It’s a lot to think about, and he can’t quite digest it. But there’s a spark there. Maybe she’s right about him. Maybe it is up to him, how much he lets the bullet, and the fear, take over his life. Maybe. Not a curse, but a choice. His agency and no one else’s.
She says, “You’re right about one part of it. I hated him. With my whole self.”
“But your will failed you there, did it?”
“Not exactly. I was ready to kill him,” she says. “I was absolutely ready. I swore to myself, before the show, that I would find a way.”
“And then?”
“And then, in Waterloo,” she says, pointing across the room, “I found what was in that valise.”
Chapter Thirty-One
1905
The Slave Girl’s Dream
In Waterloo, I did something foolish. It was a silly impulse, and I knew it would make no difference, but I had left logic behind. The railcar that had once been a lovely refuge was now a prison. Sometimes he locked himself in there with me and sometimes I was alone, but either way, I was thoroughly a prisoner, and I grew to hate the ornate ceiling and the framed art and the rich bedclothes and the empty spaces on the brocade walls where the mirrors used to hang. I hated him and I hated myself. There was only one time each day when I was free in both my body and mind. It was the golden time, the beautiful time, as the late afternoon shaded into evening, when he had to let me out to go onstage.
Onstage, he couldn’t stop me. He’d never interfere with the show. He escorted me all the way there with his hand on my elbow, his steps in perfect concert with mine. During the performance he would stand in the wings, watching, and follow my every move. The moment I was offstage I was in his grip again, literally. But for a precious hour on each stage in each theater in front of each audience, I was still myself, still in control.
Ever since the Iroquois, I’d made a point of finding out what each theater’s precautions were in case of fire. In Waterloo, there were buckets of water in front of the footlights, which was a standard precaution, but there was also an ax hanging on the back wall of the stage, which was not. Nearly every theater had fire axes on the premises to break doors and windows during a fire, to let either people or smoke escape. They were just usually offstage. This one was not, and the moment I saw it, I knew what I would do.
The evening unfolded in the usual pattern, at first. Majestic, I strode onstage in an exquisite gown to a surge of welcoming applause. I entranced the audience with coins that multiplied and disappeared. By turns the stage was a riot of colorful scarves, then a still and silent temple, then a blaze of light and motion. I did not even venture a glance into the wings, but looked out instead over a sea of rapt spectators, their eyes shining. I announced the fire dancers, the Dancing Odalisque, all the other illusions. I performed. We performed.
But this night, not everything was exactly the same as it had been. Just the sight of that nearby fire ax had reawakened me to myself, and I was thinking more clearly than I had in weeks, seeing the act with new eyes. What I saw and felt onstage pleased me. The new assistants were settling into their roles, and although they weren’t yet as expert as their predecessors had been, they were growing in confidence and strength. As an act, we were finding our shared rhythm. And as we crescendoed to the Halved Man, I became more and more eager, every muscle a taut wire.
I wheeled the box out onstage, the deaf boy’s head seemingly connected to another boy’s feet. I made the usual gestures. But instead of reaching for the saw on the table stage left, I turned my back on the audience and walked to the back of the stage, lifting the ax from its tether. I strode downstage again, taking a brief moment to lock eyes with Ray in the wings as I did so—he looked murderous at the improvisation, which pleased and energized me—and then I stood over the box, and instead of gently sawing back and forth through the precut center, I raised the sharp ax blade over my head as high as it could go and willed all my strength into the downstroke.
I swung it down furiously, splintering the wood. It was satisfying. I did it again, and it was more satisfying yet. I considered crouching for a moment to whisper to the boys in the box that no harm would come to them, but there wasn’t time for it. In any case the deaf boy wouldn’t have heard. And I was barely aware of anyone but myself in the moment. I was transported, transformed. I was merely an extension of the ax. We were one, a single instrument of punishment and destruction. We were revenge. I pictured Ray’s face as I smashed and smashed. Every blow was an answer to some wrong he had done me. Every upswing of the ax was an opportunity to bring it down again, hard and swift.
Then I heard the blast of a horn, possibly repeated, certainly loud enough to jar me. It was my cue. That brought me back into my body, onstage, and I realized where and who I was. The middle of the box was nearly split into kindling. But no one knew this wasn’t what was expected. I had to give them the rest of what they’d paid for.
So I finished up as usual, in a near daze—smoke and mirrors, deaf boy through a trapdoor, a sudden reappearance to amaze them all—and I took my bow. The audience thundered its applause. I raised my arms to thank them. They had no idea what they’d done for me. Without Clyde, I could barely go on, and without them, I wouldn’t want to. I wasn’t a mere prisoner—not at that moment, not anymore.
The curtain slid closed with a heavy and final-sounding whoosh. I stood alone on the bare stage, panting. My shoulders were already beginning to cry out from the effort, but there was a smile on my face, frozen there, my cheeks aching. I still gripped the ax.
