The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  She brushed her hand against the side of Charlotte’s face, then wound a lock of deep-auburn hair behind her ear.

  “I knew you had a sister once. Charlotte was listed as Jennifer Charles’s next of kin in the old newspaper articles we found about your family. I assumed she’d just grown up. Maybe married and moved away, and that you preferred not to speak of her. So I never asked.”

  “That’s our protection, to be forgotten. It’s why no one asks.”

  “Forgotten?” He shook his head at the thought. How could anyone—especially Wren—possibly be forgotten?

  “I made a promise to our mother that I’d always look after Charlotte. She’s always traveled with me, regardless of where the shows are. I stay in Boston as often as I can, but I must work. If I don’t have this career, then it’s not just me who loses. She loses too. That’s why I have no staff. No extraordinary expenses except what would keep up the ruse of wealth among society. I make enough to live on and we have my uncle’s inheritance, but even that won’t last forever. I don’t mind to be thought an eccentric, as long as it means Charlotte is hidden from the spotlight and is taken care of in the best manner possible. Being forgotten is the only way to do that.”

  “That’s why you keep your house shuttered? Your dining room never in use?”

  Wren smiled like she expected him to say that. “Most of the rooms are empty. You just haven’t seen them all. If I shut up my home, no one asks questions about our past and that’s where it stays. Locked tight where the prying pens of the newspapers can’t find us.”

  “We all have pasts, Wren.” The weight of her sadness gripped him from across the room. “I never thought of you as a person who’d run from anything.”

  “You don’t see it. No one does, really. I’ve become quite good at hiding who I am, and for most of my life, I’ve walked—or run away from things—with my head down.” A soft shrug tipped those delicate shoulders she owned. “But that’s not living, is it? I could have died on that stage tonight, and I kept thinking about her. Who’d take care of Charlotte if I were gone? No one even knows I’ve moved her here, except you. She doesn’t even know who Wren Lockhart is, poor thing.”

  “I heard it said once that some people die at twenty-five but aren’t buried until seventy-five. Is it something like that?”

  A soft laugh escaped her lips. Weighted and humorless. “In a way, I think part of me died at six years old.” She gazed at Charlotte’s serenity in turning page after page of the fairy book. “But then I look at her—so beautiful. Young in mind. Untouched by grief because she can’t understand it. I lost my innocence long ago, and yet she’ll never lose hers. She’s locked away in the past, and all I’ve done is try to run from it. We are opposites in a way, but we’re the same too.”

  Was it the right time to return her candid admissions with honesty of his own?

  “Would you look at me?” Elliot drew her gaze from Charlotte to lock with his. “Can you tell me what happened to her? Your mother.”

  Wren swallowed hard. “She died protecting us.”

  It was a far cry from a full explanation of her mother’s death, but it was enough. Even though he knew far more than she thought he did, it still explained her pain, the look of sorrow that had soaked in the depths of her eyes, and the reasons why Charlotte was so infinitely dear.

  “I said I was sorry before, and I meant it. Because I understand some of that pain. I lost my parents as well.”

  She tilted her head, taken aback. “You?”

  “I was still in France in the fall of 1918. I went to war as an officer, and I felt the responsibility to stay with my men, to see it through all the way. So I wasn’t there when it happened. My father and mother were traveling home after a party one night. Their auto was run off the road and rolled down an embankment. They were both killed.”

  “I’m so sorry. But . . . what do you mean ‘run off the road’? Was it an accident because of the weather?”

  “No, Wren. There were witnesses, but none who were willing to come forward. My father supported the Wartime Prohibition Act that was headed for a congressional vote that November. Many stood to lose everything if it went through and became law. So he was eliminated before the vote. It still passed, though, so what was it for really?”

  Say it out loud . . . But the words refused to come.

  He couldn’t—didn’t dare say what guilt still plagued him.

  “They were murdered.”

  Elliot didn’t say that word, as a rule.

