Fearsome Magics

by Jonathan Strahan

“It’s tradition. And it’s useful.”

  “How?”

  “With it, every move I make is dramatic. From the opening curtain, the audience sees grand gestures.” He swept his arm out. “They get used to them, and don’t notice when I whisk a card off the table, or drop it into a pocket.”

  “Aren’t they watching the wand?”

  “Yes, and that’s it exactly. They watch the wand—not my other hand.”

  “Oh.” Polly thought about that for a moment. “You use it to direct their attention.”

  “Precisely. That is my job, to distract them from what I’m really—” He paused, turned, and stared into the wings.

  “What is it?” Polly followed his glance, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  He chuckled. “Nothing. Just another demonstration. I looked, so you looked. Human nature. And while you were looking—and listening to me prattle on—” he opened his hand. “Hey, Presto!”

  “That’s my watch.”

  “And that’s my skill. It took me years in front of a mirror, learning how to look at one thing and manipulate another.” He gave the watch back. “I’ve had to sack a few hands who thought this would be a cakewalk, and didn’t like the discipline.”

  Polly gulped, wondering if she was about to be scolded.

  He smiled. “Not you, my dear. You’re a trouper. Now, if you’re ready, we’ll take it from the top again.”

  THE MORNING OF the show, Polly was nervous. More nervous than she’d expected. She could walk through her part in her sleep, had actually dreamed about it twice in the last week, and felt confident that she would get through it without mishap. And everything had gone well at the last rehearsal, with Archie and Chaz and the theatre crew as an audience. But performing for a packed house? Perhaps that accounted for the butterflies in her stomach.

  She managed a piece of toast and some tea before closing herself into the parlor for a few hours with an Enid Blyton novel to keep her amused and distracted. Or so she hoped. But the fourth time she put the book down and went to check the clock, she gave in. If she was going to pace, she’d rather do it in the workroom.

  Her father had not yet come down. She left him a note on the hall table, inside his hat, where he’d be sure to see it, and set off for the theatre. On rainy days she took the tube from Goodge Street to Leicester Square, but this particular morning was warm and sunny, not a cloud in the sky, and a walk might burn off some of the fidgets.

  Polly strolled past the British Museum, threading her way through the throngs of tourists, then down Shaftesbury Avenue, stopping to look in shop windows along the way. With the fresh air, her appetite returned, and she bought a cream bun at a bakery, wiping the last crumbs off her blouse when she reached the stage door. As usual, Alf tipped his cap when he saw her.

  “Will you be leaving again, miss?”

  “I don’t think so. Archie’s bringing supper. Why?”

  “I need to pop over to the chemists and pick up a tincture for the wife. Won’t be gone long, but—”

  “It’s all right, Alf. I’ll hold down the fort.”

  “Thanks, miss.” He held the door open for her.

  As she expected, the theater was dark, just the ghost light that was always left on, center stage. She flipped the switch next to the basement stairs and went to the workroom.

  The black-painted ball sat on her table. She turned on a lamp that illuminated the surface, but left the rest of the room in shadow, and touched a finger to the paint. Dry. She grinned to herself. Time for a test. She looked around for a suitable object, one that would allow her to strike a blow but not be too close, just in case. A brass rod the diameter of a cigarette and nearly a meter long fit the bill perfectly. Polly hoped her experiment wouldn’t render it useless for its actual purpose, whatever that was.

  She settled the ball into a toweling nest so that it wouldn’t bounce or roll, and stepped back until the edge of the rod was just above the sphere. “One. Two.” She took a deep breath and raised the rod a foot in the air. “Three!”

  BANG!

  She jumped, her ears ringing, as the rod jerked and clattered to the floor.

  It worked! Polly capered around the workroom in a most unscientific way, shaking out her stinging hand, all of the morning’s nerves gone. She had done it! She could hardly wait to show her father.

