by Heather Webb
“The ghost is real,” Little Jammet whispered to another dancer.
Indeed he was, and this time I wouldn’t make the mistake of trying to warn him. He had killed a man and threatened me. He could defend himself. Besides, the thought of confronting him . . . I shivered in fear.
“Just one more quick announcement,” Montcharmin said. “Tomorrow after the performance, we hope you will join us for some merriment in the Grand Foyer. We would like to celebrate our transition here as new directors.”
“And bring some cheer to the place, for God’s sake,” the other director said.
Everyone laughed.
“Refreshments will be served.”
A light smattering of applause rippled through the room.
I stood, stomach full of lead, and started back to my room. I had to find the gun before the police did.
12
I plopped down on a chaise in Madame’s salon, weary from the day’s exertions. The last few hours, I’d torn apart my dressing room, searched the cast room, and gone through many of the storage rooms. I hadn’t even found my handbag, let alone the missing weapon. Tears of frustration swam in my eyes. With a huff, I slammed my fist onto the seat beside me. Who had stolen the gun—and, more perplexing—what did they want with it?
“You’ve received another invitation,” Claudette called merrily from the kitchen. Her work boots scuffed a melody on the floorboards as she walked from room to room. She handed me the beautiful stationery card. I would have to refuse the invitation, like the others. I hadn’t forgotten the Angel’s warning. So many warnings from so many directions.
I sighed heavily, and slipped my finger under the flap. The Duchess of Zurich requested I sing at her salon, and she would pay me more than I had ever made—double a month’s salary at the opera house. I looked at Claudette, eyes wide. If I accepted her invitation, I would be able to replace Madame’s gun before she noticed it missing. Though I didn’t have the slightest idea how to buy one, I would figure that out later. Madame didn’t expect me to return it soon, if ever, but I didn’t want to admit I’d lost it. I needed to replace it and this was my chance.
“Well?” Claudette asked.
“I’m going to accept.” I had to go. I would just have to lie. What was one more lie at this point?
“Good. The money will be helpful.” Claudette nudged the edge of the frayed rug with her boot. “Say, can I ask you something?” Her usual bold demeanor shifted to one of timidity.
“Of course.”
“It’s about your book,” she said. “I would like to read it.”
“Which book?”
“The book the gentleman gave you. Monsieur le Vicomte.” She studied her blunt fingernails.
“The book of illusions?” A lump formed in my throat instantly. Just the mention of the book stirred inklings of envy that Claudette could read the text and feel no guilt or self-loathing; envy that she could delight in the techniques and daydream about magicians without her throat closing from remembered smoke. She could enjoy the gift Raoul had given me, and I could not.
Noticing the conflict in my eyes, she rushed to reply, “I understand if it’s too special to you.”
“No,” I replied firmly. “Someone should read it, or it will go to waste.”
“Go to waste? You won’t read it, then? Whyever not? Magic is part of who you are.” Claudette put her hand on mine. “Always has been, even if you haven’t practiced in a while.”
I said nothing and glanced away.
“Christine?” She said my name with such soberness, I met her eyes. “I understand why you stopped playing cards. You feel responsible for your papa’s death. But we both know that isn’t the truth of it. Things happen, beyond our control. The good Lord takes you when he’s ready. He wanted to hear your papa’s music in heaven, I say. It’s time you stopped blaming yourself. If you enjoy magic . . . Well, life goes fast. Embrace it.”
Emotion swelled from the pit of my stomach, and rushed up my throat. Tears burned my eyes. All this time I had kept everything inside, forced away a part of me that was true and real. I knew that deep down all along—I knew it now. All I had allowed myself was to sing, to honor Papa. Everything I did, I did for him, to make him proud. Yet magic had been a part of Mother’s gifts, too. Wasn’t that just as important—to embrace all of who I was? Seeing Raoul again, holding the book of illusions in my hands, had unleashed something.
Claudette wiped away the tears slipping down my cheeks. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” I blew my nose and hugged her fiercely. “I’ve been so disgusted with myself. So afraid.”
