Born of Illusion (31 page)

I shiver at the coldness of his voice. He opens the door and I step outside. He doesn’t offer to see me up the stairs and my heart aches. I wish we could just go back to the way things were before.

I turn. “If you’re in danger, why haven’t you just gone back to England?”

He looks at me. “Don’t you know?”

And before I can answer, he closes the door quietly.

I pace up and down the theater hall, my chest tight. Mr. Darby promised to have the illusion set delivered an hour before the show. I told Mother I would see her at the theater and then left the flat, which didn’t raise any suspicion as we haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other in the week since our fight. She tried to stop me from performing tonight, but I insisted and eventually, she acquiesced. She gave in a bit more easily than I would have expected, which makes me wonder what she has up her sleeve. I shove that thought out of my mind. She isn’t the only one with plans.

“Miss Anna?”

I jump at the tap on my shoulder. It’s only Bart, the stagehand, who will help me cart in the props. I give myself a mental shake. If I don’t calm down, I’ll never pull this off.

He leans forward conspiratorially and I keep myself from stepping back from his garlicky breath. “The old man is out back,” he says in a loud stage whisper.

I glance around, half afraid I’ll find Jacques lurking nearby. He wasn’t happy when I told him the props wouldn’t be delivered until just before the show. Then I implied that Mother and I had already practiced the new routine. God help me, I’m getting as good at lying as she is.

I follow Bart to the back door, where Mr. Darby is waiting.

“Do we still have time to set it up?”

“I have everything ready to go.”

I give him a big hug. “You’ll be out front, won’t you?”

His eyes twinkle at me. “Of course! I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” He shakes his head. “I built the damn thing and know how it works and I still couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“You’re a genius,” I tell him. “Thank you so much.” I pause. “Is Cole here?”

He gives my hand a squeeze. “Of course.”

Cole has been distant and reserved ever since my big apology. I really want to talk to him about my vision, but there never seems to be a good time. I wonder if there ever will be. But he did come to see the show. Maybe that’s a good sign.

Bart lugs the table up the stairs and then waits patiently while Mr. Darby puts the wheels on it. It’s absolutely perfect—it looks like an ordinary table. Once it’s set up, it’ll be covered in black velvet and no one will see underneath.

I sigh in relief when we finally get it onto the stage. Mr. Darby instructs Bart on what to do and keeps careful watch as everything gets set up.

“Do you have the time?” I ask Mr. Darby.

He pulls out a pocket watch. “Quarter to five, missy.”

“Can you finish this up?”

He looks around at the dim stage. “I’m almost done here.”

“Good, I’ll be right back.”

I dash down the hall toward the side door. Most theaters are a labyrinth of rooms and halls and this one is no exception. I’m counting on that to keep my secret safe until the moment I choose to reveal it.

Doubt churns in my stomach. This could very well be the end of my relationship with my mother. She might forgive me for seeing Houdini behind her back, but she will never forgive me for stealing the show.

But maybe that’s the point? Maybe I’ve always known this day would come. The day when I show her once and for all that I’m not hers—that I don’t belong to her. I love her and would do anything to protect her, but I won’t allow her to play me like she does her clients. If she wants a relationship with me, it’s going to have to be one of equality.

My pulse races as I reach the door. The dancers are filtering in, chattering like brightly colored birds. The show is going to start soon. “Please God, let him be here,” I pray under my breath. Then I spot him, almost blending into the shadows. “Dante,” I call, waving him in.

The boy comes toward me, a wide smile on his face. “Da told me to wait and not to muss my clothes.”

The boy in the black velvet knee breeches hardly resembles the waif passing out flyers all those weeks ago. I was half afraid they’d absconded with the money I gave them for clothes, but I was counting on his father’s business instincts to come through. A chance for his son to be a permanent magician’s assistant would be a better opportunity in the long run than the ten dollars I’d given them earlier this week.

“That’s the swankiest car I’ve ever ridden in,” he exclaims.

I look out across the street. Cynthia waves to me and points, indicating that she’ll be in the audience. I wave thank-you and turn back to Dante.

I lead him by the hand to the theater. We pass the musicians setting up in the orchestra pit. Mr. Darby is waiting for me just offstage.

“All finished here.”

I give him a hug. “Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure, missy.” He gives Dante a conspirator’s wink. The two of them are already fast friends, having met when we practiced the illusions.

I kneel, face to face with my new assistant. “You remember everything we went over yesterday?”

Dante’s eyes are as wide as his smile and he looks like he’s been scrubbed within an inch of his life.

“Yes. I remember everything.”

“Good. Do you have to go to the bathroom? Get a drink of water?”

He shakes his head solemnly.

“Perfect.” I lead him back to the wings to where the set has been hidden. “I need you to hide under here until you hear your cue. Remember, there’s going to be a singer coming out and then dancers, so it will seem like a very long time.”

“Don’t worry, miss. I know what to do.” He gives me a confident nod.

I grin in spite of my nerves. He’s like a little old man in a seven-year-old body. I pull up the black coverlet and he scoots underneath.

I hold out my hand and he shakes it. “Good luck,” I tell him.

“Good luck,” he says.

I’m going to need it.

Tension ricochets through the dressing room like a bouncing ball. Mother sits straight backed at her vanity, pretending to fix her flawless makeup. I can’t help but pace, going over every detail of the new act in my mind. I’m counting on Mother’s showmanship to cover up her surprise. Then she will have nothing to do but watch as her daughter steps from the shadows into the light. My turn at last.

I just wish I felt less guilty about what I’m about to do.

A knock on the door signals that it is time for us to go on. My mother rises and we walk silently into the hallway.

Then she holds out her hand. I look at her open palm extended toward me and I take it, hurt forming in my throat at our old tradition.

