The Real Boy

  Oscar took three steps back. But the room was not done with him yet; the blood had called to him, and now something else was calling.

  Oscar stepped three paces away, to a dark corner of the room. And then he looked at the rug beneath his feet, bent down, and pulled it up.

  A square door was cut into the floor, about as long as Oscar himself. It was so well masked by the floor that most people would have missed it, but it was the sort of thing Oscar noticed. And the door wanted to be opened. So Oscar opened it.

  Under the door was a compartment in the floor, and inside that compartment was a strange figure. Oscar held up the lantern.

  It was a doll. Or like a doll. Made of wood. About a foot smaller than Oscar, the size of a small child. Its limbs were jointed at the elbows and knees. You could tie strings to the doll’s body and make it walk..

  Oscar reached down and picked up the doll’s arms. They bent, just as human arms should. Slowly, carefully, he picked up the doll and cradled it in his arms.

  Its head was nothing, just a head-shaped block of wood. Its limbs flopped and its waist rotated slightly as he picked the doll up. The wood felt warm and hummed just the way Block did. It called to him, like something familiar and lost.

  He looked into the doll’s faceless face. He bent the head around. It moved, but the neck was stiff. Wooden.

  Yes, the wood gave Oscar the same combination of peace and yearning that the wizard trees gave him when he put his hands on them.

  But how had Caleb—

  The truth slapped Oscar on the cheek. It was not some new magician cutting down the wizard trees. It was Caleb. Caleb was cutting them down and using the wood for magic.

  The spells from Magic and the Mind popped up in Oscar’s head: a spell to implant memories. Living Enchantments. The Breath of Life.

  And flashes: the boy from today laughing and pointing. The villagers and their faces when he’d asked about the trees. The sickrooms and Oscar in the shadows. The shop: Orphan, simple, odd, not right. Caleb’s voice: You are an odd little boy. Wolf: Do you know what a freak you are? You don’t even know where you came from, do you? And the shadows of the past: Look me in the eye, boy. And the feeling, always, of living in a different pocket of air from everyone else, not knowing how to break through it. And this, the aloneness, pressing down on his chest, the most constant company of his life.

  And the look on Callie’s face today.

  And then he understood:

  I am made of wood.

  I am made of wood.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Magicians

  There is a way the truth hits you, both hard and gentle at the same time. It punches you in the stomach as it puts its loving arm around your shoulder. Yes, I am terrible to behold, the truth says. But you suspected it all along, didn’t you? And isn’t it better, now that you know? Now, at least, it all makes sense.

  So Oscar cradled his brother for a while, and then put him back in the compartment and closed the door.

  Caleb had made him, enchanted him, given him life. Maybe Caleb had made him just to have a hand. Loyal, works hard.

  Lord Cooper, Sophie’s father, in the shop last week: Might I ask, how long do you remember being here?

  Maybe none of Oscar’s past was real. Maybe he’d never been in the Home at all. No, he couldn’t have been. That’s why the memories were so hard to grasp. They had all been planted, like a lily in a vegetable garden. Oscar could have been made five years ago, or even more recently still. Who knew what in his past was real? He was a blank page.

  Maybe Oscar had been the first, the experiment. Maybe Caleb had learned from his mistakes and his next one would work better. Maybe that one would not be odd.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Nothing was real; nothing was sure. His memories were phantoms, his past a lie. He took the cat from his pocket and gazed at it. The cat hummed and buzzed. They were kin. No wonder he felt more comfortable with the trees than with people.

  How strange to leave the boy—for Oscar was sure the doll was destined to be a boy, like he was—under the floor like that. Still, he was just a wooden doll—whatever Caleb would do to give him life had not happened yet.

  Wolf: He can do things no one’s ever done before.

  Mister Malcolm: There is danger in small enchantments. Small enchantments make us dream of big ones.

