Inkling

New York City 1888 10:00 A.M., March 8th, the day before

There was something wrong with the sky. Sunlight tore through the clouds so violently, and shone so brightly it was painful to the eyes. People were wandering around, whispering things such as “lovely day” and “great weather we’re having,” to each other. It was atrocious. Completely unnatural. It was, in the grand scheme of things, not a big deal. But mornings as bright as this are usually reserved for righteous things. Romance seemed possible again. Sunlight makes people brave, and nothing good ever comes of brave people. Tragedy clings to the sunlight like a spider to a fly, crisp with morning dew and without hesitation.

Hesitation. Max never had any, something his grandmother would call the curse of his blood. Not her son’s blood, no. Grammy loved to blame all tragedy that befell her only son on his wife of choice. It was that girl’s fault her grandson was so quiet. That girl’s fault her grandson always had mud on his boots. That girl’s fault her son tried so hard to please his wife. So hard he got sick. So sick he withered away into nothing, and nothing is much worse than dead. Nothing lays in bed, eyes lifeless.

Max loved the city mornings. He loved walking through the early day mist before it got too heavy for the air and fell into rain. Sometimes, if he concentrated, he could suspend the mist for just a little longer. Long enough to duck inside his favorite cafe before the rain started. There was no need for that today, though. Max tugged his hat further down over his eyes to shield them. He scowled his way into the world in front of him, more than a little peeved by the sunlight.

“Why, I don’t believe it, are you scowling, dearest Maxwell?” Said a particularly bright and chipper voice - brighter, even than the sunlight. Max ignored her. An arm, no doubt attached to the owner of the chipper voice, linked itself through his.

“Miss Jennings,” he said finally, looking down at her eyes brown like dusk. Not in the sense they looked like dusk, rather they reminded him of such a time of day. Dark olive skin in contrast with a pale blue frock made her strikingly beautiful and very easily spotted in a place that was much, much too pale.

“Your hair is especially spectacular today,” he said.

Tiny ringlets going every which way they pleased, escaping her casual updo in some places and purposefully left down in others.

“Oh thank you dear.” Sophia shook her head for emphasis. Without another word she pulled Max into her second favorite pub, insisting she buy him a tea or coffee. “Why are you so dreary you’re ruining my mood.”

“It’s sunny.”

The look on Sophia’s face became something between mild annoyance and delight.

“Max, sweetie, you’re not a blood sucker. You won’t burn and die.” Max leaned back in his chair, casually glancing around but no one was within earshot.

“People like you are the reason so many of them were beheaded,” Max leaned in closer when she laughed, “and why so many of us were burned at the stake.”

“Do try not to be so dramatic.” Sophia attempted to maintain the air of lightness but it had fallen somewhere between stale happiness and the type of discomfort one feels when thinking about the past. They sat in silence for several minutes.

“Was it your great aunt who -” Max gestured aimlessly with his spoon, tea dribbling onto the table.

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

A bell over the pub door drew their attention. There were some things in life Max Wayde just knew, and the moment Lincoln Locke walked into the pub, Max knew he was the cause of all the unbearable sunlight.

“I hate him.” Max said with absolute certainty.

“You don’t even know him.” Sophia rolled her eyes. “Daisy quite likes him, actually.”

“I don’t have to know him to hate him, Sophia.” Max gestured angrily with his spoon, sending droplets of lavender tea flying in Lincoln’s general direction. “He’s making the sunlight.” Sophia sighed long and low, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes. After a moment Max added: “Besides, Miss Valera likes everyone.”

“You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met in my life.”

“A bit dramatic, love.”

“Says the man who hates sunlight.”

“It’s not real sunlight, Sophia, it is fake. It is an insult to real sunlight.”

“Max. Max, listen. It is magic. I am magic, you are magic. Stop acting surprised when magical things happen just because you did not make them happen.” Her voice said light conversation, but her eyes - oh her eyes - they shone with frustration. But she turned her head before Max could see, lest he find it in himself to feel bad.