  Never talked about himself. Not even to Connor, though many in the Bureau whispered that he was the agent whose parents had been killed for a vote to Prohibition.

  “Elliot . . .”

  The bed creaked as she moved. He felt her closeness, the touch of air that breezed by as she settled down to the floor at his feet. Even the warmth of her eyes, watching him so closely.

  Elliot reached in his pocket. He retrieved the ivory-faced lighter that had belonged to his father, turning it over to catch the light so she could see it glint. “By the time I returned home from war, the funeral was long over and everything about life had changed. I’d always planned to go into politics like my father. But nothing made a difference for my parents. I wasn’t there to protect them, and now they’re gone.”

  Elliot allowed a light laugh to escape his lips, his former naivety difficult to remember.

  “How wide-eyed I was back then. Like Connor is now. I wanted to change the world, or some such nonsense. So I joined up at the fledgling Bureau and never looked back. I threw myself into work and that became my king. Problem was, I wasn’t ready. I thought I was, but I froze up during one of my first calls—a rookie called to a hostage situation between a man and his wife. I hesitated, he fired, and she died. In a blink. It was that fast . . . You don’t make a decision—or you do—and the consequences are lifelong. I suppose I’ve been working myself raw in the years since, to try and make up for it in some way—guilt-work for the innocence lost.”

  “Guilt? I understand something of that.”

  “And all the while, I still carry this light with me. Just a small flame now. A flicker of who I once was. My father always used to say that we had a duty to our fellow man, to carry light everywhere we go. He took it literally. And now I do, too, hoping it will help me remember.” He dropped the lighter back in his pocket.

  Wren returned his gaze and, heaven help him, he loved seeing her without.

  Without pretense or makeup. Without any mask.

  “It’s not nearly nonsense to want to do some good in the world, Elliot.” She paused and he let the balm of those words sink in. “We just can’t save everyone. No matter how we might want to.”

  “Yes, but I spend my days chasing rumrunners and interrogating vaudeville performers. It’s not exactly what I expected, this protecting the people thing. But you’ve done well in it, Wren. Your mother would be proud to see what you’ve become and how much you obviously care for your sister.”

  Wren wrinkled her brow, as if his words struck a hidden place that she hadn’t expected. She stared down at her hands clasped in her lap. She ran her fingertips over her palm, as if assuaging the memory of his touch with her own.

  “Our mother used to say that a hero doesn’t always have to slay a dragon to save the day.” She swept a lock of hair behind her ear in an honest gesture, then pursed her lips and looked back at him, her gaze endearing. “Sometimes he just walks through the fire alongside you, and that’s enough.”

  Time seemed to slow to a standstill between them.

  Elliot had always thought that touch was the most intimate way a man and a woman could connect. A kiss. A hand across the base of the neck or a brush of fingertips against the small of the back. But if his thundering heart gave any indication, the moment of honesty Wren had shared in that single look made the air crackle with tension, of the kind he’d never known before.

  Soft thunder rumbled against the windows, shattering the silence.

&nbs
p; Charlotte clapped her hands together. “Did you hear that? More rain.” Charlotte closed the book and held it out, her teeth just biting her bottom lip in excitement. “Jenny. Tell me a story. The one about how the hero slays the dragon and wins the princess’s heart! It’s my favorite.”

  Wren took the book and thumbed through pages to the middle, then began telling the story of a red dragon and a fierce hero with a sword, as if from memory. It was a beautiful thing to witness, how Wren became Jenny Charles for a time, how she could fall into storytelling and forget anyone else was there watching.

  It made him smile when she produced a paper bird for Charlotte, seemingly out of an empty hand. She flipped her wrist over and a small folded creation appeared in her fingertips—snowy white and perfect, with little wings and a perky notch to its head.

  Her sister clapped in awe, then held it out to show off to him. “My sister makes things out of nothing. See? This is our own little bird. A wren. We used to have one outside our window. With a great tree and a balcony off our tower room. But we don’t hit, do we, Jenny? We never hit or push.”