I didn’t stop smiling when Ray grabbed the ax out of my hands, nor when he marched me to the railcar, hissing at me to go faster, faster, at every step. I didn’t stop smiling when he shoved me through the open door of the railcar and slammed it behind us with a mighty thump. I didn’t stop smiling as he screamed at me, pushed me to the carpet on my back, and held the wooden handle of the ax against my windpipe with two hands, nor when he pressed down so hard no air could get through, bruising my neck deeply. I must have stopped smiling when I lost consciousness, though it tickled me to wonder if maybe I hadn’t, which would have driven him to absolute distraction. When I came to, Ray was gone, and the ax with him. I was alone.
I reached for the brandy as I usually did but stopped myself. It would only deaden the pain for the moment. Drinking would leave the ache on the inside untouched and add a dizzying physical ache to wrap me like a shroud in the morning. And tonight was different. Tonight, I remembered the most important lesson of my life: I had agency.
Tonight I could surely find some better use for these minutes without Ray, however long they lasted, than to drink them away.
I pulled my suitcase out from under the bed. I was torn. Could I try to run away just one more time? Would he be gone long enough for me to get away, free and clear? Seeing and wielding the ax had made a difference. It reminded me that I might be a prisoner but I didn’t have to be a victim. Earlier in the night I had told myself with certainty that I would finally kill him, without knowing how I would do so but utterly sure that one of us would be dead before the next day’s sun came up. If I searched every inch of the railcar again, might I find something that would make the difference? Should I flee, or stay and fight?
Inside the suitcase was a smaller valise, which I recognized as the one my mother had bought me, all those years ago, in hopes of sending me off to ballet school. My life had certainly turned out differently than she’d intended. That little bag had seen me through many years, lean ones and fat ones, but right now it only reminded me of my failings. I kicked it, hard, so it flew a few feet across the railcar and struck the bed, and when it bounced and popped open, something fell out of the lining.
The straight razor that had been both Ray’s and Clyde’s.
Ray had hidden it well, but not well enough. I’d found it. And the moment it was in my hand, I knew what I was ready to do.
I positioned myself next to the door, razor at the ready, to kill him.
My body tense with anger and fear, I waited by that door for what felt like hours.
Darkness fell and I didn’t light the lamp. My eyes had adjusted to the dark by then, and when he came in, there might be a chance that his hadn’t. It would add to the element of surprise. I needed every advantage I could get. My hand still smarted from the broken finger, but I didn’t trust my left hand to bear the weapon any better. I would simply wait, in the dark, until he came, and then I would lunge, and it would all be done at last.
Only he never came.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Janesville, 1905
Quarter past five o’clock in the morning
Holt asks quietly, “He never came?”
“Never.”
“So that’s where you were, during the murder. In the locked railcar.”
She says nothing.
“Waiting there to kill him,” he goes on. “Not knowing someone else already had.”
“Yes,” she says, staring down at her feet, looking exhausted. Her hair seems more gold than before, which makes him realize there is a little light peeking through the high, barred window. The false dawn is here, and sunrise can’t be far away. They’ve lost the night. What comes next?
“And then you ran,” he said.
“I ran.”
“But how could you?”
She looks at him blankly then, as if she doesn’t understand what he means, but he knows she must.
He asks, more insistently, “How did you get out? If the railcar was locked? Did one of the girls come and rescue you? Did you realize he left the ax after all? Did you use the straight razor somehow? What was it?”
She shakes her head.
And then, insight comes in a flash. One part of the story doesn’t add up. About what she’s told him she’s done, and who she’s told him she is.
“You didn’t escape from a locked railcar, did you? That’s something only an escape artist would do. And you’ve told me that’s not what you are. See? I was listening.”
She mumbles down at her feet, and it’s so soft he has to ask her, “Say that again?”
Instead of answering she shakes her head again, side to side, so fiercely another thick tendril of red-gold hair falls across her cheek, obscuring half her face.
His triumph begins to fade. He expected her to sass back with a ready answer, like she has before. But clearly, there’s something more here. “Please. I didn’t hear you. It’s important.”
“Is it?” she whispers.
“Yes. You’re telling me your story. This is how it ends. This is the only thing I don’t know.”
“And it matters?”
“Arden. You said you’d tell me everything, so tell me everything.” He reaches down and pushes the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear, so he can see her better. “How did you get out?”
She seems to come to a decision, meeting his gaze with tears shining in her eyes, and says, only a little louder, “The door wasn’t locked.”
He doesn’t bother to hide his shock. They’re well past that. He even reels backward a step, his single footfall audible in the quiet. “What? You said it was. You said he locked it.”
“I did say that.”
“And?”
Still meeting his eyes, her gaze burning, she says, “I lied.”
“Arden…”
“But understand! It’s the only lie I’ve told you all night.” Her words come in a rush. “Everything else was true. The barn, my mother, Biltmore, the Iroquois, Adelaide’s tiger, my healing power, every last bit of it. All true. I swear.”
He has to ask. He has to. “Then why didn’t you run?”