“You’re a talented lady. With many gifts. Wasting them would be the biggest tragedy here, don’t you know?” She smiled and offered me another clean handkerchief.
I exhaled, smiling through the tears. “You’re right. You should—we should—read the book.”
Claudette’s expression turned sheepish again. “Now then, there’s just one more problem.”
“What is it?”
Her creamy skin deepened to crimson until her freckles were hardly distinguishable. “I don’t read well. I was hoping you could read it to me, or at least help me?”
Stunned, I sat silently a moment before replying. I couldn’t imagine not knowing how to read. It was one of the few pastimes Papa and I enjoyed together daily. In spite of our pitiful circumstances, we always had a few books on hand, and borrowed others whenever possible. I would help her. It would be a good exercise for me; to confront the panic, push past all of my pent up emotion. I was nineteen years old, an adult. I needed to act like one.
“I would be delighted to teach you,” I said at last.
She kissed my cheeks and whirled me around. “We’ll make a grand time of it.”
I laughed and threw my arms around her neck. It would be grand all right, but I hoped not of the panic-inducing variety.
“I’ll just fetch it from your night table.” Before I could answer, Claudette strutted from the room, her gray skirts swirling behind her.
Nervously, I picked at a small flap of skin along my thumbnail until it tore and the skin underneath became raw and tender. I hope I didn’t regret this.
“Voilà.” She placed the book on the table between us and scooted beside me on the sofa.
“Well”—I inhaled a deep breath—“I suppose we should start from the beginning.” I opened the book of illusions, my fingers tingling as they ran the length of the page. So many things to learn. A rush of familiar emotion—wonder, excitement, comfort—flowed through me.
“It has been so long,” I whispered. After a moment more of reverence, I grinned at Claudette. “Shall we begin?”
I returned to the magic book each day with ink-stained fingers, to take notes into the late hours until my lantern ran dry and my candles snuffed out. Memories of Mother rushed back: her beautiful voice, her spun-gold hair that cascaded down her back, the sleight of hand and other games she played with me. The illusions had tied me to her memory always. For the first time since Papa’s death, I felt like myself again, but a newer, wiser version. A happier version. I had allowed the anxiety to drain away, and started down the slow path to forgiving myself.
Once I had devoured every page of the book, I retrieved my precious magic box. I smiled. Raoul had given me both the box and the book. He understood my heart then as he did now, and he didn’t even know it. I had to thank him for his encouragement, for bringing me back to such joy. After the performance Friday evening, I would seek him out in the smoking room just as he had asked, but would keep it formal. I didn’t have to tell him we couldn’t be friends. I could keep him at a distance—after I expressed my gratitude.
I practiced my old illusions and new ones, though I was limited by the few trinkets I had used as a child. To what end I practiced, I didn’t know, but I felt alive. I liked to sing, but magic! It challenged me and kept me awake at night, puzzling over new ideas. It made each day
an adventure. I combed through my box of tools, throwing out broken pieces and sorting the rest.
I pulled the drawstring purse from my top dresser drawer and emptied all the money I had saved onto the bed. I had enough to pay the doctor this month and some for personal use, though perhaps I should save it just in case. The salon money would cover the gun, but Madame might need something else. Abruptly, I grabbed my handbag and slipped my change purse inside it. I cared very much for Madame, but I needed new equipment. I had earned it.
I pulled on my cape and set out for the most popular magic shop in Paris: Mayette Magie Moderne. Nestled on a corner in the Latin Quarter, it abutted my favorite market. I descended from the hackney cab, walked uphill, and entered the small shop. As I closed the door, a bell jingled to announce my arrival. A single lantern burned inside, its flame glinting off the glass counter and the metallic instruments displayed in the front windows.