  “That’s right, Charlotte. A hero never causes hurt; she only lessens it.”

  “And if I promise never to push again, can we go home? I don’t like it here as much as my room at our house. They won’t let me eat raspberry tea biscuits in between meals like you do.”

  Wren smiled—a maternal glow taking over her face. “Yes, darling. We’ll go home soon. Together.”

  As rain pattered the asylum windows and Charlotte delighted over the story of heroes and dragons, Elliot realized that Wren may be skilled as an illusionist, but she still created her own magic. And this kind wasn’t on a stage in front of hundreds of admirers. It was soft and quiet, in hushed moments talking of fairies and wrens and all manner of whimsical things.

  She could make beauty grow out of nothing.

  Flowers out of crystal vases and tiny paper birds out of ash in the palm of her hand. And even in him. Elliot hadn’t realized until that moment how deeply his affection had grown for her. How it had awakened from a scarred nothing. And no matter what was poised to happen with Horace Stapleton’s case, everything had changed.

  No way could he walk away from her now.

  CHAPTER 19

  MARCH 5, 1927

  BEACON HILL

  BOSTON, MASS.

  Rain dotted and dripped down walls of leaded glass.

  The indoor conservatory greeted Elliot with cathedral vaults of brick and stone, and a glass roof that echoed the sounds of an almost-spring storm. The space was hushed but alive with new growth, with Wren’s hallmark roses and peonies filling every corner with color and the high ceilings with fragrance. Tiny birds flitted about the rafters, chirping as they mingled with little leaves and the gangly limbs of small potted trees.

  Irina had shown Elliot to the downstairs library as usual, but the shut-up door in the library’s corner had been left ajar, almost as if he’d been expected. Even welcomed to step inside. He’d turned the corner, taken aback by the enchantment of the glass house first, then by the true understanding of where he stood. And all of a sudden the news he’d brought of the case meant very little in comparison.

  And his breath was stolen away.

  Wren knelt on the ground, digging in the soil of one of the beds.

  Not knowing he was there, she hummed something—a soft, slow song in harmony with the birds, beautiful and perfect in the charmed garden hideaway. Her flaming hair was loose to her shoulders, in soft waves that moved when she did, framing the delicate lines of her face.

  He stood still. Thoughts tangled. Words hopelessly escaped him. Coat dripped from the rain in a miserable puddle at his feet.

  For a reason Elliot couldn’t know, she looked up. With her gloved hands still buried in earth to the wrist, she turned golden eyes and freckles and her unmasked face toward him. As if she’d felt his eyes had settled upon her.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you . . . But I had to share something that couldn’t wait. And the door was open.”

  Wren rocked back on her heels, sitting up.

  “I know it was.” She pursed her lips. “I asked Irina to leave it that way from now on. Just in case. So you could walk through the library the next time, and if you want, every time after that.”

  “How could I have missed something like this?” He shook his head. “I didn’t know it was here. The brick wall and the trees outside cover it completely.”

  “You’re not supposed to know. No one is. It’s one of the reasons I chose this estate house—because it could give me solace in a place no one would even know existed. Here, we’re safe.”

  “But it’s connected to the library. You keep your treasure that close to where every guest is put when they come into this house?”

  “Few people come to this house, Elliot.” She nodded, a smile easing over her lips. “But it’s an old trick of the trade: secrets are best hidden in plain sight. Every illusionist worth their salt knows that.”

  The rain continued its dance, dotting the walls with the longing of a spring song around them. She glanced at the teary glass. “You got caught in some rain, I see.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes. It’s raining just as much as it has all week. Who knows when it will stop.”

  It seemed appropriate to remove his hat so he did, then turned it in his hands. He hadn’t the slightest clue what to say. How to act. Even how to approach her.