“I did.”
“You said—”
“I mean, last night. Remember? I was running when you caught me.”
“But why not earlier? Before he could hurt you?”
“I was so goddamn afraid,” she says, the tears coming hard, running down her cheeks and neck into her high, open collar. They run over the pale, perfect skin where the bruise used to be and pool in the hollow in her throat. “My fear was all he needed to keep me there. I was too afraid to run. I didn’t want to admit that to you—you understand, how shameful it was, how weak I’d been.”
She pauses for a breath, and he wants to reassure her that he understands, but she forges ahead before he can.
“He’d threatened Clyde, and that was enough. One threat and I was his puppet. I let him damage me and try to heal that damage with his delusions of magic. I talk a good game about risk, but when it all came down to it, I chose something awful and safe. He’s a brute and a horror, and I was a fool to let him intimidate me into giving up everything that I cherished, but I did.”
“But you did finally run.” He wants to comfort her, soothe her. “You were brave enough, last night.”
“For all the good it’s done me,” she says, sniffling. “I’m a prisoner again now, aren’t I?”
He looks down at her, not sure what to say. The crying has reddened the whites of her eyes, making the blue irises even bluer, strikingly so. He reaches out silently to wipe away her tears, as he did much earlier in the night, while he thinks. Morning will be here shortly. He has to make his decision. He promised to hear her story, and he’s heard it. There’s nothing more to wait on.
“You’re not his prisoner,” he tells her. “That’s the difference.”
She takes a rasping, hiccuping breath.
He tucks the damp handkerchief back in his pocket and says, “Ray won’t ever hurt you again. Whatever else happens, there’s that. He’s dead.”
“God, I hope so.”
“Hope?”
The telephone rings so loudly, piercing the silence, that they both jump.
He crosses the room and reaches for the telephone, mostly to quiet it, without thinking about who’s on the other end. His thoughts are still a storm of uncertainty, his body reacting by reflex. He puts the earpiece to his ear without taking his eyes off the magician.
But when he hears Iris’s voice, soft and hesitant, his world cracks open wide.
“Virgil?” is all she says at first.
“I’m here,” he says. “It’s me, yes, I’m here. Is everything all right?”
Iris says, “I was afraid you wouldn’t be there. You weren’t there before.”
“I should be home with you.” He sits down in the chair behind the desk, hard, as it hits him. All this time, she’s been waiting, wondering. He owes her more than that. The magician’s story reminds him how fragile this all is, but also how important.
“You should. I was worried.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says.
He can tell she’s crying but trying to hide it, and that touches him more deeply than he can say. He’s been holding her at arm’s length and it was all wrong. He can spend all his time with Iris in fear that she’ll leave him, or he can spend that time telling her how important she is to him, how much he needs her. Now he knows which he’d rather do.
He says, “Oh, darling, I love you. You must know how much.”
Her voice is soft, and he has to lean in to hear it. He leans hungrily, pressing his ear against the warm black horn-shaped metal.
“What did you find out?” she’s asking. “Tell me. Tell me the doctor can help you. Tell me everything will be all right.”
He can’t find the words to answer her. There’s no guarantee of a future, but how could he say that? He needs to live the life he can live.
Her voice comes down the line again, passionate. “Tell me you’ll be here for me.”
“I will. I will.” He says it and believes it.
***
Arden watches him closely. Watches to make sure that his attention is fully elsewhe
re. She’ll be fast, but it will take a few long moments. Misdirection. She didn’t create the opportunity, but she’d be a fool if she didn’t take advantage.
It would be better if it were only one pair of cuffs, but she can do it with two. It will just hurt more.
***
Half turned away from the magician with his head down, straining to listen to his wife’s words, Virgil Holt doesn’t hear the cracking, wrenching sounds.
All he hears is Iris, so happy to talk to him, relief plainly evident in her voice. “Thank the good Lord. I want you home,” Iris says. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” he says. “So much.”
“Will you please come home to me?”
He says, “In the morning.”
“Isn’t it morning yet?”
“Almost. Once the sun comes up. I promise. There’s one more thing I have to do first, and when I get home, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Iris says, “That sounds ideal.”
Then he catches a blur of motion off to the side. Sequins and flesh. He sees the blur move and shift, rising up. She’s getting up out of the chair. It’s almost like he’s imagining it. He’s so tired now.
He turns to look at her, and he isn’t imagining it at all. It’s real. She is real, and free.
Both pairs of cuffs swing free from her left wrist. Her right hand looks awful, scraped and bloody, from being shoved against the metal. The thumb hangs off to the side of her hand almost like it isn’t connected at all. And he realizes suddenly, it isn’t. The bone, there’s something wrong with it. The skin is all that’s holding her thumb on.
In training, they told him that there were only two ways the average person could get out of cuffs. One was to pick the lock, which was harder than it seemed. The other was to break the thumb to make the hand small enough to fit through the cuff, which no one was foolish enough to do.
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