The Macabre: A Novel

Prologue

"The Guardian did it better."

Lewis Dixon didn’t know how long he had been staring at the newspaper in his hand. Long enough that the words didn’t read like actual words, just a mixture of black smudges on the paper. Long enough for the antiseptic smell of the hospital waiting area to turn his nostrils numb.

He looked up, following the voice to its owner. He drank in her visage, bathing in the starkness of her blond, short-cut hair. The tall, lanky frame and the high cheekbones and warm, bright-blue eyes burned into his mind. He would remember her.

As a painter, he enjoyed people. They were always his favorite thing to immortalize within his art. It was ironic, really, because he found himself born a few centuries too late to capitalize on that skill. No one in the twenty-first century was paying for elegantly done portraits. And yet, if he had found a way to cut in line before God, Buddha, or whoever had punted him onto earth, he would have made a killing.

Or, at least, probably far more than he made now.

He brought his thoughts back to this woman, and a new thought struck him:

She’s not someone who seems like they should be in this hospital. Too privileged. Too perfect in the way she spoke.

The article you’re reading, she said, gesturing with a hand that held a coffee cup. "The oligarch and his family found dead in Russia? Frozen inside their home even though no doors or windows were open? The Guardian had a segment on it. Already interviewing Russian sources."

That sounds dangerous. Russia is not a bastion of free speech, he replied. He didn’t want to talk, and he knew his words sounded hollow. He might love the idea of people as an artistic concept, but this wasn’t really the moment he wanted to explore that. And yet, responding was the respectful thing to do. His mother, who was in a hospital room halfway down the hall, would have wanted him to.

Besides, he would be lying if he didn’t admit how interested he was in his row mate at MedStar Harbor Hospital, in downtown Baltimore. Elegant, refined, the type of person whose consonants were polished round from good breeding and the right type of education the wrong type of money could buy.

Those types didn’t find their way to Baltimore. Definitely not this part of Baltimore. Washington, DC, sure. But never Charm City. That, in and of itself, meant there was a story here. And there wasn’t an artist alive who didn’t love a good story wrapped around a beautiful muse.

Agreed. But isn’t journalism supposed to report the truth, no matter the consequences?

I suppose, he said, sidestepping the earnestness her declaration tried to stab him with. Who are you here for? Maybe they could bond over that.

The problem was, again, that Lewis didn’t particularly want to bond. More, Lewis knew what would happen next. She would tell him, he would sympathize, and then she would ask the same question in return. He would have to explain that his mother had tried to call his father, who hadn’t answered because he was on a work trip, because she felt funny. How she passed out while dialing Lewis, after leaving a voicemail for his father, and when the ambulance came, blood was pouring out of her eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. An aneurysm, they said. Nothing like they had seen before, but it was the only logical explanation.

He would have to tell this stranger the doctors didn’t seem confident about that.

But the answer the woman gave? That was a surprise.

I’m a donor here, she said.

Blood donor? That would explain it. For a relative, of course. She wouldn’t be caught dead in someplace like this otherwise.

She laughed, light, like a flint crackling. It sometimes feels like blood, but no—money. We had a board meeting in the attached wing, and it ended early. I’m waiting for my Uber.

You wait for your Ubers in hospital waiting rooms?

I like to see what my money is going toward. She smiled, a row of perfect pearly-white teeth shimmering back at him. Whoever you’re here for, I’m sorry.

Another unexpected reply. How much did he want to tell this woman? That he had missed his mother’s call, her final attempt to reach out for help? That he only found out she was dead because his father called over and over and over? No. She didn’t need to know that much. He would never see this woman again.

My mother, he said after a moment, leaning back in his chair and pulling his black hoodie down from around his head. She’s dead.

No one had said it like that. Even the doctors danced around the crudeness and bluntness of the word, like if they waited until they could pick up some telltale sign he was ready, then when they actually said the word—dead—it wouldn’t hit as hard.

It would always hit that hard. Because, in the littlest or biggest, the widest or thinnest of ways, her death was his fault.

If he hadn’t been obsessed with that painting, maybe he wouldn’t have missed her earlier call that afternoon and could have been there when the aneurysm burst.

Of course, it wasn’t as if there was much he could have done. But at least he would have been there. At least she wouldn’t have been alone.