  Oscar’s mind went blank; his head began to roar. His skin felt like it had thinned into tissue paper. Even the air against it hurt, threatened to break through. Really, it was amazing his body and all its systems worked as well as it did; Caleb was a most marvelous magician indeed.

  Oscar stayed huddled up as tightly as possible for hours. Cat stopped thumping his tail and came in to sit by him, but even his purrs felt like an assault. Oscar couldn’t help it. There was nothing at all to him besides his heart and that roaring and this frail, tissue-like skin.

  Gradually, as morning began to dawn, his body regained its memory of how to be a working boy again. Yes, your mind works. Yes, your skin can survive this air. Yes, your heart will stay in your body. Yes, your muscles work, and so do your joints, while we’re at it. Yes, you are a creature that thinks and moves and walks and even talks, though you don’t enjoy it very much. You may be a doll, but you can do these things.

  Oscar picked himself up, walked out of Caleb’s studio on his working legs, and shut the door with his perfectly articulated hand.

  It was all quiet now—his whole body, his mind. Everything felt very still; it was unlike anything he’d experienced. He felt like a lantern with no light. All he had to do was walk up the stairs, feed the cats, go get water, do his chores. He swept the shop and dusted the shelves, in case any dirt had accumulated overnight. He surveyed the store and set to work restocking whatever needed restocking.

  His routines had always felt right. And now he knew why. He had been made to do them.

  And then, noise in all the silence. A knock on the kitchen window.

  Callie.

  He opened the back door but stood in the doorway.

  Callie’s face looked wrong. He did not understand it. Her eyes were red, and she looked like she was half ghost. He had learned some of her expressions, but he did not know this one. He had to learn what other people simply understood—and now he knew why. This understanding was a human ability, and Oscar did not have it.

  “May I come in?” she asked, voice low.

  Oscar could not come up with a way to say no, so Callie moved past him and then stood in the kitchen. She did not say anything. Neither did Oscar.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me, Oscar?” she said, after a while.

  I am made of wood.

  “No?” She folded her arms. “Oscar,” she said, speaking in almost a whisper, “I know you haven’t had a lot of experience with . . . people. But you have to think before you talk. When people are sick, your job is to make them better, not insult and scare them. You . . . you have to think about how the things you say might make other people feel.”

  A human ability. Oscar did not have it.

  Callie was looking away now, holding herself close. “And you have to be careful,” she said, voice wavering. “What you said to me, it was . . . not right. When you say the wrong thing, when you hurt someone, you tell them you are sorry. That’s what you do. You could have come by later, and you didn’t. Now I’m standing here in front of you, and you haven’t even said you’re sorry.”

  “I am sorry,” Oscar said.

  “We’re going to have to talk more about how you need to be with sick people. It’s delicate, and—”

  “No,” Oscar said.

  “No what?”

  “No. I am not going to visit another sick patient. I must tend to the shop.” He motioned to the things on the counter. Stiffly.

  She narrowed her eyes, “Oscar, are you angry? Because—”

  “No,” he said.

  “I need to talk to you about something,” she said.

>   “I have to work,” he said.

  She took a step back. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t need help anymore, Callie,” he said. “Or rather, I can’t be helped. It’s not going to work. Ever.”

  “What about the children?” Callie said. “They’re sick.”

  “They don’t need my help,” he said. “It’s not what I’m for.”

  Callie put her hands on her hips. Her mouth dropped. She shook her head so slowly.

  And then she blinked. Twice. And her eyes were shining again.

  “Callie,” Oscar said quickly. “There is just something wrong with me, that’s all. And it can’t be helped. I . . . I wasn’t made right.”

  “So,” she said, her words clenched like a fist, “you don’t want me to come anymore?”

  What was he supposed to say? He did want her to come. But nothing he wanted was real.

  “I see,” Callie said, after he did not answer. Then she shook her head slowly and strode to the door. When she got there, she turned around, eyes flashing. “I got a letter last night. From my village healer. That’s what I came to tell you. He said Madame Mariel never came to call again. He said my parents moved away two years ago. After my brother died. My brother died. He never got better at all.”

