Many of Prague’s best magicians came, too, and helped us create the modern State. Now, perhaps—”
“But I thought you said the Czech magicians were all wicked and corrupt, sir.”
“Well, I expect all the wicked ones were killed, don’t you, Kitty? The others were just misguided and saw the error of their ways. Now there’s the bell! Lunchtime! And no, Kitty, I’m not going to answer any more questions just now. Everyone stand up, put your chairs under your desks, and please leave quietly!”
After such discussions in school, Jakob was frequently morose, but his moodiness rarely lasted long. He was a cheerful and energetic soul, slight and dark-haired, with an open, impudent face. He liked games, and from an early age spent many hours with Kitty, playing in the long grass of his parents’ garden. They kicked footballs, practiced archery, improvised cricket, and generally kept out of the way of his large and boisterous family.
Nominally, Mr. Hyrnek was the head of the household, but in practice, he, like everyone else, was dominated by his wife, Mrs. Hyrnek. A bustling bundle of maternal energy, all broad shoulders and capacious bosom, she sailed around the house like a galleon blown by an erratic wind, forever uttering raucous whoops of laughter, or calling out Czech curses after her four unruly sons. Jakob’s elder brothers, Karel, Robert, and Alfred, had all inherited their mother’s imposing physique, and their size, strength, and deep, resounding voices always awed Kitty into silence whenever they came near. Mr. Hyrnek was like Jakob, small and slight, but with leathery skin that reminded Kitty of a shriveled apple’s. He smoked a curved, rowan-wood pipe that left wreaths of sweet smoke hanging around the house and garden.
Jakob was very proud of his father.
“He’s brilliant,” he told Kitty, as they rested under a tree after a game of fives against the side wall of the house. “No one else can do what he does with parchment and leather. You should see the miniature spell-pamphlets he’s been working on lately—they’re embossed in gold filigree in the old Prague style, but reduced to the tiniest scale! He works in little outlines of animals and flowers, in perfect detail, then embeds tiny pieces of ivory and precious stones inside. Only Dad can do stuff like that.”
“They must cost a fortune when he’s finished,” Kitty said.
Jakob spat out a grass shoot he was chewing. “You’re joking, of course,” he said flatly. “The magicians don’t pay him what they should. Never do. He can barely keep the factory working. Look at all that—” He nodded up at the body of the house, with its slates skew-whiff on the roof, the shutters crooked and ingrained with dirt, the paint peeling on the veranda door. “Think we should be living in a place like this? Come off it!”
“It’s a lot bigger than my house,” Kitty observed.
“Hyrnek’s is the second biggest printer in London,” Jakob said. “Only Jaroslav’s is bigger. And they just churn stuff out, ordinary leather bindings, annual almanacs, and indexes, nothing special. It’s we who deal in the delicate work, the real craft. That’s why so many magicians come to us when they want their best books bound and personalized; they love the unique, luxurious touch. Last week, Dad finished a cover that had a pentacle fashioned in tiny diamonds on the front. Ludicrous, but there you go; that’s what the woman wanted.”
“Why don’t the magicians pay your dad properly? You’d think they’d worry he’d stop doing everything so well, make it lousy quality.”
“My dad’s too proud for that. But the real point is they’ve got him over a barrel. He’s got to behave, or they’ll close us down, give the business to someone else. We’re Czechs, remember; suspicious customers. Can’t be trusted, even though the Hyrneks have been in London for a hundred and fifty years.”
“What?” Kitty was outraged. “That’s ridiculous!
“But I thought you said the Czech magicians were all wicked and corrupt, sir.”
“Well, I expect all the wicked ones were killed, don’t you, Kitty? The others were just misguided and saw the error of their ways. Now there’s the bell! Lunchtime! And no, Kitty, I’m not going to answer any more questions just now. Everyone stand up, put your chairs under your desks, and please leave quietly!”
After such discussions in school, Jakob was frequently morose, but his moodiness rarely lasted long. He was a cheerful and energetic soul, slight and dark-haired, with an open, impudent face. He liked games, and from an early age spent many hours with Kitty, playing in the long grass of his parents’ garden. They kicked footballs, practiced archery, improvised cricket, and generally kept out of the way of his large and boisterous family.
Nominally, Mr. Hyrnek was the head of the household, but in practice, he, like everyone else, was dominated by his wife, Mrs. Hyrnek. A bustling bundle of maternal energy, all broad shoulders and capacious bosom, she sailed around the house like a galleon blown by an erratic wind, forever uttering raucous whoops of laughter, or calling out Czech curses after her four unruly sons. Jakob’s elder brothers, Karel, Robert, and Alfred, had all inherited their mother’s imposing physique, and their size, strength, and deep, resounding voices always awed Kitty into silence whenever they came near. Mr. Hyrnek was like Jakob, small and slight, but with leathery skin that reminded Kitty of a shriveled apple’s. He smoked a curved, rowan-wood pipe that left wreaths of sweet smoke hanging around the house and garden.
Jakob was very proud of his father.
“He’s brilliant,” he told Kitty, as they rested under a tree after a game of fives against the side wall of the house. “No one else can do what he does with parchment and leather. You should see the miniature spell-pamphlets he’s been working on lately—they’re embossed in gold filigree in the old Prague style, but reduced to the tiniest scale! He works in little outlines of animals and flowers, in perfect detail, then embeds tiny pieces of ivory and precious stones inside. Only Dad can do stuff like that.”
“They must cost a fortune when he’s finished,” Kitty said.
Jakob spat out a grass shoot he was chewing. “You’re joking, of course,” he said flatly. “The magicians don’t pay him what they should. Never do. He can barely keep the factory working. Look at all that—” He nodded up at the body of the house, with its slates skew-whiff on the roof, the shutters crooked and ingrained with dirt, the paint peeling on the veranda door. “Think we should be living in a place like this? Come off it!”
“It’s a lot bigger than my house,” Kitty observed.
“Hyrnek’s is the second biggest printer in London,” Jakob said. “Only Jaroslav’s is bigger. And they just churn stuff out, ordinary leather bindings, annual almanacs, and indexes, nothing special. It’s we who deal in the delicate work, the real craft. That’s why so many magicians come to us when they want their best books bound and personalized; they love the unique, luxurious touch. Last week, Dad finished a cover that had a pentacle fashioned in tiny diamonds on the front. Ludicrous, but there you go; that’s what the woman wanted.”
“Why don’t the magicians pay your dad properly? You’d think they’d worry he’d stop doing everything so well, make it lousy quality.”
“My dad’s too proud for that. But the real point is they’ve got him over a barrel. He’s got to behave, or they’ll close us down, give the business to someone else. We’re Czechs, remember; suspicious customers. Can’t be trusted, even though the Hyrneks have been in London for a hundred and fifty years.”
“What?” Kitty was outraged. “That’s ridiculous!
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