Except that was never an option. Because it wasn’t just any painting that kept him busy for the whole day, missing his mother’s call by four hours, but one of his fugue paintings. That’s what he called them. They always started with a tingle in the back of his head, then an itch he couldn’t help but scratch that, if ignored for too long, turned into a headache—blinding, terrible, debilitating. But once he sat down and gave in, the euphoria of letting his fingers take the brush, mix the colors, and let go was . . . unmatched. Time moved quicker when he painted like that, and not in the way most artists described. In what felt like a second, he would have a painting.

And often that painting would come true.

Which was something he definitely didn’t want to get into with this random person, let alone at this particular moment.

Oh, Lewis, the woman said softly, reaching over to gently put her hand on the back of his. I’m so sorry. Your mother was a wonderfully talented woman.

Thanks. I should have been there, should have answered her call. I wanted to tell her in person that evening about— Lewis blinked, suddenly yanking his hand from under the woman’s touch. He wanted to finish his sentence with the invitation from the British Museum, but—I never told you my name.

The woman blinked slowly. I’m sorry?

You called me Lewis. Then his face scrunched up as he chewed on something else she’d said. "And you said my mother was a wonderfully talented woman."

Yes?

I never told you anything about her. How could you know that?

The woman’s beautiful features, almost like polished porcelain, darkened as her wide doe eyes lidded slightly. Her open mouth closed into a tight line, making her cheeks more pronounced as she sighed and ran her right hand through her hair.

I slipped up, she said. Again. I really need to get better at remembering what you do and do not know.

Every cell in Lewis’s body told him to move. In fact, he ordered himself—screamed inside his head—to get up, walk toward the nurse’s desk, and warn them about the woman in the suit that probably cost more than his whole year’s salary as a part-time art teacher.

But his body wouldn’t move, as if the commands were lost somewhere in delivery.

The woman slowly turned her body toward Lewis and leaned in to press her lips against his right ear. To anyone watching, it would look like she was telling him a secret.

I lied, she whispered, with soft hints of lilac wafting off her. Your mother wasn’t a talent; she was a worthless fraud. And if I could kill her again, I would. I’ll just have to settle for you once you’ve done what your mother was unable to do for me.

Fear bubbled inside Lewis like a geyser. He wanted to scream, to fight, to do something in response to those words. He wanted to question her, punch her, demand she tell him she was lying, or telling the truth, or something in between. But something had a hold on him, keeping him glued to the seat, and every time he tried to move, it felt like barbed wire was tightening—not around his body, but his soul, hurting him so deeply he wasn’t sure the pain would ever go away.

But for now, mourn your mother, the woman said. And pack your bag; you’re heading to London soon. I’ve heard it’s beautiful this time of year.

Lewis gasped as, with a snap of her fingers, the restriction and pain disappeared in a microsecond. It wasn’t nothingness that replaced the empty feeling, though; it was something else, something like longing, something cavernous and missing.

What had he just been talking about with the stranger in the seat next to him?

Sorry, Lewis said, flashing her a hesitant smile. Have we met? She was beautiful, after all. The tall, lanky frame and high cheekbones and warm, bright-blue eyes were burned into his mind. He would remember her.

The woman returned the smile. She had a kind face and seemed like the type of person his mother would have liked to have known.

No, we haven’t, she said, extending her hand. I’m Cassandra. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

Part I

He was swimming in a sea of other people’s expectations. Men had drowned in seas like that.

—Robert Jordan, New Spring

One

Eighteen Weeks Later

The entrance for artists is around the back.

Lewis blinked owlishly as a voice to his right broke him from his trance. It was his first time in London, or anywhere outside the United States, yet he couldn’t stop staring at his phone, distracted by what was on his screen.

Sorry? Lewis asked, shifting his weight and pocketing the phone before the man, tall enough to discreetly—or not so discreetly—look over his shoulder, could see. Doing so meant letting go of the canvas leaning against him for a moment, not long enough for it to fall onto the people in line with him, but long enough for it to sway.

You’re here for the gala, the man said as he gestured to the canvas. Lewis Dixon, correct? This time, unlike the pointed accusation of his previous words, Lewis noticed smoothness in his voice, like polished marble. A sort of slickness to it that made Lewis stumble and feel off-balance. Like a trick taught in some how to get ahead in a corporate environment training the man had paid for.

