Born of Illusion (14 page)

“I’m sorry. I guess I was daydreaming.”

“Oh good. For a second there you looked like you’d seen a ghost.” She winks at her little joke and I give her a wan smile.

But the word ghost reminds me that I wanted to ask her about that ghost society. “Why don’t you tell me more about the Society for Psychical Research?”

“Oh, honey, it’s the most amazing thing. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never actually attended a meeting, but we have an English guest lecturing at our church who used to belong. It just sounds fascinating. Very scientific.”

I snort. “What kind of church do you go to that has guest speakers on ghosts?”

She laughs. “A very modern one with very old roots. It’s a Swedenborgian church called The New Church. You and your mother must come with us sometime. As mediums, you would be very welcome.”

My mother’s mouth tightens and I know it’s because Cynthia called me a medium. “I think it’s time that we were going,” she says, rising from the table.

Everyone gets up to leave and I grab Cynthia’s arm while Jacques helps my mother into her coat. I’m not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. If other people like me exist, I’m determined to find them. “I would love to visit your church sometime.”

She claps her hands. “Wonderful. It’s on East Thirty-Fifth Street between Lexington and Park Avenue. We meet at eleven on Sundays, though the lectures are usually in the evenings. I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll be there,” I promise.

I don’t know if it was the Colony Specials or the events of the day, but I’m numb with exhaustion by the time we gather our things. I lean heavily on Owen’s arm on our way out to the car, once again relieved I don’t have to worry about how he’s feeling.

“You look like you were born to this way of life, doll,” he whispers.

I give him a sleepy smile and settle back against the seat.

My head bobs twice before he moves close. “Go ahead and put your head against my shoulder. I promise I won’t bite.”

The offer is too good to refuse and I lay my head on his shoulder with a weary sigh.

We don’t get home until almost one. My mother, still drunk with her success, gaily asks the men if they want to come up for a nightcap. Thankfully, both decline. Jacques cites Mother’s need for sleep as his reason and she smiles and waves a hand. 

I follow her upstairs, my feet dragging. Mr. Darby sticks his head out of his doorway and scowls as we pass by. “All this gallivanting around at night is going to make you sick, missy; mark my words!” He slams the door.

My mother yawns. “What a strange man.”

I give a sleepy smile. What he really meant was “Be careful, missy; I don’t want to see you sick.” It’s nice knowing someone cares about my welfare. But I don’t try explaining that to my mother.

Twelve

I
rub my tired, gritty eyes, cursing my inability to sleep in. Even though I’d been exhausted after getting home the night before, I read Houdini’s book until my eyes crossed. At least it kept me from wondering who’d been following me and why. Three times in the past week, I’ve felt someone watching me, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because I’m irresistible. But that isn’t the only reason I can’t sleep.

I’m afraid of having another vision.

Why am I suddenly having visions about my own life? They’ve always been about other people or events—never about me or my mother. Perhaps they really are just dreams? I shift uneasily. But if they aren’t, shouldn’t I try to do something? Find out more? But how? My mind blanks. Perhaps the answer lies with that research society. But as much as I would like to find other people who have abilities like mine, my whole being rebels at the thought of telling anyone about my secret. How do you reveal something that you’ve guarded your entire life? Especially when you know, instinctively, that your entire survival depends on keeping it hidden?

But what is the worst thing that could happen if it became common knowledge that I have these abilities? The question touches something raw and primal inside, setting my pulse to racing, but I force myself to think it through.

I would never be able to live a respectable, normal life. People would want things from me; they would hound me, and all my privacy would be gone. Even my magic would be affected—people wouldn’t come to see Anna the magician; they would come to see Anna the freak. No matter that they think my mother has all these special powers, I don’t want to be the girl who can talk to the dead or have visions of the future. I don’t want to be a medium. And my mother—my breath hitches—my mother would never allow me to be the center of attention.

I realize I’m trembling and take several deep breaths. But does any of that matter? If my mother is in some kind of danger, I have to risk it. I resolve to go to that lecture with Cynthia and find out more.

Putting it out of my mind, I move on to the next problem: Houdini and his vendetta against mediums.

Could our livelihood really be at risk? We’ve always had to watch for skeptics, but Houdini is making medium hunting fashionable. Being exposed has become more and more of a possibility. Can I trust Jacques to personally vouch for all the people he brings to our séances? I’ve always dreamed of giving them up and living a normal life, but can we afford to stop?

I go over our bank book again, my heart sinking. As always, Mother lives right up to the edge of disaster and then waits for me to pull money out of a hat.

I’m a good magician, but I’m not that good.

According to the book, we have enough money to keep us in food and little more than that. I frown. Mother has been shopping much more than the bank statements indicate. My new dress hasn’t even been entered. Where is she getting the money? I hope she isn’t getting credit from the stores. That kind of headache I do not need.

I slip the book back into the desk drawer and take a deep breath. With another glance toward the bedrooms, I recount my own carefully hidden stash of money. Still thirty-eight dollars. Enough to keep us from going hungry or being homeless for a little while, but not much more than that. I add a ten from our last séance and put the rest in an envelope to deposit at the bank. Hesitantly, I take out another ten and add it to my stash. Fifty-eight dollars, now. Still not enough.

Knowing what I do about Houdini’s vendetta, I can’t share Mother’s financial optimism.