“Are we ready?” she asks.

I look into her eyes. They’re flat. Cold. Emotionless. The urge to cry disappears as my pain and anger once again take hold.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer.

“Are we going to astonish them?”

I look at her and I feel a strange, triumphant smile curl my lips—one my mother has no doubt given many times. “You have no idea.”

She falters for a moment, but I grip her hand more firmly and keep moving.

This time when the curtain opens I stay in the spotlight, my pulse racing. I hit every line and cue until my mother introduces me. Then I step forward and wait until the audience settles, pausing a few beats more for effect. I’ve watched my mother captivate audiences for years. Now it’s my turn.

Tonight I’m wearing a black silk chemise dress, heavily beaded with white pearls that shimmer as I move. It’s perfect for the dreamy mood I want to set.

I hold out my hands to show a deck of cards, then I begin manipulating them. Card flourishes aren’t really magic unless you show the audience things they aren’t expecting to see, such as cards disappearing and reappearing in different places. The tricks are lovely to watch, with their delicate fans and arches, but difficult for an audience as big as this one to see. I exaggerate my movements just a bit and a cello below me in the orchestra pit begins playing, a soft melodic tone. I’ve always wanted to add music to the act and now I match my movements to the melody.

“What is magic?” I ask the audience, projecting loudly. I spent most of last night trying to figure out what I would say—this performance is, after all, my swan song. “I’ve spent my life among magicians and performers and I’ve always wondered what true magic is. Is it what my mother does? Is it what Harry Houdini does? Is it real?” At this point I show the audience the eight of spades. Turning toward my mother, I show her the card. “Or is it trickery?” I place the eight of spades between my teeth and turn sideways. Then I hold a large fan in one hand, diverting their attention for a fraction of second. Waving my free hand over the fan, I pull out the eight of spades from the end of the deck. No one saw it move from my mouth.

The audience claps and I give a little bow. Then I turn toward my mother, whose smile is frozen on her face, waiting for a cue that isn’t going to come. I flash my audience, my mother, and the whole world a smile. “Tonight, you be the judge!”

At that, a violinist joins the cello and the music swells. Dante rolls out the long table, just as smoothly as we’d practiced. I almost laugh at the confident set of his head and the haughty look on his face. He exudes professionalism and I follow suit. The table is loaded with the props I’ll need. First, I hand Dante the deck I’m holding and move into the routine we’ve practiced in Mr. Darby’s basement. The theme of the performance is freedom, and the audience gasps as I set various items—a card, a ball, and finally, a large hoop—free, levitating them magically around the stage.

Excitement flows through my veins, and at the end of each trick, I bow my head slightly toward my mother.

Look, Mother, no hands!

When it’s time for the finale, I stop and face the audience, breathing hard. This is my pièce de résistance. A few members of the audience are clapping uncertainly, not sure if this is the end or not. The applause fades as the music quiets, the delicate notes of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” filling the theater. I turn and hold my hand out to Dante. He comes to me, so small, trusting, and innocent. The audience sighs. The kid should be an actor.

I lead him to the table that’s been cleared of all props. Helping him onto the top, I hold his hand for a second before releasing it. The success of this trick, any trick really, is in how it’s presented, and this is worth a slow, languorous buildup. The music slows further, into a hypnotizing lullaby, and I feel the audience holding its breath. I dance to the other side of the table and bend to kiss Dante’s forehead like a mother putting her child to sleep. I wave my hands slowly over the sleeping child in time to the music. Then I twirl to the front of the table and slowly lift the black coverlet over Dante’s body. The audience can now see under and around the table.

Dancing to the end of the platform, I slowly, carefully, detach the end piece. It now looks as if half the table were floating in air. I gracefully wave my hand where the wood had been to show that there is nothing holding it up. Then I dance to the other end and remove that piece as well.

The audience gasps. I hear murmurs of surprise and shock. Picking up the silver hoop, I begin at Dante’s feet and move it across so his body goes through the ring.

The audience goes crazy, whistling and clapping. I give a demure curtsy and then permit myself a moment to luxuriate in the sound. As I look into the audience, I see a man rise to his feet in the first row. I blush at the compliment, then freeze as I realize who it is.

Harry Houdini.

My heart bursts as the rest of the audience joins him in a standing ovation and for a moment I can’t move. Then the music begins anew and I remember my routine. I put a trembling finger to my lips and then point at Dante, as if reminding the audience of the sleeping child. As soon as they are quiet, I gracefully put the table ends back on one at a time, fold the black velvet back off Dante’s body, and help him off the table. He exits stage left and the music stops.

I look back out to where I’d spotted Houdini, but he isn’t there. A magician always knows when to make his exit.

“And now, it’s my mother’s turn to amaze you!” The audience claps politely.

I pivot, triumph pounding in my chest. I’d nearly forgotten her during the end of my performance, and now I brace myself, waiting for her anger to hit me like a wave. But instead of anger, I feel hurt. She blinks at me, her eyes bottomless pools of bewildered hurt.

Mother falters for a moment, then pastes a smile on her face and moves on to her portion of the show. She leaves out the muscle-reading trick completely. Though she performs without a hitch, her heart isn’t in it. Her movements are stiff and wooden, her voice flat. Her part in the show is anticlimactic, and everyone, especially my mother, knows it.

As we leave the stage I hear a few people yell my name. Mother walks a few feet ahead of me, her back ramrod straight.

The triumph I felt onstage ebbs, leaving my chest tight and empty. I follow her to the dressing room, even though I would rather be anywhere but there. But I knew when I planned my debut that this moment would come. Only a child would run away, and I’m no longer a child to be intimidated. I can take whatever she has to give.