  Oscar stared. Callie put her hand up to her eye and wiped a tear away. His wooden heart broke. “You were my only friend, you know,” she said.

  And then she left.

  Oscar looked at the floor.

  It would have been nicer, if Caleb had made him so he didn’t feel things.

  He looked at the herbs on the counter, then at the awaiting shop. It was almost time to open. He could feel the bustle and noise and assault of the day to come.

  He should open the shop. Right now.

  But instead, he went out the back door.

  The bakery was a few buildings down from Caleb’s—the only shop in the main marketplace that wasn’t run by a magic smith. Sometimes the smells from it traveled all the way down to Oscar’s pantry like a beckoning finger. He could not smell anything today.

  Oscar knocked on the bakery door. Dimly, he noticed that the window, which was usually filled with bread and rolls and cakes, was empty, and the shop was closed.

  Malcolm opened the door and read Oscar’s face. “My boy, are you all right? Did something happen?”

  Malcolm ushered Oscar in and pulled out a chair for him, and then presented him with a roll and a glass of water. Then Malcolm pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said.

  Oscar blinked. Words came out of his mouth. “Caleb’s gardens were destroyed. His glass house came down. Someone must have attacked the gardens.”

  “I see,” Malcolm said, leaning in. “That is very upsetting.”

  Oscar began to pick at the roll, peeling little bits of crust off. “Someone destroyed Madame Aphra’s cloth. And Madame Alexandra’s leather.”

  Malcolm clasped his hands together, and his gaze did not waver from Oscar. “Yes. I know. What else?”

  “The Most Spectacular Goat is missing,” Oscar said.

  “I know,” Malcolm said gently. “It is very sad. She is a spectacular goat. What else?”

  “They think it’s another magician. One we don’t know about. Trying to sabotage the Barrow.” Oscar had bits of bread in his hands, and he rolled them around with his fingers. They were cool and soft on his skin.

  “Yes. It seems a possibility. Though a troubling one.”

  “There are sick children in the City,” Oscar added quickly. “Sicker than City children are supposed to get.”

  A pause. “Did Miss Callie tell you that?”

  Oscar nodded. There was more to the story, but he did not feel like telling it. He picked off another bit.

  “I see. Is there more?”

  Oscar pursed his lips together. “Someone has chopped the wizard trees down. Five of them. In the northwest strip of the forest.”

  Malcolm straightened. His eyes darkened. “How do you know this?” he asked, voice suddenly careful.

  “A Mistress Eliza and Mister Giles. They were up there. There was an illusion spell, and it failed, and . . . they saw the stumps.” Oscar’s eyes flicked up at Malcolm. “The wizards sacrificed themselves!”

  He’d thrown the words out in the air, thrown them at the baker, because he could not hold them in anymore. But Malcolm caught the words without even flinching. “I am glad you know,” Malcolm said solemnly. “It is important to understand what the island is really made of.”

  Oscar looked down at his hands. “Why doesn’t anyone remember?”

  “The truth is there for anyone who looks closely enough,” Malcolm said. “But I don’t think anyone wishes to look.”

  “But shouldn’t they know?”

  “They should. But that would mean looking at what drove the wizards to it. The fable is so much . . . cleaner.”

  Oscar set his gaze on a crumb on the floor, slowly gathering words to him before sending them off into the air. “What could someone do with that wood?” he said finally. “From a wizard tree? If . . . they were going to use it?”

  “Use it?” Malcolm’s brow furrowed, and he moved his gaze to the wall. Oscar watched his face, looking for something to hold on to. But so many things were passing over it, like leaves in the wind. “Well,” he began slowly, “the wood would be very powerful. The magic in it . . . I imagine you could do whatever magic you wished with it . . . if you were so inclined. If someone is using the wood . . .” He shook his head. “No, I cannot imagine anything more powerful.”