Though Max missed her eyes Lincoln did not. She turned her head just in time to catch his gaze. Sophia offered a smile, dazzling and sly but he had seen her eyes and offered only a small nod. The slightest recognition.

“You fancy him, don’t you?” Max laughed, trying to conceal a smile beneath his hand.

“Why, don’t you?” Sophia she said with a shrug. But it was true. He liked the lilt of his shoulders. The way he moved, aimlessly, his hands in his pockets, like he had nowhere to go but also somewhere better to be. He liked his soft features, his big, rounded nose. Sophia ignored the fact that Max did not answer the question. She ignored the way he seemed to be considering it very carefully.

“Well,” Sophia sighed, leaning back in her chair before standing up. When she spoke again her voice had regained its chipper. It’s brightness. “I must be off. Places to be, things to do. Men to hex.”

“Do go easy on them, dear. Unless you wish to hex he who kills the rain.” Max motioned toward the sky and then Lincoln.

“I make no promises.”

Max moved to stand, to kiss her goodbye and for a moment she seemed to be waiting for him to do so. But when he made no more move to rise, despite a constant urging from his heart and a silent ”no" from his bones, she left.

Sometime later Max’s teacup was replaced by a pint of beer and occasionally shots of gin and by the time Max left the pub it was growing dark although the sky remained clear.

Alcohol and magic has never left a man somewhere he’d have ended up if sober. Sober Max would have left the pub, mildly annoyed but otherwise intact in his wits. Drunk Max waved over Lincoln Locke with what he believed to be a polite gesture but was, in reality, vigorous hand movements. The fact that Lincoln even considered approaching was nothing short of surprising. That Lincoln decided it was a good idea to approach a (clearly inebriated) magician was fairly stupid in the grand scheme of things. Now, at this point at night the daytime pub goers had left and the nighttime crowd had not yet arrived, and would not till nearly two in the morning.

This left Locke and Wayde surrounded (sparsely) with the very drunk daytimers who had not yet left and were not likely to anytime soon. The point being, when a temporarily impaired in judgement Max turned Lincoln Locke into a toad, not a single patron was more surprised than the magician himself who, looking at the amphibian at his feet, said with mild surprise: “Well, fuck.”

The Informal Education of Max Wayde

New York 1875 - 1885

Maxwell Wayde was not born of magic, as some are. It could be said that his first magic was his fascination with it. His passion for it was surely a magic in its own right. At the age of five, Max found himself amazed by street magicians, creating small illusions and performing card tricks. The insistent tug of his mother’s hand could not steal his attention away from the performers. They were occasionally accompanied by acrobats who climbed light poles, twisting through impossible flips before landing gracefully and silently.

His mother’s insistence began to inch a small Max away from the performers. Still watching over his shoulder, he would cry: “Mamá, Mamá, how?”

To which she would reply: “Magic, sweetheart. Magic.”

If only she had known how right she was. Magic, which created the illusions and the tricks. Magic, which safeguarded the acrobats, who could perform confident that they would not meet an untimely end on the cobblestone. Magic, which surrounded each and every onlooker, saw their inner desire, and immersed them in something Max’s mother would call etéreo. Ethereal.

Max spent most of his time on the streets, watching the magic. The magicians seemed to spend most of their time in the latin side of town where the Mexican and Latin American immigrants, like Max’s family, lived. Max would try, in vain, to recreate the illusions and the tricks. For years he studied the streets and watched what they had to offer - but never once was he able to do a single bit of what he saw. Until Ira.

The Sinister Influence of Ira Rose - The Formal Introduction

New York City 1876

Ira Rosenberg was born into a world of magic. Or, more accurately, a family of magic. In the world there are admittedly few families consisted entirely of those born with natural magic, but the Rosenberg family was one of them. Though their exact origin is obscured in the tangled thread of time and poor documentation, they like to say they originated in Jerusalem, though it is much more likely they came from somewhere else in Israel entirely. Whatever the case, the Rosenberg family was a large, powerful Jewish family - of varying devotion - and entirely full of magic.