Lewis looked down, as if he hadn’t just lugged the canvas across the Atlantic, and then back at the other man. The canvas bag he had purchased, which had made him short on his rent this month, was unmistakable. The awkward width of the bag. The worn, used strap that frayed at the edges, appearing as if it might break at any moment. Lewis felt his cheeks burn under his dark skin. That’s what he got for buying something like this secondhand.

Every inch of him was, well, passable for an event like this. Passable canvas bag. Passable clothes. Passable confidence. That couldn’t be further from the other man, whose name tag read Noah Rao, Museum Curator, and who was taller than him by about six inches, with dark hair pulled into a tight man-bun, a sharp, gaunt jaw, and a pressed suit. He looked unamused by Lewis’s ignorance, like he had places to be—anywhere but here. It made Lewis feel small, much like when his father called about his mother’s death. Funny how the strangest things in life could trigger a wave of grief.

How do you know my name?

Lewis mentally winced before Noah responded, knowing what would come next.

I would hope I did know who was coming, considering I helped put together this exhibition. In fact, I oversaw your selection. And because if you weren’t, it would be incredibly weird for you to be carrying a canvas around London.

Weird indeed.

As Lewis said it, he couldn’t help but wonder if the invitation he had received in the mail—handwritten, on the heaviest and crispest of papers—was sent by this man himself or one of his lackeys. He supposed, in the greater scheme of things, it didn’t truly matter. The way Noah spoke would make some people’s pulse rise, pupils dilate. The accent and razor-sharp edges would be responsible for that.

Right, Noah said with a nod. Now, come along, please, you’re in the way of guests trying to get in. Wouldn’t want you to be a burden to your guests. Being a burden was something Lewis was well acquainted with.

But instead of focusing on how many ways he was a burden to Noah—and already he could think of at least six—he recalled the invitation he had read at least, oh, a hundred times.

Distinguished Guest Lewis Dixon:

As you may know, England has a long, accomplished and storied history. But often at the expense of others, leaving a gash on our beautiful nation’s relationship with previous and currently held colonies.

That is why we are honored to invite you to the British Museum exhibit, in partnership with Tate Britain, entitled: A Lesson in Deference. This exhibit will showcase one artist each from the 120 colonies held by Britain over the years.

And we have selected you to represent your nation: the United States of America.

We kindly request that you provide us with one piece that best represents your work to showcase during our gala. Your airfare, hotel, ground transportation and all related expenses are covered by the British Museum. Displaying your selected piece in our Rising Artists exhibit for a period not to exceed five years will be considered payment in kind.

We eagerly await your answer.

Evangeline Thompson

Director of Curation at the British Museum

We should hurry, Noah said, pulling him out of his memory. You’re already late. Come along. I’ll take you inside.

He turned swiftly on the heels of his polished shoes, walking briskly down the sidewalk without checking to see if Lewis was following. He was following, of course, though slipping out of the line with the awkwardly shaped canvas wasn’t easy. It required a string of soft apologies under his breath as his canvas bumped against a woman’s legs and jabbed at a man’s portly stomach.

Need help? Noah asked.

A little bit too late, but Lewis assumed the ask wasn’t really an ask, just British niceties in action. I’m good.

It’s rather large, Noah continued. Your piece.

Smoothly, Noah pulled the lapel of his dark jacket back, revealing where his ID badge was clipped, slightly hidden so it wouldn’t be an eyesore—so Lewis assumed. Lewis studied how easily and quickly Noah flashed it. How it returned to its slightly hidden safe space. But more importantly, how the guard, with his sharp, angled jaw, dipped in deference when the ID was shown.

That wasn’t the only thing Lewis noticed in that flash of a moment. He got a small glimpse of the pass and Noah’s smile in his photo. He was younger in it, Lewis assumed from his quick look. There was optimism in his eyes, but also pain.

You mean awkward? Lewis said.

Noah didn’t reply, but his lips pushed into a slightly thinner line. Was that because he was annoyed Lewis saw through his thinly veiled insult, or did he find Lewis’s perceptiveness appealing and worth his respect? Probably the latter, Lewis decided.

Large, Noah repeated. If I meant awkward, Mr. Dixon, I would have said it. And correct me if I’m wrong—

Something tells me, Mr. Rao, you are never wrong, Lewis muttered.

Excuse me?

Nothing—just a bit of a cough.

Rao clearly had heard him—but that British politeness once more showed its head. "Correct me if I’m wrong, he repeated, but I believe the instructions said for all honored guests to bring something no larger than twenty by sixty inches."

