Mr. VAINIO: Lex is my niece. She’s also an ideal candidate, with severe injuries and complications from an automobile accident when she was younger. She lost a leg, suffered brain damage, and continues to experience chronic pain. I suggested they apply for the trials, but I wasn’t involved in the selection process, nor did I have any influence on the decision to include Lex.

The CHAIRMAN: You expect us to believe that, out of a pool of hundreds or thousands of desperate volunteers, this selection committee just happened to pick your niece?

Mr. VAUGHN: Isaac, is it possible Lex was deliberately included in the trials as a way to reassure the public? To say, “We’re so certain magic is safe and helpful, we’ll use it on our own family members.”

Mr. VAINIO: Maybe. You’d have to ask the selection team.

The CHAIRMAN: If magic is as safe as you’d like us to believe, why didn’t you help your niece at the time of the accident? Why force her to suffer all these years?

Mr. VAINIO: The Porters . . .

The CHAIRMAN: I’m sorry, could you please speak up?

Mr. VAINIO: The Porters—Gutenberg, really—felt that it was more important to preserve the secrecy of magic. Lex’s accident was public knowledge. I wanted to help her, but any miraculous recovery would have raised too many questions.

Mrs. BROWN: Why did Johannes Gutenberg want to keep magic a secret?

Mr. VAINIO: He was afraid of what people like you would try to do with it.

Chapter 5

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Trust is a choice. Actually, trust is more of a desperate, hopeful guess based on limited information. I wouldn’t trust me if I were you.”

“What’s your game? You’ve always had control issues, especially when it comes to the Porters. Are you trying to run things through me? To turn me into another you?”

“Heavens, no. I’m done with that circus. I’m happy to let someone else wrangle the monkeys and shovel out the elephant cages. And let’s face it, you do spend a lot of time stepping in shit. Metaphorically speaking.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Gutenberg I knew.”

“Think, Isaac. I’m not that Gutenberg. I’m who he wanted people to remember. An idealized version, if you will. I was never intended to be your personal chatbot.”

“I can send your book back to Nicola, if you’d prefer.”

“Not at all. I rather enjoy this pseudolife, though it would be nice to do more than sleep between our conversations, or to find others to converse with. Which reminds me, have you spoken with Juan recently?”

“Nobody’s seen or heard from him since last year.”

“No surprise. Juan Ponce de Leon, ever the survivor. He once hibernated for twelve years to escape the Anglo-Spanish War. If you do reach him, please send him my . . . my regards.”