When it came to magic, Ira Rosenberg was rather a late bloomer. He preferred daydreaming and tree climbing to incantations and magical history lessons. When he finally (at the embarrassingly late age of 4) started to break all of the objects in a room when upset, his mother cried with joy. The family ‘miracle’ (as it was often referred to around non-magical people) would carry on in their only child.

Perhaps it was this pressure of being the only child in a family that historically had five or six to each set of parents or simply a natural sense of loneliness that spurred Ira’s choices. No matter the cause, it was Ira Rosenberg who first noticed Max’s inkling toward magic.

It is important to note that, though the entire family held a natural ability of magic, the Rosenbergs strongly frowned upon the idea of street magic. The semi-secret society (which all old magic families belonged to) had outlawed street magic in case a lesser person was to happen upon the truth. Therefore, at the tender age of 11, Ira set out to the most remote part of New York he could think of, outside the scope of his parents. To avoid recognition he called himself Ira Rose and performed small, shimmering illusions for other children. It just so happened that a very small Max Wayde lived on Ira’s favorite street, a small one that more resembled an alley than a street, called Castor Lane. Castor Lane intersected (at a 20 degree angle) with some main street or other, but was often looked over. Small, broken looking things often are.

Max was two years old when Ira started making illusions on his street corner. He was, as all small children are, amazed. It was not until Max reached the age of 5 that he began to truly notice the illusions. Notice in the way that one feels a stranger’s gaze on their back; with electricity through their veins and fire under their skin. Ira felt Max’s first “realization” like static shock down his spine. Ira Rosenberg was a kid caught in a downward spiral and, without intending to, pulled Max down with him.

It started slow, a crisp Wednesday in October of 1873. Ira approached Max during a street game. Max felt immensely important, being pulled aside by an older boy and a known street illusionist no less.

“Hello, what is your name?” Ira said, leaning down to be at Max’s eye level.

“Max.” He said, clasping his hands together and twisting back and forth nervously. Ira laughed, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder.

“I’m Ira Rose and I wished to introduce myself.” Ira stood up and turned to leave but little Max grabbed at his jacket sleeve.

“But why?”

“Because you are special, Max.” Ira replied quietly, like it was their secret. Like he knew how much Max loved secrets. His father had told him, since he was old enough to even remotely understand, that secrets kept little boys safe. Certain things were their secret, like the games of hiding when scary men would come to the house. Or when mother was angry. The hiding games made things not scary. The secrets made things fun, and secrets kept little boys safe.

The Trick of the Thing

March 9th 1:30 A.M.

It was more difficult than anticipated, discreetly keeping a toad in one’s pocket. Though, to be fair, Lincoln Locke was just as surprised with his current condition as Max was. With the exception that he had the unfortunate opportunity to actually experience being a toad. Nonetheless he was squirming and croaking like a toad out of hell and people were starting to notice.

In the grand scheme of things, a brightly dressed man in a bowler hat from whom vaguely distressed toad noises seemed to be coming from was not the oddest thing the good people of New York would see in their day. Nonetheless, there was something about the hurriedness with which he walked. If a New Yorker was ever drawn to anything, it was a man carrying a secret in the wee hours of the morning.

“I am so, undoubtedly, fucked.” He murmured to himself, over and over with varying degrees of certainty. As if there was a scale of fuck ups and he was wavering between slow agonizing death and a very tedious but fixable pile of shit. Either way, when he stepped into a heaping pile of literal horse shit it seemed only the universe’s way of trying to rebalance the scale.

For a moment, Max stopped walking. He realized sadly that he had been headed for the residence of Miss Sophia Jennings, whose father would have him strung up if he attempted to visit his daughter at such a time, dressed in such a way, and carrying a toad in his pocket. Besides, he simply refused to bring her into his madness. Max spun in an unhappy circle. In such a populous city, a fellow ought to have more friends.