And this is exactly that; no larger.

It was clear to Lewis that Noah wanted to say more, and after they had stepped through the expedited security, he did. You are getting a spot in a once-in-a-lifetime exhibit at the British Museum, and your first thought was to push the requirements to their absolute limit?

The requirements, Lewis replied in a low voice, as if someone might hear him chastising the curator, which was the last thing he wanted, were to bring a piece that represented the artist’s best work. That showed their talent and their passion. A piece that represented their style.

And this large piece does that better than a smaller piece could?

That was a harder question to answer. The instructions gave a size limit of twenty by sixty inches—and he had followed those guidelines. On the other hand, the canvas had been the bane of Lewis’s existence since he’d left his apartment in Baltimore. The museum had offered to pay to ship it before he arrived, but, one, Lewis felt self-conscious about the piece he had chosen to submit, and two, he had been a little worried they would open it before he got here and decide to turn him away.

He had other pieces. Better pieces to submit, if he was being objective. Ones that had come near to winning festivals. Ones that had gotten hundreds of likes on social media. Even some that his father, who hated art and barely said twenty words to him a year, had grunted at, a sign of at least something passing through that facade of his.

But this piece? This piece spoke to him. Clawed out to him in his dreams, screamed at him when he was in the same room. A metaphor and an honest-to-God statement all at once.

This was the only piece he had painted in the past five months or so. The piece he had made when his mother was in the hospital. He hadn’t raised his fingers to touch charcoal, or paint, or a pencil since then.

But not only that: How do you explain to the British Museum that the piece you are immortalizing in their halls is not your typical style of art but rather more surreal? A painting of a painting, specifically a landscape with a lake in the center, water overflowing the frame and into the room. How could you explain that as you painted it, while your father was calling your phone over and over again, leaving message after message growing in urgency, you were having one of your moments—one of those times when reality melted away, starting from the corners, and time folded in on itself?

You don’t. Because if you do, you sound crazy, as an ex-hookup of his had told him three years ago. You keep that shit to yourself. Especially around prim-and-proper Noah Rao.

Exactly.

Hm, Noah said, a rumble in the back of his throat. He pushed the side entrance door with his left hand, exposing a flash of his wrist and the raised echo of a tattoo. The artist in Lewis knew exactly what it was—or at least, what it had been: ravens. It must have meant something for Noah to stain his skin with the ink. And it must have been painful enough of a reminder too, for him to go through the process of removing it.

Either way, it looked like it had been detailed and expensive. Maybe if they smoothed out the bumpiness of their relationship, Noah would let Lewis get a photo of it for Ana, his roommate. She would love that.

Together, they stood in the entryway, and Noah made no movement to take a step forward. Lewis glanced over at him, tilting his gaze slightly up.

We’re blocking the entrance, Mr. Rao, he cheekily told him, a bit of lightness in his voice.

Noah didn’t respond, not at first, his eyes focused forward, toward the flow of people moving like waterways as they made their way through the museum.

Once you step through this alcove, Mr. Dixon, everything in your life will change, Noah said slowly and quietly. You won’t look at the world the same, and if we’re correct, the world won’t look at you the same. Not everyone wants that level of scrutiny. It’s okay if this isn’t for you, but you have to tell me that now. Otherwise, this is a chance few people have.

Lewis thought it over for a moment. There was subtext here Noah wasn’t telling him.

To do what exactly? he asked slowly.

Cement your legacy, Mr. Dixon. Isn’t that, at its core, what every artist wants to do?

Lewis could tell from the way Noah’s voice dipped slightly that there was something else hidden behind the refined nature of his words, peeking around the corner of each letter, just out of reach whenever Lewis tried to look too hard. Honestly, it was infuriating, the way he was clearly speaking around something else.

This was all so weird. The way the letter just appeared. How everything seemed to be falling into place for him, finally. But the universe had a peculiar way of keeping itself balanced, and at the moment, it was tilting in his direction.

Yes, he wanted this—whatever it was.

God took my mother from me, Mr. Rao.

Gods, Noah muttered, at the direction Lewis had turned the conversation. But continue.

Lewis’s brow twitched. Someone took my mother from me, and in return, it seems I have been given an opportunity that many artists would die for. I’m not going to pass that up, not at least without seeing what could come from it. That’s what my mother would want.