No one greeted me, but a door behind the counter sat ajar and a gentleman tipped in his chair, puffing on a Gambier clay pipe like the one I had seen the choral director use. I walked through the cramped space filled with displays of wands and top hats, handkerchiefs and gloves, magic coins, pamphlets, an array of books, and drawings of specialty items for order. I thumbed through a booklet with many types of mirrors. I wondered if the friendly machinist, Georges, would help me build a cabinet. I would need one for some of my newer illusions.
I ran my finger down the page and stopped on a picture of Platonized glass; a special mirror coated in liquid metal and heated until the platinum affixed to the glass. Curious, I peered at the drawing more closely.
The gentleman from the back room set down his pipe and joined me. “Can I help you find something?” He ran a hand over his full gray beard and peered at me with a curiosity that bordered on suspicion.
“I would like a set of handkerchiefs and a wand.”
The vendor leaned over the counter and peered at me closely, an eyebrow raised.
His surprise could only mean one thing—a woman, unescorted and alone, wanted to purchase his wares. An illusionist’s wares. He’d never seen that before, it was clear.
I shook off the discomfort of his shocked stare. At one time, the shopkeeper’s gaze would have made me doubtful of my place. Not today, not now. I belonged here. There was no rule against female magicians and I would join their ranks if I pleased, even if I never performed in public.
“Also, I would like to know how much this glass costs, as well as one of these multipaned mirrors.” I folded my gloved hands and rested them on the counter.
“Are you buying glass for an illusionist? If so, he should see the drawings himself and bring in specific dimensions.”
Indignant at his insinuation—that I could neither choose which one I needed, nor be anything more than an assistant—I squared my shoulders. “With all due respect, I am quite able to choose a piece of glass with proper dimensions. I know exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Very well,” he said slowly. “It doesn’t matter who wants it or who orders it, as long as you pay.”
With an apologetic smile, he turned the book of drawings around to face him and flipped open a notebook. He shook his quill pen and rolled it between his hands to warm the ink inside. One by one, he recorded the items in his notebook in one column, then filled in the prices of each on a second column. “The handkerchiefs will cost you one franc each, the wand two. I have a smaller version of the glass pane available now if you want it. As for the mirrors, they will cost you fifty. In all, it will run you seventy-six francs.”
“Seventy-six francs!” I shook my head. “The other shop I visited could give me the lot for thirty francs.” Though a bald-faced lie, I knew the man was trying to swindle me, like any shopkeeper might a woman. One look at my gold embroidered red cape, lace collar, and lamb-hide gloves, and he assumed I had unlimited funds to spend. He didn’t know they had all come secondhand from one of Madame Valerius’s wealthy friends.
The expression on his face shifted from conceit to one of newfound respect. “I assure you”—he said—“this mirror is made with the finest materials. It even resembles one used by the great Robert-Houdin. But I can knock a few francs off and give you the lot for sixty francs without delivery fees, of course.”
I met his gaze squarely. “Forty-five francs, including delivery, or I go elsewhere. You can deliver the order to my home as soon as it’s ready.”
“Done.” A bemused smile lifted the corners of his iron-gray mustache.
A young blonde had come from nowhere, in pretty clothes, and bartered like a hardened businessman. I couldn’t help but smile, proud of my determination to get what I wanted.
I fished a wad of bills out of my handbag, counted them, and laid them on the counter. “That should do it.”
The gentleman scooped up the money and gave me another hard stare.
“Do you have something to say, Monsieur?”
He leaned further over the counter, as if he wanted to share a secret.
“Oui?” I said expectantly.
“Illusionists must guard their secrets, Mademoiselle. Be careful where you share them. Often, your friends aren’t who you think they are.”
I thought of the few friends I possessed—Claudette, Meg, and Monsieur Delacroix, maybe even Raoul. I could trust them . . . mostly. I remembered Meg’s wagging tongue about all the goings-on in the opera. Still, I knew she meant no harm and had helped me many times.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“And, Mademoiselle?” His forehead scrunched, his voice turned somber. “Beware of ghosts. Conjurers tangle themselves in the spirit world and wind up being haunted themselves, and not just by those they summon, but by the living.”
