Born of Illusion (26 page)

Owen takes my arm and helps me down the hall, but my toe feels better, and I feel stupid with a towel wrapped around my foot. Owen’s excitement sticks out all over him.

“So you took my place in the show?” I ask, sinking gratefully into the closest chair.

Jacques snorts. “Hardly.”

Hurt passes over Owens face before it clears and I frown at Jacques.

“Well, no one can take your place,” Owen says. “I just filled in.”

“You did a wonderful job,” my mother says, smiling at me. “Simply wonderful.”

The mistress of games is letting me know how easily I can be replaced. She’s trying to make me jealous. It works.

But I’ll be damned if I let her see that.

I turn to Owen and give him a smile so bright, he blinks. “Did you enjoy it?”

“It was amazing! The people, the lights, the applause. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“Don’t get too used to it. The show needs Anna’s talents,” Jacques says firmly.

Surprised, I throw Jacques an appreciative glance while my mother’s smile becomes fixed.

She busies herself by grabbing a throw and tucking it in around my legs. “Yes, of course, but it’s nice to know we have a replacement. Just in case it’s ever needed.”

Her dark eyes bore into mine, giving lie to the smile still curving her mouth. She looks so different from the mother who brushed my hair this morning that I look away, my heart aching.

Before she can move, I tentatively brush her hand with my fingers. My mother’s emotions have always been easy to read, but I learned early on to ignore them whenever possible. A child only wants to know so much about her mother’s resentment toward her. Today her emotions are so mixed that I have trouble separating them out. I’m gratified to find love among the usual mix of resentment, impatience, and single-minded desire, but I’m also picking up fear. Trying to figure out what my mother is afraid of is like trying to read a set of tarot cards. I know it’s connected to me, but is she afraid for me or of me?

I can’t tell. But one thing is certain. She wants me out of the show.

Twenty-one

I
punch my pillow for the hundredth time. If it were a person it would be dead by now. How dare she? I’ve been more of a mother than she has. I’ve done the shopping, made the travel arrangements, found us employment, and cheated people—all in my mother’s service.

I punch the pillow again, thinking of all the snooping I’ve done, looking for information on clients she wanted to shill. The menial jobs I’ve taken so we could eat. And all I’ve asked for in return is the opportunity to perform my magic.

Now she wants to take that away from me.

But why? What does she have to gain? And what would I do if I couldn’t do the show anymore?

I feel tears and furiously wipe them away. Why am I so surprised? I have been afraid of this forever. It’s my darkest fear come to life. No. I take a deep breath. My darkest fear was that my mother would abandon me in some cheap hotel room. At least she didn’t do that.

I’m angry and scared and mixed up. The story of my relationship with my mother. When I think of how much worrying I have done the past few weeks, the lengths I’ve gone to make sure she was safe . . .

I shut my eyes, but they pop open again, reminding me that I slept most of the day. Sighing, I lean over and turn on the light, then feel under my mattress until I locate the notebook I keep hidden there. Pulling it out, I flip to the rough sketches I made about a year ago. It’s an illusion I was designing.

I follow the simple lines with my finger and then, inspired, I walk to my desk and grab a pencil. I’m a year older now—a year more experienced—and I’ve got some ideas to make the design better, sharper, easier to follow.

As long as everything is done exactly as I have it drawn, it should work beautifully. Last year, I had no way to make the design a reality. Now, thanks to Mr. Darby, I do. I smile, thinking of Mr. Darby’s shop.

My mother wants me out of the show? Fine. But it’s going to be one hell of a send-off.

I wake up the next morning exhausted and thankful it’s Sunday. I need the day of rest.

Though I assure my mother that I’ll be fine, she isn’t convinced.

“Are you sure? Do you think we should call a doctor?” Her brows knit together, and for a moment I sense her worry.

I’m not impressed.

I know she loves me. She just loves her career more. It’s a lesson I should have learned from her a long time ago. Take care of yourself first.

“I’m fine. Just tired. I think I’m going to run down and visit Mr. Darby. I’m sure he’s been worried about me.”

Mother waves her hand, and as soon as she’s out of sight, I grab my coat and pull out the letter still tucked in the pocket.

I turn it over in my hand, fighting temptation. It’s written in the same loopy handwriting as the letter on Mr. Darby’s desk, and the postscript says London. I glance at the return address, but it’s just a post-office box number. It’s still sealed, which makes me think Cole must have just grabbed it on his way out of the house the morning I slipped it out of his pocket.

I really, really want to open it. It is, after all, from someone in the Society Cole trusts. And judging by the beautiful penmanship, that someone is a girl. I hesitate. Maybe this could shed a light on his meeting with Mrs. Lindsay. Of all the things I know about Cole, that is the most baffling. What could he be doing with someone I know is out to hurt me? And exactly what are his ties with the Society for Psychical Research? Is it as bad as Dr. Bennett said it was? Is that what Cole doesn’t want to tell me?

Taking a deep breath, I shove the envelope back into my pocket without opening it. After we finish our lesson, I’ll give it to him and beg his forgiveness. And I’ll ask him about Mrs. Lindsay, too.

Before I head downstairs, I grab the plans for my illusion. I’m pretty sure that Cole is taking me somewhere for my first lesson, but I plan on talking to Mr. Darby before we leave.

Cole lets me in seconds after I knock.

I frown. “Were you waiting for me?”

His smile lights up his face and my breath hitches. “I was indeed, Miss Van Housen.”

“Could you”—I look around for Mr. Darby—“sense me coming down?” I whisper.

“No,” he whispers back, leaning closer. “I could hear you. You clomp down those stairs like a herd of elephants.”