  Oscar’s eye twitched He stared at the plate in front of him.

  “My boy,” Malcolm said after a time, “is there something else?”

  Oscar shifted. He tore the roll into two pieces. And then each of those into two pieces. “I did something wrong yesterday,” he said. “I said the wrong thing. To Callie. She had a little brother and I said . . . the wrong thing. And now . . .”

  “That is difficult,” said Malcolm. “It is a terrible feeling to hurt someone who you care about. What you must do is make amends. There are few among us who say the right things at all times.”

  “But I always do this,” Oscar said, looking as close to Malcolm’s eyes as he could. “Everyone tells me. There are ways to do things, ways to act with people, and I do not understand them. I cannot understand what people mean when they talk. I do not do things right. I do not feel things right. I do not see things right. I am not . . . I’m not made of the same thing as everyone else.”

  The baker took in a deep breath. “I think if you’ll look around, my boy,” he said gently, “you’ll find that no one is quite right. But we all do the best we can.”

  Oscar looked down. He was not like everyone else. And the more that people did not see him for what he was, the more alone he was.

  “What about everything else?” Oscar asked, eyes now stinging. “What about the gardens, the goat, the trees? If there’s someone doing this, they have to be stopped! You are a magician. You can help. Can’t you help?” Someone had to stop it, before the whole world came crashing down.

  Malcolm leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I was a magician, Oscar. A very long time ago. But I cannot help.”

  “Why not? We need you. Caleb’s not here. We need a magician!” Oscar could feel his heart racing.

  “Magic won’t solve everything, Oscar,” Malcolm said. “It often has the peculiar ability to make things worse. And there are some things beyond a magician’s power to fix.”

  “Well, you could try.”

  Malcolm gave him an odd look. “I am sorry. I know this is hard. Magic is not ours to use, my boy. We think it serves us, but that is only magic playing tricks. Magic only makes us hungry for more magic. We need it more, we rely on it more, and thus it has more control over us. Do you understand?”

  Oscar looked at the floor. No.

  “Oscar,” Malcolm said, taking a deep breath, “I was goin
g to come talk to you today. I am leaving.”

  “Leaving? Where?”

  “To the Eastern Villages. This is not my home anymore. I have been planning this for a long time. And if magicians are attacking their own, it is time to go. Your news today only confirms what I had planned.”

  “When are you going?”

  “Today.”

  “Oh.”

  Malcolm leaned forward and took Oscar’s hands. The touch was like fire on his skin. His eyes looked into Oscar’s, and Oscar could not look away, though he felt himself burning. “I think you should come with me.”

  “What?”

  “You can be the baker’s apprentice.”

  Something rose in Oscar’s chest, like a flower blossoming all at once. It grew until it filled him and threatened to spill over everywhere. The words Malcolm spoke touched a longing so deep Oscar hadn’t even known it was there.

  His eyes fell on his plate. There was only a carcass of the roll left; the rest was in bits. He grasped the flower, clutched it close, so close he would never forget the feel of it.

  And then he let it go.

  It was a life for someone, but not for him.

  “I can’t leave.”

  Malcolm sat back, releasing Oscar’s hands. “I intend to bring my cats. And there will be room for more. There is no magic to dislike them there. And,” he added, “we could bring Miss Callie. Villages always need healers, and she is quite naturally gifted.”

  “She says she isn’t.”

  “A good healer is gifted in ways other than magic, Oscar.”

  “I can’t leave,” Oscar said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” Because this was everything he knew. Because he lived in the cellar, in the pantry, in his small bedroom. Because there was the library, the hallways. Because his feet knew how to walk on these paths, his lungs how to breathe this air. Because he knew all the trees. Because he was loyal and hardworking. Because this was what he was made for. And what would happen to a boy made of wood if the magic that bound him failed? What would happen to him out of the arms of the forest, away from magic, with nothing around him but emptiness?