Things Half in Shadow (31 page)

I wanted to protest, but decided against it. Even if I refused to go, I had no doubt that Lucy's coach would nonetheless arrive at my house that night. That's what Barclay, for all his advice, didn't know about Mrs. Collins. She was persistent beyond the point of annoyance. Faced with such determination, I could think of only one thing to say.

“But I don't own a costume.”

“Well, Edward, you need to get one. And quickly.”

C
obbling together a costume proved to be more difficult than I expected.

The mask was easy enough to acquire—I bought one in a shop on Market Street. Finding the proper outfit to wear with it was another matter. Normally, I would have ordered a costume from my tailor. But since the circumstances were anything but normal, I knew that not even the speedy Mr. Brooks would be able to stitch something together for me on such short notice.

Without any other option, I had to make do with a black morning coat, trousers, and a top hat pulled from my wardrobe. Still, even with the mask, it wasn't suitable enough for a masquerade ball hosted by P. T. Barnum. I needed something else—something that would turn my meager ensemble into a full-fledged costume.

So that evening, I again crept into the dusty attic on the fourth floor, once more looking for an object from my past.

I found it in a wooden trunk that had been shoved deep under the eaves. Its lid was darkened by dust, and when I swiped my hand across it, I saw words that had been branded into the wood.

THIS TRUNK AND THE CONTENTS WITHIN ARE THE SOLE PROPERTY OF MAGELLAN HOLMES.

Upon lifting the lid, I immediately saw what I was looking for.

A cape.

Made of black velvet and lined with red silk, it was the cape my father had worn during many of his performances. And despite a decade and a half spent languishing inside the trunk, it remained in excellent condition.

Removing the cape from the trunk, I shook off some dust and smoothed out a few wrinkles. Then I draped it over my shoulders, holding it in place with a diamond-encrusted pin. Thus dressed, I turned and studied my reflection in a mottled mirror that leaned against the wall.

What I saw astounded me.

I was the spitting image of my father.

Normally, I suspect, I bear only a faint resemblance to Magellan Holmes. Growing up, people always told me I looked more like my mother. Yet standing before the mirror, wearing my father's old cape, our resemblance was undeniable. So much so that, for a brief moment, I thought my father was in the attic with me. It was an improbable notion, to be sure, but that didn't stop me from spinning around, cape twirling, to look behind me.

Satisfied that the Amazing Magellan hadn't somehow escaped captivity, I turned back to the mirror, trembling slightly as I studied my reflection. I imagined I looked the very same way my father had when he was first starting out as a magician. Before “Amazing” became a permanent part of his name.

The realization didn't please me. I wanted to look like Magellan
Holmes about as much as I did the noseless man. Yet there was no avoiding it. I was his son, as much as I hated that fact.

I hated it so much that I was inclined to tear off the cape, stuff it back into the trunk from whence it came, and never look at it again. The only thing stopping me was the fact that I still needed something to wear to the masked ball. Since time wasn't on my side, I swallowed both my pride and the dislike of my father and took the cape with me. It was better to have a costume I abhorred than no costume at all.

With my ensemble complete, I had nothing to do but wait for Lucy Collins to arrive.

Her coach stopped outside my house exactly at nine, a lit lantern swinging from the back and Thomas at the reins. Befitting the occasion, he wore a top hat, which made him look like a proper coachman in miniature.

Lucy was even more decked out, wearing a gown of emerald satin that brought out the green in her eyes. The bodice was cut low, revealing ample décolletage framed by a ribbon of scarlet silk. The gown then narrowed, hugging Lucy's tiny waist, before expanding again in a layered skirt so wide that it took up most of the coach's interior. A flock of red birds had been embroidered into the skirt—a touch of elegant whimsy. Her hair was piled atop her head in a riot of curls that were barely contained by an ivory comb inlaid with rubies. Her face, lightly powdered, had touches of pink at the cheeks.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Quite nice,” I said, in what might be the biggest understatement I have ever uttered. For Lucy, as a matter of truth, was stunning, and I felt inferior in every way as I climbed into the coach.