The Sinister Influence of Ira Rose - The Heart

New York City 1876

Max was small for his age, all the other six year old boys had grown in spurts over the summer, and yet Max remained relatively small. By the time Ira came back around, and he did wish to see Max again, the others had begun to tease. They thought they were stronger and better because they were bigger. Being better at things than Max Wayde had never been a particularly difficult feat, he was rather a dreamer and lacked a certain amount of focus.

They began by throwing rocks. The first whizzed past his head with alarming force. The second was not so fortunate as to miss, and connected sharply with Max’s shoulder.

“Hey, shrimp.” One of the boys called. The rock stung more than the words. Max turned back to the stick he had been dragging through the dirt, but was disturbed again by the sharp thunk of a stone hitting his spine. Never being particularly level-headed, Max stood up, his small hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Oh, what’s the little shrimp going to do?” Possibly a different boy, possibly the same. Either way Max lunged, knocking the astonished oaf off his feet and into the dirt. Small fists met surprisingly hard skin with a fury unfit for such a small person.

“What am I?” He screamed, unsure whether the blood on his hands was his or the other boy’s.

There came no answer because strong hands, smelling of fresh grass, lifted Max - kicking and screaming - off his enemy.

“Woah, woah, woah. Calm down kid.” The older boy gave Max a shake, for good measure, before setting him down. Max was ready to kick in the new boy’s knees when he recognized the eyes dark as coal: Ira. Max scrunched up his face in rage before giving Ira’s shin the hardest kick he could muster.

“What the - you little - after all I will -” Ira sputtered, hopping about on one foot. Having recovered from the betrayal, Ira seized Max by the collar and dragged him away from the staring boys.

“Let me go!” Max cried, trying to shimmy out of Ira’s grasp.

“Quit squirming and I will tell you. Though I am beginning to think you are a demon rather than an ink.” Ira made a face at the notion, but the expression quickly turned to surprise as he dropped Max and dodged another blow to the shins.

“What did call me?” Max wound up to give the kick another go when Ira snapped his fingers and Max found his feet rooted to the ground he stood on.

“Just - stop, kid. Stop for a moment or two and listen.” Max scowled but said nothing. “Max, I meant what I said before. You are special, I saw it in your eyes when you watched the magic. I think I can teach you to do what I do.”

“What, you mean tricks?” The scowl remained but there was something of a twinkle in Max’s soft brown eyes.

“No, kid. I mean magic.” It was silly, Max knew, but there was something magical about the way Ira said the word. Like he truly meant it in all the ways Max wished him to mean it.

“My papa says magic is not real.” The scowl deepened but it was obvious his heart was no longer in it. Ira looked around for a moment before pulling up the legs of his trousers and squatting next to Max.

“There is magic everywhere, kid. There is magic in the sound of wind through the autumn leafs. There is magic in the sunrise and in horses. Even tricks have magic in them, because anything that amazes a young boy or girl is magic. Max, you know the difference between a trick and what I do because you have magic in your heart.” Ira reached out, hesitant at first lest Max decide to kick again, and laid his hand over Max’s heart. A small, rough hand laid itself over Ira’s hand in amazement.

“Does this mean I can fly?”

A Less Than Ideal Situation

1:55 A.M.

It was nearly two in the morning before Max thought of a place to seek help. He could not go to any old magic person. Many of the older generation considered reckless use of magic a severe crime, and many of the older generation were in the business of the justice system. Though there was no formal organization of magicians, an old New York society called, though rather cliche, the Manhattan Magicians kept a keen eye on the magical happenings. Needless to say, Max required discreet assistance from someone not likely to throw him to the wolves.

“Oh by the ages, I know just the scoundrel.” Max grinned to himself, placing a hand inside his pocket to shush Mr. Locke. “Do not worry, dear. We shall have you back to normal in time for you to get rid of that dreadful sunshine, yes we will.” He cooed to his pocket, realizing with slight interest that he was quite possibly still drunk.

An Untimely, and Inconvenient, Demise

2:15 A.M.

It was a rather surprising turn of events when Max discovered the person he so desperately desired assistance from could possibly have used some assistance himself not an hour beforehand. All this to say, the scoundrel was very, undoubtedly dead.