Surprised, I swat him and he jumps back, laughing. Then I blush a bit, wondering if the expression on my face is as goofy as the one on his. I love this carefree side of him. I wonder if I’ll ever see it again after I tell him I picked his pocket. When he learns the truth about who I am.

“Morning, missy!” Mr. Darby wraps me in a warm hug. His emotions are as simple, gruff, and caring as he is. “Your face looks like you got the hard end of a baseball bat. And you’re empty-handed. Where’s my breakfast?”

“Sorry. Anna and I are going out this morning,” Cole says quickly.

Mr. Darby sighs and his face wrinkles with mock pity. “Of course you two wouldn’t want to spend time with an old man. No thought for the aging. Well, don’t worry about me. I’ll stay here and wait for the cleaning girl to arrive.”

“We’ll bring you back some waffles,” I promise, before turning to Cole. “Actually, I could use a few minutes alone with your cousin if you don’t mind?”

Cole raises a brow and turns to Mr. Darby with a grin. “I do believe you are trying to make time with my girl.”

His girl?
I feel another smile taking over my face.

“If I were half as young, you wouldn’t have a chance!”

“I don’t doubt it.” Cole smiles at me. “I’ll meet you outside. Don’t take too long or I’m liable to freeze to death.”

“I won’t.” I can’t stop smiling and my cheeks are still flushed from the exchange. Is that how he really feels or was he just teasing me?

After Cole leaves, I pull my notebook out of my handbag and hand it to Mr. Darby. “Can you make this?”

He frowns, studying my sketches. “Possibly. What is it?”

“A new illusion I’m working on. Something big. I just need to know if you can do it.” I turn the page and show him the notes I’d labored over. “I added these so you’d have more information.”

He nods. “I’ll look these over while you’re out and let you know later.”

I move toward the door. “Thanks, and let’s not mention this to anyone, okay?”

He smiles, his face crinkling into a hundred good-natured wrinkles. “Don’t worry about me. My lips are sealed. As long as you bring me those waffles!”

By the time we reach Child’s, I’ve developed a keen appetite, and the savory-sweet aroma of bacon and maple syrup makes my stomach growl. The waffles are light and airy, the bacon crisp. While we eat, we talk of mundane things, but as soon as we finish, we lean back in our chairs.

“Can we begin?” I ask. Excitement wars in my stomach with the waffle I just devoured. The combination is making me a little queasy.

Cole gives me a crooked grin. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just take a nap?”

I glare and he laughs. “Never mind the nap.”

His face clears and he leans closer to me. “The reason I brought you to a public place is that it will give us better access to subjects.”

“Subjects?”

“To practice on.”

“Oh.” I turn my head, observing the other diners: an elderly woman in a gray feathered hat dining alone and a mother and her two identically dressed daughters—probably tourists trying out Child’s famous waffles—and the dozens of others who pack the dining area. “You mean we’ll be experimenting on them?”

Cole shrugs. “Who else? So do you ever feel other people’s emotions without touching them?”

I chew on my lip, wondering how to explain myself. “I’ve always been more perceptive than most people and I can make a pretty good guess as to what they are feeling when I’m trying to, even when I’m not touching them. But lately . . .” I pause.

Cole leans forward. “Lately, what?”

“Lately my abilities seem to have heightened. Sometimes I feel myself getting messages when I’m not touching people or even paying much attention. And I’ve been having this recurring vision—I’ve never had more than one about a certain event.” I drop my eyes, fear and worry weighing on me like a ball and chain. The temptation to confide in him is overwhelming. Before I can say anything, however, he continues.

“You’re not the only Sensitive to say that after I’ve been around them for a while. The researchers have all sorts of guesses about why you are able to do the things you do, but no one understands how I do what I do.”

Distracted from my thoughts, I look up and meet his warm, dark eyes. My heart flutters in my chest. I don’t know how he does what he does either.

He clears his throat. “First, I want you to try it on me, then I’m going to throw a block up so you can get a sense of what that feels like.”

I make a face at him. “I already know what it feels like.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, I mean what it feels like to have someone block you after you’ve already made a connection. Maybe that will help you understand how to do what I’m doing.”

“All right.”

“I want you to explain to me what you’re doing while you’re doing it. It will give me a better sense of your process. Like when you’re doing the muscle-reading trick.”

“I’ll try. I just never thought about it much before.”

“Thinking about it is the first step in controlling it.”

I take a deep breath. “First, I clear my mind, though that’s a little difficult under the circumstances.”

Cole nods his encouragement. I try calming myself, but I keep thinking of him watching me and wonder how his eyes can be so dark and bright at the same time. “I need you to look at something else, all right?”

He grins, as if he knows exactly why I can’t concentrate. I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at him. He does what I ask, though, and stares back toward the kitchen area.

I take a deep breath and try to relax. “Then I touch the person, and it’s almost as if there’s a strand of silver ribbon reaching between us. Sometimes it’s really straight. Other times it wavers.” I lay my hand across his and my fingers curl around his automatically. A delightful shiver runs down my spine as his warmth transmits itself to me.

“What is it like right now?”

I give myself a good mental shake. Focus! “Clear and strong. Almost like a rod instead of a ribbon.”

“Interesting. Then what?”

“Then I wait. When it comes, it feels like a static electrical shock. If it’s really strong, it’s more like a charge of emotion.” I stop talking as I feel a connection being made and Cole’s emotions wash over me.

First, I feel his insecurity about what we’re doing, as if he’s unsure he can really teach me. I also feel the strength of his determination. But under that is a whisper of something else. I grab onto a tendril and am overwhelmed by the warmth and longing directed toward me. It almost feels like . . . My eyes widen and my breathing quickens.