I knew all too well what it was to be haunted.
“I thank you again, Monsieur. Good night.” With pride, I left the magic shop and joined the bustle of pedestrians in the street. Next, off to find tools.
“I think I need a bigger cloak to obscure the entire thing,” I said, stepping back from the trunk.
As I suspected, Georges was delighted to help me build a cabinet with a false bottom. When I had shown the machinist my drawings, he looked stunned, but quickly got to work.
Claudette stood beside a large crate, hand on her hip. Not only had she been amenable to working on illusions, but she relished being part of my evolving skills. I couldn’t imagine working through them without her.
“You’re smiling,” she said, untying her apron. It had been nothing but a nuisance each time she tried to escape the sack inside the trunk.
“You would make a wonderful assistant,” I said. “A real one, on a stage. You’re pretty and spirited. You’ve got just the right amount of showmanship, yet you seem to know when to be reserved. You’re a natural.”
And she was endlessly patient while we practiced. Since we had begun, I worked constantly. Why I needed to perfect these illusions was a mystery to me—it wasn’t as if I would have the chance to perform them.
Except perhaps at a salon, a voice in my head said.
But it was an absurd idea. The salonnières would want me to sing, not perform illusions with my maid-assistant.
I ran a hand over my hair. “Let’s wrap it up for tonight. I need a break.”
Hungry from the evening’s exertions, I devoured leftover potage and bread before heading to bed. After practicing all week during the day, and music lessons at night with the Angel, I felt the pull of deep fatigue. Within minutes, sleep seduced me and I found myself standing on a stage. In my dream, I pranced like a ballerina and twirled in a white costume adorned with sashes in blues and silvers that lapped like waves against my body.
Claudette walked toward me. She shimmered in her own costume layered with alternating patches of color that resembled fish scales. The dress ended well above her knees. As she moved, the light caught sparkles painted carefully along her brow and dotted across the rounds of her cheeks. Behind us, a set flat mimicked the sea with fish and
corals, an octopus, and even a squid.
Claudette waved a long swatch of fabric in the same watery hues over my body.
I disappeared and a faceless crowd cheered.
A new set whirred as it moved into place. This time, a grand organ rolled to center stage, and bodiless skeleton arms appeared from hidden panels in the wall, cradling violins. On cue, the violins and organ played in unison—without the help of human hands.
The crowd applauded once more.
With a puff of smoke and a flash of light, I reappeared, this time in a billowing white gown and gloves. I raised my arms toward the ceiling of the theatre and sang an aria I didn’t recognize. My voice carried over the instruments and filled the auditorium. As I sang, I glanced out of the corner of my eye at something moving in the wings of the stage. A shadowy figure stood in black redingote, bow tie, and top hat. A woman floated at the man’s side, beautiful with her gleaming blond hair and blinding gown made entirely of crystals. Her face felt familiar somehow, but I couldn’t quite place it.
The man raised his arms like a conductor and my voice responded, pushing the notes further. There was only one being my voice responded to in such a way—the Angel. Even as I sang, I puzzled over his presence at my magic show. Why would he be there?
He lifted his hand and my voice obeyed.
As he took a step closer, the lanterns on the stage threw light across his face.
Stricken, I stopped, midsong, and the crowd murmured.
The Angel wore a mask.
13
After I awoke from the dream, it took the whole day to shake the haunted feeling the mask inspired. When at last it was time to head to the Duchess of Zurich’s home, I was relieved. Her home—if one could call it such—lumbered across an entire city block. Though imposing, the mansion was also elegant with its statuettes, gilded fence posts, and sweeping lawns. Candles lighted a ruddy brick walkway that lead to the front doors. Even in the early winter months, the grounds were a veritable wonderland with snow-dusted topiaries, lighted pathways through a maze of hedges, and marble fountains that gleamed in the twilight. A swathe of clouds floated lazily across a violet sky, finally eclipsing a fingernail moon still on the rise. I couldn’t believe I was about to perform here.