“Oh bother.” Max whispered, reaching in his pocket to soothe the squirming toad. He had been in such a state for nearly an hour and yet still seemed rather peeved. “Mr. Locke if you do not cease this nonsense immediately I will leave you here with Mr. Holmes, in his unfortunate state and even more unfortunate smell.” With the last remark Max scrunched up his nose. Mr. Marcus Holmes had always been such a nice smelling fellow.

Whether from the mild threat from Max or just having grown tired, Lincoln quit squirming. Max patted his pocket with a pleased look on his face.

“I do not suppose you could be of any help to me in this state.” Max gave Mr. Holmes a soft kick in the shoe, frowning. At the same time his shoe made contact with Mr. Holmes’ foot there was a loud crash. Max jumped back, looking around, and said “I swear I didn’t know I had it in me.” To whom was unclear.

Lincoln, from the stuffy and rather itchy pocket, rolled his little toad eyes.

The source of the crash was lost on Max who, with a mind clouded by gin, assumed he had broken a bone in Mr. Holmes’ leg or some such thing.

The real source of the noise soon revealed itself to be a gang of large men in dirty clothes, each carrying a club or length of pipe.

“Who’re you?” The largest said in the thick accent of a Russian factory worker. Max looked up from Mr. Holmes to the men in surprise.

“I am neither someone of consequence nor someone of sound mind at this very moment.” Max replied, squinting at the man who had spoken. His eyes were set close together and his bald head was much too small for his wide shoulders. “Nor,” Max continued, “am I a man of much of anything. In fact, I could make myself a lie and tell you I am late for some engagement but I rather cannot think of a single thing at the moment, having spent all my coin on the finest gin in McNally’s Pub, a fine establishment.” The large man opened and closed his mouth several times before setting his face into a snarl.

“What the fuck are you saying.” It was not a question, not really. Perhaps Lincoln could sense the unfortunate choice of words about to come from Max’s mouth, for he chose that moment to start squirming and chirping once more. The men, who had begun to surround him, looked around in confusion

“What on earth is that racket?” The snarling one said. This time an actual question.

Max looked down with mild interest. “I’ve a toad in me pocket.”

“The boy is clearly mad, Boris, why not set him loose.” A croney piped up from behind the large man. He was large, much larger than Max, but nearly a head shorter than the bald man. He was still, somehow, just as large.

“I agree with the sensible fellow in the back.” Max pointed over large man’s head at the speaker, who immediately attempted to scooch behind his fellow ruffians. Seeing the snarl deepen on the bald man’s face and sensing imminent danger, Max took several small steps backward. “Well boys, I really must be on my way.”

Apparently expecting, or at the very least hoping to simply turn and leave, Max spun on his heel and was immediately seized by the collar. “Not so fast. Where is the book?”

Max stopped squirming and looked over his shoulder in confusion. “I know of many books, to which are you referring?”

“Well ain’t he a smart one.” The bald man was clearly in charge and gave Max a rather violent shake, jostling his gin soaked brain that was only just starting to drag itself back to rational thinking.

“I am, thanks.” Another, more deserved shake.

“Where did Mr. Holmes here hide the book?”

“Look, boys, I am only standing here right now because I may have, by accident, turned a man into a toad and seek Mr. Holmes’ assistance turning him back right again. Though I am now thoroughly aware that is not in the cards. Now if you’ll just release me…”

Perhaps it was magic, or just a natural affliction to being held down - one can never be sure of these things when in a dire situation whilst significantly inebriated - but suddenly Max was free and running. Running so fast, in fact, that he did not notice the small toad being jolted around in his pocket. Nor did he notice when the small toad slipped from said pocket and landed with a thud on the polished wooden floorboards next to what had been Mr. Holmes.

The running was not like that read about in Penny Dreadfuls. It was not exciting or fast paced but rather consisted of Max exiting the Holmes House like a bat out of hell followed by many larger and less coordinated bats. Which is to say, they came tripping and tumbling out of the side door and nearly crushed Max flat in the mess of it all. Being a rather slippery fellow, Max flung himself onto his feet and went slipping and sliding down alleys and side streets until, when he stopped to catch his breath, there were no footsteps following.