“You look very fine yourself,” Lucy remarked as I sat down amid her rustling skirt. “Formal wear suits you. It feels like a handsome prince has just joined me in my coach.”

I arched my brow. “
Handsome
, you say? Why, Lucy Collins, I do believe you just paid
me
a compliment.”

“I was only being polite,” she replied while straightening her skirt. “Seeing how you find me so beautiful, I felt it only right to return the favor.”

“I never said beautiful. I believe the word was attractive.”

“It's the same thing,” Lucy was quick to add.

“But it's not,” I said. “Trust the man who writes for a living. As for handsome, however, the meaning of that word is unmistakable.”

“Which is why I take it back.”

I gasped in mock surprise. “You can't retract a compliment.”

“I most certainly can,” Lucy said. “I've now decided that you look . . . presentable.”

“I'll accept that,” I replied. “I hope I'm presentable enough to allow us to enter. I still think this is a terrible idea.”

Lucy gave me a small sigh. “Do try to have fun, Edward.”

“This isn't about fun,” I said. “We need to question Mr. Barnum and then take our leave.”

“You've never been to a masked ball, have you?”

“I've never been invited to one,” I said. “Come to think of it, I'm not invited to
this
one. I assume you've been to dozens, invited or not.”

“No, not many,” Lucy admitted. “But I've been to enough to know that they can be quite spectacular.”

She was correct in that regard, for I was enchanted as soon as we arrived at the Continental Hotel. It appeared that Mr. Barnum had spared no expense. Lit torches had been placed outside, the leaping flames casting an orange glow onto the hotel's facade. A line of white-gloved footmen in top hats and tails greeted each arriving coach, helping guests disembark in their cumbersome finery.

When Thomas pulled our coach to a stop, Lucy and I donned our masks. Mine was black, made of papier-mâché and tied in the back so that it covered the upper part of my face. The nose was elongated, tapering to a point, Cyrano-like, several inches from my face. Lucy's mask, the same emerald shade of her gown, was
attached to a stick and bedecked with red feathers that matched the birds on her skirt.

Because of our outfits, Lucy and I both had trouble leaving the coach. Her skirt was too wide to fit through the door going forward, requiring her to exit sideways. My problem was my mask's nose, which insisted on knocking against the door frame several times. When I finally managed to step outside, my mask poked the eye of the footman who had hurried to help me.

“My sincerest apologies,” I said as he backed away from me, hand over his face.

Lucy took my arm before I could do any more damage and guided me inside the hotel. There were more footmen in the lobby, standing before a wall of potted palms that led to the ballroom.

We joined the line of guests entering, fitting in quite nicely. Like Lucy, the ladies were dressed in all manner of silks and satins. The gentlemen wore coats and cloaks similar to my own. Every one of us was masked. We all paraded slowly through the lobby, passing more footmen, more potted plants, and crimson curtains made of silk.

Then it was into the ballroom itself, full of so much color and activity that it felt like stepping into a kaleidoscope. Banners of red, orange, and royal blue dripped from the ceiling and dangled in the corners. Large vases burst with flowers—roses; irises; lilies of every shape, size, and color. A full orchestra lined an entire wall of the ballroom, its musicians also masked. On the other side of the room was a large buffet containing oysters, roast lamb, a suckling pig, roast beef, and desserts so elaborately decorated they more resembled jewel boxes than something edible.

Situated between the food and the musicians, like a teeming sea that divided two continents, was the dance floor. So much activity was taking place there that I scarcely knew where to look first. The floor was a whirling dervish of color—crimson and periwinkle, emerald and gold, orange and purple. All those varied hues were
constantly on the move. Reflected in the mirrored walls. Streaking across the dance floor. Shifting and blending and uniting in myriad combinations. There was noise, too, a joyous cacophony of music, laughter, and clinking champagne glasses.

And the costumes! I had never seen so many gathered in one place. It was an unceasing rotation of masks. Some were painted. Others were bejeweled. Still others had been festooned with feathers—a flock of exotic birds. There were devils and demons and jesters and beasts.