Noah gave a slow nod, as if he was processing and accepting what Lewis said. With a gentle gesture of his hand, he gave Lewis permission to move.

After you.

Noah said after you as if he was holding the door for Lewis at a supermarket, but at the same time, as if he was almost ashamed at Lewis’s statement—a concern that left Lewis’s focus the moment they stepped through the doorway. This would be the British Museum in all its glory. Lewis hadn’t known what that meant, not exactly, until he stepped through the doors.

Lewis expected to step through the alcove and be greeted by the ornate entrance of the museum he had looked up on Google Maps. He already had pinpointed specific exhibits he wanted to see, for his own interest and for inspiration, and the fastest way from the entrance to reach them. But this wasn’t the main entrance of the British Museum, and it was as if stepping over this particular threshold transported him from there to here.

Here being somewhere sterile and white, somewhere that made his eyes burn from a light source that came from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Here was still, with the bustle and murmurs of street life—behind him just moments ago—suddenly absent.

Here was only him, Noah, and a woman.

She stood with her back to them, looking upward at a rectangular item draped in a white sheet, hovering in the center of the room about a foot and a half off the floor. In a room with no doorway or windows.

Here—

Suddenly, pain erupted from behind his eyes. Lewis hissed and pressed the heel of his free hand against them. Splashes like watercolor appeared in the darkness as he pressed harder, trying to push the pain away. He bent over until his elbows rested against his knees as his stomach began to unknot itself from dozens of complicated somersaults.

The feeling will go away, Mr. Dixon, said the woman in a crisp voice laced with only the thinnest layer of concern. Just give it a moment. Magic, for the uninitiated, tends to leave you dizzy.

Magic?

But he had no time to think more on that. Every hair on his body, every cell, every inch of bone felt like a low current of electricity had passed through it. There was nothing else but this feeling. It wasn’t exactly painful, but it wasn’t comfortable either. If he had to pick a description, it felt like his body was charged with caffeine and every function was executing its autonomous orders at 110 percent. Even if that feeling went away, Lewis figured he would be exhausted, sore, and in pain for the rest of the day.

But, slowly yet surely, the sensation subsided. Not completely, no. But enough that he could take a shuddering breath and stand. His vision returned to normal; the splotches of color coalesced into familiar shapes, sharpened, and took form. Shaking the feeling off, Lewis glanced over at Noah, who gave a nod forward.

I’ll take your piece for you, Noah said, gently yet firmly pulling it from Lewis’s grasp. You should go talk to her. Ms. Thompson has been excited to meet you for some time now.

Evangeline Thompson? Lewis asked.

Director Thompson, Noah corrected.

Evangeline laughed, turning her head slightly to look at him. Evangeline is fine.

Tall and sinewy, with a skin tone like Lewis’s, dressed like Noah, head shaved bald, and with catlike makeup that made her sharp eyes look even sharper, she dripped with confidence. Her exceptionally tailored pantsuit helped with that. She didn’t have a name tag; a power move, Lewis could only assume. But that didn’t matter.

The word magic danced around his head, teasing his memory. The alcove he had stepped through, that transported him from one place to the next; this room with no doors or windows; the floating piece in the center of the room; and his own artwork . . . the piece he had just known he had to bring.

All this time, Lewis had wondered if he was crazy, if the things he painted—which more often than not came true—were some twisted versions of déjà vu. Of course, he’d thought of the possibility of magic, but only for a moment. He wasn’t that insane, after all.

But maybe there was magic. Maybe there were things in the world that defied the laws of physics and bent reality to their will.

Which led his mind down another path, one that always seemed to be lingering deep inside him:

Maybe there was a power that could bring his mother back.

You said magic, Lewis muttered, his throat feeling tight, as if for a moment he had forgotten how to make words and his mind was, quickly, remembering how.

That I did, Evangeline replied. Don’t tell me you haven’t ever assumed it was real.

We don’t have time for this, Noah muttered.

Evangeline sighed. "Please excuse Noah. He forgets that not everyone is born knowing magic exists. Class jades how people see the world.

But, she continued, he isn’t wrong. Not exactly. Tell me what you sense, Lewis. Tell me what you feel.

What he felt? Typically, being in the room with another Black person gave him comfort. An unspoken kinship that told him everything would be okay. But not this room. Magic or no, there was something necrotic in the air. It stank in such a way that he couldn’t actually smell it but rather sensed it in the pit of his gut. It made his pulse flutter with each slow and cautious step closer to Evangeline and the floating object.