“Would you… look at… that,” Max said between deep and strained breaths, patting his pocket. “We made it.” But the pocket was not squirming. In fact, there seemed to be nothing in it at all. “Lincoln?”

Max turned both pockets inside out for good measure and, finding nothing but several pieces of lint, looked to the heavens and said: “Fuck.”

Mistakes Better Kept to Oneself

2:45 A.M.

Sophia Jennings was, simply put, a rich woman. Her father, James Jennings, was the son of an escaped slave who fought her way to the North, everything else be damned. James built a lumber empire from scratch, worming his way into the ranks of the white workers who thought him just very tan; and the black workers who saw in him a man with a chance. The lumber workers resented working for black bosses but if there was one thing James Jennings learned in his life, it was that money may not buy happiness but it sure as hell bought power.

Power meant living in a large, white house with columns underneath a large balcony which overlooked the rest of the city. It took up almost an entire city block. There were so many windows that, on a cloudless day, there was no need for any other type of lighting. Each bedroom had a balcony with an wrought iron fence twisting into a unique and intricate design. Max had always shied away from the Jennings House, it made him feel very small and very dirty - especially as he stood on the large marble front steps looking up at the columns reminiscent of ancient Athens while his red waistcoat was unbuttoned and rumpled, his coat lost somewhere during the night. There was mud smeared over his once shiny tan shoes, and a dusty, no doubt crooked bowler hat atop his head.

It was with a rather significant burst of courage that Max knocked on the large, mahogany door in front of him.

A disgruntled looking maid opened the door and, after a moment’s consideration, closed it right back up again.

“Wait!” Max called, sticking his foot forward just in time to get it slammed in the door. With a gasp three octaves higher than his speaking voice, Max swore like a sailor stuck in the body of a child.

“Erica?” Sophia’s voice drifted around the corner, sounding as if she had just woken. “What is going on? It is not even three in the morning.”

“Sophia,” Max squeaked, hopping up and down on his uninjured foot.

“Max, by the heavens what are you doing out there?” Sophia waved the maid away and pulled Max inside. “Darling you are positively covered in dirt and scratches.” Her soft, dark hands brushed over the cuts and bruises on his face and then his hands, concern consuming her entire body. He was so entranced in her touch that he hardly noticed she was wearing a night dress and a red silk dressing gown, her long, wild hair loose and cascading down her back.

“You are pure magic, Sophia.” Max swayed a bit, exhaustion having set in.

“My goodness Maxwell are you drunk?”

“Only very.” Max grinned, somehow thinking that would make it better.

“Tell me what happened right now or I’m putting you on the couch and fetching my father.” Max’s eyes widened in fear at the very thought of Sophia’s father seeing him in such a state. He started speaking so fast the words nearly became one.

“I got drunk and turned someone into a toad and I could not tell anyone about it because it is slightly illegal and the old leafs do not tend to believe: “Oh yeah I accidentally turned a man I did not like before ever talking to him into a toad my apologies.” So naturally I went to Mr. Marcus Holmes for help but he was dead and I heard a bang and nearly thought I’d broken the dead man’s knee but it was a gang of thugs, no doubt the fellows who killed poor Mr. Holmes, and now they think I am in possession of something they want but I do not even know what they are after and of course they did not believe me when I told them I was only there because: “I accidentally turned a fellow into a toad and I cannot turn him back because I do not know how I did it in the first place and I need Mr. Holmes’ assistance but that will clearly not be happening so I’ll just be on my way” so they chased me and now I am here. Help me.”

Sophia stared at him for a good long while. She opened her mouth to speak several times before closing it again. Finally she sighed long and hard before raising her hand and smacking Max, but it was clear her heart was not into it.

“You are the stupidest, most troublesome person I have ever met in my entire life, you do know that, yes?”

“I assumed as much.” Max spent the next several minutes with his hand to his cheek, still feeling the sting.