Marly Youmans

The boy was twelve, reveling in the strange dust-smelling murk of a New Orleans library, watching motes flash gold in a beam of sun. He loved the ceiling lights on chains and the table lamps with their green glass shades. The room was as beautiful as another world.

The boy was twelve, reveling in the strange dust-smelling murk of a New Orleans library, watching motes flash gold in a beam of sun. He loved the ceiling lights on chains and the table lamps with their green glass shades. The room was as beautiful as another world.

– Marly Youmans –

Maze of Blood

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Leonie Swann

Cordelia loved his explanations. She loved knowing words that belonged to things she’d never seen, even to things you couldn’t see at all. She remembered those words carefully. “Magic,” George had said, “is something unnatural, something that doesn’t really exist. If I snap my fingers and Othello suddenly turns white, that’s magic. If I fetch a bucket of paint and paint him white, it isn’t.” He laughed, and for a moment it looked as if he felt like snapping his fingers or fetching that bucket. Then he went on, “Everything that looks like magic is really a trick. There’s no such thing as magic.” Cordelia grazed with relish. “Magic” was her favorite word – for something that didn’t exist at all.

Leonie Swann

Cordelia loved his explanations. She loved knowing words that belonged to things she’d never seen, even to things you couldn’t see at all. She remembered those words carefully. “Magic,” George had said, “is something unnatural, something that doesn’t really exist. If I snap my fingers and Othello suddenly turns white, that’s magic. If I fetch a bucket of paint and paint him white, it isn’t.” He laughed, and for a moment it looked as if he felt like snapping his fingers or fetching that bucket. Then he went on, “Everything that looks like magic is really a trick. There’s no such thing as magic.” Cordelia grazed with relish. “Magic” was her favorite word – for something that didn’t exist at all.

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