Roaming among them were guests who required no costume to appear strange or fantastical. I saw one woman so tall that I at first thought she was walking on stilts. It wasn't until she passed right by me that I realized she truly was of such great height. In stark counterpoint, following her was a man shorter than Thomas. He was so small that the top of his hat barely reached my waist. Behind them was a rather sturdy woman in a bejeweled gown. She held a feathered mask to her face, and while it did a suitable job of covering her eyes and forehead, it did nothing to disguise the well-tended beard that dripped from her chin. And I can't forget to mention the twins who were joined at the hip. Dark skinned and exotic, they were attached at the rump, facing away from each other. They wore matching yellow gowns of crinoline and lace, the skirt wide enough to accommodate them both. Each had a different dance partner, the men circling them as the twins rotated in place.

“I told you it would be spectacular,” Lucy said.

“It is,” I replied. “But for what reason is Mr. Barnum throwing this party?”

Lucy shrugged. “He's P. T. Barnum. I doubt he needs a reason to do anything.”

Speaking of our host, he was naturally the center of attention, located on a platform that rose waist high above the far end of the dance floor. On top of the platform was a high-backed throne in which Barnum himself sat, hands moving along to the music. The
greatest showman of our time looked far more at home there than he had at the Pastor residence. During the séance, he was a mere mortal—humble, lumpy, and quiet. But on that throne, visible to everyone in the ballroom, he was like a god.

Phineas Taylor Barnum, master of the spectacular and peddler of entertainment to the common man, lived an endless cycle of success and disgrace and success again. At the moment, though, he was in a slump and, according to recent reports, nearly broke again. His museums, though popular, had been too expensive to rebuild after being burned to the ground. His tours with Jenny Lind and Tom Thumb were distant memories. And while he had begun to take an interest in politics, social causes, and, ironically, the debunking of Spiritualism, I suspected this ball was his way of proving he could still put on a good show. In my opinion, he had succeeded admirably . . . so much so that the activity on the dance floor made it hard to reach him.

“How do we get to him?” I asked Lucy.

“Waltz, of course.”

She stepped onto the crowded dance floor, forcing several couples to swirl around her or stop altogether. Lucy paid them no mind as she held out a hand. I paused on the edge of the dance floor, strangely and suddenly nervous.

Part of my hesitation was because I assumed that my dancing skills were somewhat lacking. But most of it stemmed from the way Lucy looked. Resplendent in her emerald gown, head tilted expectantly, she almost seemed like a complete stranger, one of those exotic and beautiful women who make grown men feel like knock-kneed youths.

I was completely out of my depth.

“Edward,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me, “I'm beginning to feel like a fool out here all by myself.”

I sighed, stepped onto the dance floor, and took her warm hand into my own.

We began to dance, trying to pick up midwaltz. Lucy didn't miss a step. I, however, was rusty, and it took me a moment or two to ease into things. I stepped on Lucy's toes twice and, at one point, swatted her in the head with the nose of my mask.

“Relax,” Lucy whispered. “You're too tense.”

I truly was, moving stiff limbed around the floor. In the past year, I had never danced with someone other than Violet, and the foreignness of the situation left me feeling awkward and unmoored. Dancing with Lucy was different. She moved with effortless grace. Plus, she wasn't afraid to take the lead when necessary.

“You're too far away,” she said after bearing another few moments of my fumbling. “Come closer.”

She pulled me against her, tightening my left hand around her own. She then maneuvered my right hand until it was at the correct spot on her waist. We were so close that I could smell her perfume—a light lavender scent that filled my nose and allowed me to relax.

“That's
much
better,” she said. “Now let's try moving to the music.”

Lucy tugged me a bit, speeding up my steps until they were moving in time with the waltz. Soon we were gliding over the floor as if we danced together all the time.

“Fancy that,” she remarked, eyebrows raised. “You're a better dancer than I thought you'd be.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Although I owe a great debt to my partner.”