He felt . . . sorrow. Like a weight pressing against his chest, pulling him under the murky depths. Down down down he went, drowning in this feeling of cold dread.

Something was very, very wrong in the British Museum—if he was even still in the museum. But that didn’t scare Lewis. Quite the opposite, actually. It excited him.

After all, Alice’s greatest adventures came after she dove down the rabbit hole. And ever since he’d gotten the invitation to the museum, Lewis knew his greatest adventure lay before him. Even if it hadn’t meant coming to this strange non-space, he would have thought that. But before Lewis could ask Evangeline about magic, or the room, or what hovered in front of them, she flicked a finger and the white sheet fell off, like a woman letting her slip slide down her shoulders, and it melted with the white floor to reveal an art piece.

The same painting he had brought with him today to the British Museum.

Two

Initially, on seeing the same painting that he had lugged across the Atlantic in such vibrant detail in front of him, Lewis felt like he was falling into a bottomless pit.

Nothing in the world was original, no. But artists didn’t want to be accused of plagiarism. At least, no real artist. And Lewis was looking at a direct copy of his work. Or his work was a direct copy of this piece.

Sort of.

Even though the subject of the painting was the same as Lewis’s, the details were ten, maybe even twenty times sharper. It was also much, much bigger: Lewis estimated it was roughly seven feet by nine feet. Any painter worth their salt could estimate the size of a canvas at first glance. It didn’t make him impressive. But the piece?

That was impressive.

The vertical portrait depicted a bloodred lake surrounded by trees. Houses in the distance glowed faintly with lit windows. A sinewy, nude woman stood in the center of the lake, with a black tail slithering from her body and out into the land like a pathway. Ever since he’d painted it, he had pored over it. Deposited more time than he wanted to admit in understanding it. Not only was it darker than his usual works, it was, well, beautiful. Capturing something Lewis rarely was able to do when he was lucid. The painting that had stolen his time, time he would never get back, had taken and birthed something else too.

Authenticity.

Lewis had deduced the tail was a representation of her soul, whoever she was who had stolen his attention for what he inferred was roughly four and a half hours, tethering her to the ground. Perhaps she lived there? Wherever there was. It didn’t look like anywhere he had been. Not that he could remember, anyway.

But as he looked closer, he noticed the woman in this painting, this painting with not only depth in its paint strokes but also depth in its well of emotion vomited onto the canvas, was . . . wrong. Her proportions were slightly off. Her arms were too long. Her legs too. And, well, her head was upside down, crowned by the place where her neck should have been. Her eyes rolled back, showing only whites, and her mouth opened wide in a scream that Lewis felt he could hear in his bones. It seemed as if her teeth chattered slightly when he looked for too long.

Do you know of Edgar Dumont, Mr. Dixon? Evangeline asked.

Lewis knew he should answer, or at least acknowledge what she was saying, but he found it impossible to tear his eyes away from the piece floating in front of him.

Logically, his first thought was that perhaps there were invisible strings. The finest of wires folded around each other with a tensile strength that would make the strongest of spiders jealous. But there were no wires connected to the ceiling, or none that he could see. The temptation to reach up and run his hand across the top of the painting to check was quite strong.

Lewis turned to look at Evangeline. Answer my question first, he said, not waiting for her to accept or deny his stipulation. Explain the magic to me.

You’re going to have to be more specific.

All of it. How we got here, how this thing is floating, everything.

Evangeline paused, a small quirk forming on her lips. You’re not scared?

I’m terrified, he admitted. But fear isn’t a reason not to understand something.

Evangeline smiled in a way that reminded him of someone who heard something familiar and longed to hear it again. Right answer. Magic, Mr. Dixon, exists all around us. Like electrons and protons, the air we inhale and the food we eat. It has existed since the dawn of time and will exist far after us.

You know the Hadron Collider? Noah asked. The one that smashes atoms together?

Science was my worst subject in school, but I know of it, yes.

Think of magicians like human colliders. We break the barrier between magic and reality, scoop the pulp out from the center of the magic well, and mold it to how we wish, Evangeline explained. "The magic that allowed Mr. Rao to take you from point A to point B? When you leave here, examine the alcove. You’ll see runes etched into the wood. This room is layered on top of many different spells by magicians more talented than me or Mr. Rao to construct