Which means one thing: Not only do I have to continue doing our séances, but I have to make them spectacular enough to charge even more money. Something different. Something so amazing that we have people clamoring to get in, and we can charge an exorbitant amount of money. What that something is exactly, I’m not sure. But once we have more of a cushion we can quit. And hopefully, we can do it before Houdini or one of the other vigilante skeptics ruins our credibility. Because if we are publicly denounced as frauds, the Newmark Theater will cancel our contract and everything will be ruined.

But is it right for me to continue doing something I know is wrong for my own gain? Harry Houdini’s words reverberate in my mind:
It is not difficult to convince people who have recently suffered bereavement of the possibility of communicating with their loved ones. To me, the poor suffering followers, eagerly searching for relief from the heart-pain that follows the passing on of a dear one, are a sacrifice to the scavengers who make money from them.

He’s talking about me and my mother. Scavengers.

With a sharp sigh, I hide the money and get ready to visit Mr. Darby. Again I check the locks carefully before leaving.

Still skittish from being chased last night, I decide to stick close to home and end up just darting into the corner bakery for sugar buns before heading back.

Mr. Darby opens the door before I can even knock.

“It’s about time,” he grouses. “I was getting hungry. It’s almost eleven.”

“What did you do for breakfast before I moved here? I’m fairly certain you didn’t starve.” I eye his paunchy stomach and grin.

“Don’t be impertinent, missy. The kettle is already on.”

We move into the kitchen, but surprise stops me short when I see a strange girl sweeping the floor.

She glances at me and then away. “I’m almost done in here, sir. Would you like me to take the trash to the basement?”

“No!” he barks. “You stay out of my basement, you hear? Now, be off with you. You’ve done enough for today and I don’t want you bothering my guest.”

Her eyes dart about, indicating her nervousness, and I note how soft and well cared for her hands seem for a cleaning woman. She hurries out of the room with another glance at me and I set the basket on the table.

Mr. Darby peers into the paper bag. “No croissants this morning?”

“No, I wanted to try something different.” I hesitate. “Who’s the girl?” I ask. Something about her felt off. Though happily, it’s in a normal, run-of-the-mill, I’m-not-sure-I-like-you kind of way instead of a premonition due to my abilities.

He shrugs and pours our tea. “She came by yesterday looking for work, and Cole took pity and hired her to come in for a bit every day to clean. I think she’s a spy.”

“A spy?”

“Yes. A spy for a rival inventor.”

I laugh. “More like a spy for Cole. He’s probably going to report to your relatives what you do when he’s gone all day.”

He snorts. “I’m more interested in what
he
does all day!”

That makes two of us.

Mr. Darby gives the sugar bun a sniff, then takes a bite. His face wrinkles in concentration as he chews. “These are good. Though not as good as croissants, mind you.”

I’m curious about the girl, but more curious about what’s in Mr. Darby’s basement. “Would today be a good day to see your workshop?” I ask, keeping my voice nonchalant.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

The old tease,
I think, eating my own roll. But I say nothing. If I show too much interest, he’ll just dangle it in front of me like a carrot.

I keep my silence until we both finish our breakfast and tea.

“Well, come along. I know you’re dying to get a peek.”

As I follow him through the kitchen and down a long hallway I hear stirring above us and know my mother is up.

Mr. Darby opens a door and pulls a string hanging from the top of the stairs. “Watch your step,” he cautions.

The scent of grease, mildew, and burned coffee becomes stronger and stronger as we descend. When we finally reach the bottom, I take a look around and gasp. I don’t know what I was expecting, but certainly not this conglomeration of copper, steel, and wiring. My eyes don’t know where to look first. The room runs the length and width of the house and is brightly lit with bare bulbs hanging every third or fourth beam. Workbenches line one wall and hold a glorious mess of oddly shaped instruments, boxes, and spheres. In one corner stands a giant, cylindrical welder and a lathe. In the next is a huge machine I can’t identify. Mr. Darby is either a bona-fide genius or a madman.

“This is swell! What is all this stuff?” I breathe.

He claps his hands in glee. “This, missy, is my life’s work. Isn’t it magnificent?” 

His arms spread out, taking in the whole room, and I nod in admiration as I carefully step over a giant coil of barbed wire. “It’s wonderful.” 

“I knew you’d appreciate it. I know a kindred spirit when I see one.” 

“What does everything do?”

He crosses his arms. “First off, you have to show me one of your tricks.”

I look around the room. “Okay. Um, can you tie me up?” I give him a mischievous smile.

His eyebrows rise. “Pardon me? What kind of trick is that?”

“Tie me up to a chair and I bet I can get out of it.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “I can get out of almost anything.”

I see disbelief on his face as he pulls a long, dirty rope from a toolbox. That doesn’t stop him from making a good job of it, though, as he binds me tightly to a chair. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

I scoff. “I’ve been bound with chains before.”

His face scrunches. “You’ve led a very odd life, missy.”

I laugh. Escape tricks were a practical addition to my repertoire, considering how often I had to break my mother out of jail. They add an air of credibility to our séances when clients want to make sure I’m not the spirit manifestation. Of course, they don’t know that I can escape, manifest, and bind myself back up before they even bat an eye. I think my mother encouraged my efforts so I would be more like my father. I just like the challenge.

“Now turn around.”

“Why?” he asks belligerently.

“Because a good magician never gives up her tricks,” I tell him. “I told you I would show you a trick, not give you my secrets.”

The look on his face makes it clear that he thinks he’s been had, but he does what I ask. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter if he does watch, but I like to keep an air of mystery around my act. “Now count to ten. Slowly.”

He sighs but does what I say, not knowing I’m already through half the textbook sailor knots he tied. Very few people understand that using lots of rope doesn’t necessarily mean a tight bind.