  When her adrenaline had settled to a more normal level, Polly picked up her log book and recorded the results. She retrieved the rod, inspecting it for damage: just a small black smudge where contact had been made. And the ball? She tilted the lamp and looked closely. Except for one star-shaped grayish spot, it also appeared unchanged. She jotted down these findings, returned the rod to Archie’s workbench, then, thirsty from her exertions, polished off the last of a rather flat lemon squash from the night before.

  Her watch showed a little after noon. It would be hours before Archie or her father arrived. She pulled a book from the shelf and settled into the armchair to wait. She was deep into an account of Robert-Houdin using magic to avert a war when she heard a man shouting upstairs.

  What was going on—?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet overhead and her father’s loud stage voice: “Get away from that!”

  Bits of dust fell from the ceiling as two men pounded across the stage.

  Polly leaped out of her chair.

  “Sack me, will you?” The unknown man was shouting. “Now you’ll pay, Wardlow!”

  “You’re mad, Jim.” Her father. “I’m going to—”

  In a terrifying echo of the act, she heard a shot, and her father cried out.

  Polly stood motionless, in shock. But a moment later, from the stage floor, she heard their signal: two sharp raps.

  After a month of rehearsals, her response was swift and automatic. The lift. Draw attention. Misdirection. She looked around for a suitable prop, or a weapon. Nothing.

  Except the black ball.

  She scooped it up, thought for a fraction of a second, then grabbed another, unpainted ball as back-up. She slid them into the pockets of her trousers, then climbed onto the disc-topped lift. She knelt, stretching an arm out to the control lever, and flipped it with her fingertips.

  The disc began to rise silently. Polly straightened up, tucked her arms against her sides, and counted. One... two...

  At three she reached up to slide the panel of the drinks cabinet open, and tucked herself into its interior. One of the doors was ajar. Across the stage she could see her father, lying on the floor, holding his arm. A bearded man with a gun stood over him.

  Then Polly Wardlow took control of the stage.

  She eased the black ball out of her pocket, cradling it in her right hand, and took a deep breath.

  “Hey, Presto!”

  She sidearmed the ball toward the back of the theater.

  It bounced over the boards, and with each impact, a sound like a shot rang out: BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  The man jumped away, looking about wildly.

  Polly rolled out of the cabinet and onto her feet. With the speed and skill she’d learned at Giles Hall, she threw the second wooden ball, aiming at his knee as if it were the stumps on the cricket pitch.

  The ball hit with a resounding crack and the man fell with a thin scream.

  Her father reacted swiftly, reaching out with his good arm to retrieve the gun, and got to his feet. He stood over the other man, the barrel pointed at his middle.

  Without taking his eyes off the man, he said, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Polly saw that her hands were shaking and put them in her pockets. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “My left arm—could use some—attention,” he said, his words coming out in small gasps.

  “I’ll call for a doctor.” She pointed to the man. “Who is he?”

  “Jim Finney. He used to work for me.” He shifted his arm and grimaced. “You might telephone the police as well.”

  “Right-
o.” She turned toward the hallway, but stopped when he called her name.

  “Yes?”

  “That was a brilliant entrance, darling. Right on cue.”

  ARCHIE ARRIVED JUST after the police. He and Polly stood outside the stage door with Alf. They watched as the bearded man was loaded onto a stretcher and handcuffed to the rails.

  “It’s all my fault,” Alf said, wringing his cap in his hands.

  “Not entirely,” Archie said. “Finney’s been hounding Hugh for the last month, threatening to shut down the show. If he hadn’t gotten in, he would have tried again tonight and who knows how many might have been hurt.”

  “With a full house, it could have been much worse,” Polly nodded. She turned to Archie. “What did he do, when he worked here?”

  “Nothing well. Thought he was the gods’ own gift to magic, but he couldn’t even manage a proper sleight. Bumbled any number of set-ups before he was sacked. I thought we’d seen the end of him.”

  “Sounds like a nutter.”