  Wren removed her gloves and brushed any bits of soil from her palms to the apron that covered her blouse and trousers. She paused, as if wavering over some thought, then inhaled and left the gloves on a glass tabletop nearby. Then, with marked intention, she stopped in the center of the room.

  They were untangling a web of deception and death in Stapleton’s case. Now wasn’t the time to form an attachment. But all was forgotten, somehow pushed out in the rush of just seeing her again.

  It had been too many long days since he’d brought her home from the visit with Charlotte. They’d barely spoken on the drive back to Beacon Hill. And he’d fallen into work for days thereafter, trying to avoid thoughts of her since. Trying to reconcile that their worlds were too different. His was based on justice. And hers, no matter how willing to change, was still too dark to ever welcome him fully.

  If Stapleton went to trial, she’d be called as a potential witness. And if he was convicted, Wren’s connection to the world of magic would no doubt ensure a black mark was placed upon her. If that happened, he knew what came next: she’d run.

  She’d turn back, drawing within, locking all the doors in her life. Pulling away from the world.

  Pulling away from him.

  Was he really poised to fall for someone who was a breath away from running at all times?

  Wren brushed a lock of hair back from her brow, eyes searching his face. “Well, what did you think?” Vulnerable and sweet, she added, “That the door would remain closed forever?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t know it opened to anything like this.”

  “Yes, well.” She looked off into the distance. “The Castleton closed this week. Did I tell you that?”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  “It was our family’s old theater. I know it’s right—the building should have been condemned ages ago. But I suppose I just wasn’t ready to say good-bye . . .” She traced her finger along the edge of the tabletop. “I am now. And I think it’s because of you. I couldn’t shut you out any longer. Not after you met Charlotte. She’s all of me, you see: a mixture of the old Jenny and the new Wren. I want to tell you the truth of who I am. If you’re here to listen.”

  To get further involved was irresponsible, wasn’t it?

  Standing so close to her—even from across the glass room—he wasn’t sure anymore.

  “Wren, I . . .”

  Elliot saw how futile it was then, and his mind lost out.

  If she was going to run, so be it. But it was going to be straight into his arms. />
  He dropped his hat and allowed the leather briefcase strap to slip from his shoulder and slam against the brick floor beneath them.

  Any hesitation faded and he charged forward. Giving in. Arms enfolding. Heart slamming and will crumbling, and kissed her. With every single breath he could possibly lay claim to.

  Wren melted in his arms, without breathing, it seemed. She threaded her fingers through the hair at his nape and held on like the world was about to collapse around them, fragile as the glass walls standing up against a storm.

  After so many days without her smile, to see it again had him forget anything but her. The fragrance of flowers clinging to her hair . . . the sweet taste of her lips . . . the hint of tomorrow all around them. And while it nearly killed him, he finally broke away for air, staring back, forehead grazing hers. Searching the freckled and lovely face that looked on him.

  She was Wren Lockhart—the woman ardently against any form of entanglement. But wasn’t she also Jenny, the woman whose entire world was entangled with his at the moment? The one who read fairy stories to her sister, treating her with gentle hands and honeyed words? The illusionist who talked of beauty and worth from a humble stage? The woman whose air was of mystery, unless she chose to open her world and heart to someone else—like she’d done with him?

  It seemed a certainty that falling for her could end badly for both of them.

  Elliot edged back, trying desperately to save himself.

  It wasn’t the Wren everyone knew that he was in danger of now. It was the woman behind the mask that held him captive, the one with the past and the unconventionality that softened, it seemed, only for him.

  The one who had the power to destroy any fresh stirring of life in him now.

  I’m sorry were the first unfortunate and half-witted words to come to mind. And he’d actually let them slip from his lips.

  “Don’t be sorry. I told you—I left the door open. I wanted you to walk through it.” She leaned up on the tips of her toes again, her lips inches away, not fazed by his doltish reply in the least. Her fingertips slid down, winding under the lapels of his coat. Her eyes continued searching his face.