dreamt of plunging into the old mill pond, hand-in-hand with his brother, the warm waters closing over his head.
Kaz woke up to find that his brother had vanished too.
His throat aching painfully, he screamed and screamed for help. But when no help came, he slipped into the harbor, dragging his brother with him. He had seen strange and wondrous things since arriving in the city—unearthly creatures hunting along the banks of the canals, beautiful women glittering like jewels in the brothel windows, flocks of doves appearing in bright bursts of starshine.
Perhaps, if he made it to shore, the city would work its magic.
Perhaps, his brother would breathe once more.
He reached the docks just as the clouds covered the moon. His arms shaking uncontrollably, he pulled himself from the waves before his legs gave out. He collapsed onto the planks. Staring down at his brother, caught in the current, Kaz finally realized how foolish he had been. He rested his forehead against the damp slats of the dock. Drawing a shuddering breath, he squeezed his swollen eyes shut, remembering the flash of the magician’s coin. It had been there one moment, then gone the next. He had spent hours squinting into dusty mirrors—hours fumbling with clumsy fingers—before finally perfecting the moment when the coin slipped beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeve. In the end, it had been nothing more than a clever trick.
But this was no trick.
He forced his eyes open, peering into the darkness. There was nothing but flotsam and jetsam, rubbish bobbing on the surface of rough waters. His brother was already long gone, his bloated body swept out to sea.
Kaz wiped the tears from his eyes, staggered to his feet, and disappeared into the city.
The next time he saw the street magician he kept walking. Cheap tricks had lost their enchantment. After all, anything could vanish given enough time—big things and little things—all pocketed by desperate thieves.
The real magic, the impossible magic, was making them reappear once more.