  “Through and through.” He shook his head. “But he was no match for you, I hear. I gather your magic paint worked?”

  “Like a charm.” She grinned. “More like a whizz-bang, actually.”

  “You’re a right wizard, Polly. And I want the whole story, soup to nuts. But now I have shows to cancel and meetings with the press—and you need to go and see how Himself is getting along.”

  Polly found her father sitting on a cot backstage, his left arm in a sling, bandaged from elbow to shoulder, his eyes closed. The doctor beside him looked up when he heard her footsteps.

  “So you’re the young heroine,” he said. “Quick thinking.” He handed her a bottle of pills. “I gave him a shot for the pain, but he’ll be wanting two of these before bedtime.”

  “Is he going to be all right?”

  “In a few weeks. It went through muscle, not bone, nothing broken.”

  “Will he still be able to—?” she gestured at the stage.

  “I expect a full recovery. He’ll be a little stiff for a while, but there’s no need to worry.” He patted her on the arm. “No need at all.” He shut his black bag. “Do you want me to call a taxi for you?”

  “No, thank you. I can manage.”

  When the doctor had gone, Polly sat beside the cot. She leaned over and kissed her father’s cheek. His eyes fluttered open. “Polly.”

  “I’m here, Dad.”

  “You were very brave.”

  She looked away for a moment, her face reddening. “I mightn’t have moved if I hadn’t heard my cue.”

  “But you did. Although I must say I was expecting a diversion, not a cavalry charge.” He took a breath and stood, swaying only slightly. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

  She took his good arm and they walked slowly across the stage. “Hold up a tick,” Polly said. She leaned over and retrieved the black ball, its surface now mottled with gray stars. She slipped it into her pocket.

  “You’re going to tell me all about that?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I suspect you’ll find it rather interesting.”

  “Exploding paint?”

  She nodded.

  “Genius!”

  Polly smiled. “I’m a Wardlow. It’s what we do.”

  THE CHANGELING

  JAMES BRADLEY

  HANNAH IS NOT certain what wakes her: not a sound, she thinks, more a sense someone or something has passed through the room.

  For a space of seconds she ’t move, just lies, listening. Outside it is dark, silent save for the sound of the stream. She can smell woodsmoke, the sweet scent of the thyme over the fire; next to her in his cradle Connor sleeps, his breath slow and shallow. Somewhere in the distance an owl cries out.

  Rising she crosses to the door, the shock of the cold making her gasp as she opens it. The moon high overhead, darkness pooling in the runnels of the grass beneath the trees. Although it is still she cannot shake the feeling she is not alone, that a presence hovers nearby. After a moment a fox emerges from the blackberries by the stream, its lean shape separating from their shadow to jog quickly through the moonlight; as it disappears again she turns inside, only to notice the horseshoe that usually hangs over the doorway lying in the dark by her feet. Kneeling she picks it up, and places it on the table before she lies down and draws the blanket around her shoulders.

  When she wakes again it is already light, the sound of the birds outside loud. Sitting up she is surprised to see Connor is already awake, his eyes focused on the roof overhead. For a few seconds she watches him, wondering how long he has been lying there like that, something in the way he stares suddenly striking her as peculiar. As she reaches for him he flinches, his body stiffening, but as he finds her breast he relaxes, Hannah closing her eyes as the pressure of his mouth opens her inside, the feeling blunt, like desire. Like grief.

  Once he is fed she dresses, then, drawing her shawl about herself, heads out into the quiet of the morning with him in her arms. Outside it is still, grey mist between the trees; down by the water the shape of a heron is visible and the quick plop of the otters as they flick and dive can be heard, but she barely notices as she hurries on, up the path toward the road.

  Now she is on her own she is not sure how she feels about living so far from the village. Brendan built the cottage when they were courting, spending his evenings cutting wood and daubing the walls. It had been his gift to her, a demonstration of his belief in their future, yet Hannah had never cared for the house; instead it had been the place she loved, its proximity to the river and the woods, the curling brambles and wildflowers. Although it was only half a mile from the village, it was possible to step off the road and disappear down the path into a secret place, one that seemed to have a life all of its own. This morning she is mostly aware of the damp branches blocking her path, the way they slap her face and wet her sleeves, so that by the time she reaches the road and begins the walk to the fields she is wet and Connor is wailing.

  Today they are harrowing, breaking the cold ground for the seed. Sometimes when they work there is merriment, laughter and singing, but not today, for it is hard, dismal work, an icy drizzle misting across them, the freezing soil turning their hands red and aching, so they work in silence, the only sound their breath, the sudden cries of the crows each time one of them rises to cast stones at them.

  With Connor’s weight against her Hannah works more slowly, meaning the others are already gathered by the fire in the field’s corner when she leaves her work and joins them for the morning meal. Ill-tempered with the work, they barely acknowledge her as she seats herself, shifts Connor’s weight so he may feed. But as she unties her bodice he suddenly pulls away and opening his mouth begins to shriek.

  It is not a sound she has heard before, not a sound any child should make. Less a cry than one continuous note, high, piercing, horrible. Startled she looks up, sees the others staring at her. Unsure what to do she tries to adjust his position, jiggling him to calm him, but nothing seems to work, until at last she stumbles to her feet and retreats across the field, away from the others.

  When at last he stops she is shaken, more shaken than she could have imagined. In the sudden silence she sits trembling, frightened to move in case he starts again. Finally she summons the courage to turn him, but as she shifts her weight he suddenly tenses and begins again, the sound louder this time, more sustained, continuing on and on and on until it seems it will never cease.

  IN THE DAYS that follow the sudden bouts of shrieking grow more frequent, Connor’s high, inhuman cry often leaving her so shaken she can barely think, barely function, so it is all she can do to draw water from the stream and gather the wool for spinning. On the fourth day it is too much, and she runs from the cottage in tears and stands in the forest with her eyes screwed shut, chanting wordlessly to herself to try to drown out the sound of his screaming.

  When she returns he is lying quietly in his crib, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but as she approaches he flinches a
way from her, as if frightened she means to touch him, and staring down at him she finds herself certain some distemper has crept into him without her noticing, something she does not know how to name or control.

  SHE WAS NINE when Brendan arrived in the village. The master had been visiting the Duke at Chatterton and when he returned Brendan was walking behind him. Later they learned there had been an accident in the Duke’s stable, that Brendan’s father had been killed, and for reasons that were never fully clear the master had offered to take him into his service.

  Brendan’s father had come from over the water, and Brendan had the dark hair and black eyes of his father’s people. Yet he was a good lad, clear and kind and open-faced, and although at first some of the men resented him they could not hate him for long.

  The first time Hannah saw him she was surprised by how tall he was, how handsome. He was leading one of the master’s bays, moving lightly as the horse danced and whinnied, his face alight. Although the horse had been expensive it had proven wild and unmanageable, refusing all riders and charging at any who approached it. But as she watched, Brendan took its halter and pressed his forehead to its face, stroking its neck and murmuring quietly until it finally grew calm.

  As Brendan grew he became more handsome, his good looks and graceful charm meaning all the girls wanted him for a sweetheart. Sometimes Hannah watched the way they fought to dance with him at the festivals, saw the generous way he accepted their hands, his habit of giving each his attention no matter whether they were pretty or not.

  Yet somehow Hannah never danced with him. Not because she didn’t care for him, but because something held her back. Occasionally she would catch him looking at her, and he would look away, but not before he had smiled.

  Then when she was fifteen there came an afternoon when she was out on the road and she heard a horse behind her. Turning she saw it was the bay, Brendan astride it. Reining it in he stopped beside her.

  “Hannah Wilkes,” he said. “I had not thought to see you out here.”