by Teri Brown
“You need to rest,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “How can I rest after what happened to Pratik? For all we know, Jonathon could be hurt, or worse.”
I am silent for a moment and then ask hesitantly, “Harrison said that the authorities had discovered certain things . . .”
Cole is quiet, and I can tell he’s struggling because he really doesn’t want to tell me. Exasperation ripples up and down my spine. Of all the useless, old-world . . .
He looks down at me and I know he feels my impatience. “Pratik died of exsanguination.”
I shiver, even though I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What does that mean in English, please?”
“Bloodletting. It means he bled to death. His wrists were cut.”
I press my lips together to hold back a moan.
“Other things were done.” He swallows and looks away. “Things that no one would have done to themselves.”
I shudder, remembering the sunken, sallow tone of Pratik’s skin.
Pressing my face against the wool lapels of Cole’s peacoat, I take in the warm, piney clean scent of him. I close my eyes, wishing that we were someplace far away where no trouble could find us. He kisses the top of my head and I know he wishes the same thing. It’s the closest I’ve felt to him since he kissed me in the motorcar. My stomach churns. After we dropped off Pratik.
Sighing, I tilt my head back. “Were you and Jonathon friends?”
“Yes. We weren’t really close, though. He was in his late twenties, and like many Sensitives found later in life, he was very private. But he was a nice enough fellow.” He leans his head back against the seat. “He wandered a lot. When he disappeared, no one thought anything about it. But now . . .”
My mind races. “You don’t think he’s been held prisoner all this time, do you?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.”
Neither one of us say it but we are both thinking of Pratik.
He picks up my hand and the warm connection we’ve always had is made. My chest pangs as I realize that I’ve felt our bond far too seldom since I arrived in England. Through his fingertips I sense the worry that consumes him. We sit in silence until he turns, his body angled away from mine.
“What’s going on?” he asks quietly. “You seem different.”
I seem different? Irritation brushes across my skin like stinging nettles and I snatch my hand away. “Why don’t we go over recent events to see why I might seem a bit different?” I try to keep my voice mild, but the edginess I feel emerges. “The Society I came here to join is in shambles because of bickering and infighting. A fellow Sensitive disappears and another one is found brutally murdered. I’m working the kinks out in a new routine and going on tour by myself for the very first time. And my boyfriend doesn’t even notice when I collapse in front of him!”
“What do you mean, I didn’t notice? I caught you before you fell.”
“It took you long enough.” I don’t want to mention that he didn’t notice because he was too busy talking to Calypso because I don’t want to alert him that he may be attracted to her. Or that I’m being petty and jealous of someone I genuinely like because she happens to be beautiful.
Cole’s jaw tightens. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we were in the middle of a rather important meeting, discussing the safety of people I care about. I’m sorry I wasn’t completely focusing on you.”
Stung by the harshness of his tone, I stand. “I didn’t expect you to focus on me, but you could have at least noticed I was ill.”
He stands as well, and faces me. The air between us snaps with hostility and exhaustion. “How was I supposed to know? You didn’t say anything!”
When did this get so out of hand? I should stop this; I know I should. We’re both too tired to be having this conversation, but I can’t seem to stop the words issuing from my mouth. “You used to know when something was wrong with me. Maybe you should stop getting distracted by other . . . things.”
His mouth drops. “I’m sorry I was distracted by someone’s death. What is going on, Anna? This isn’t like you at all.”
Everything tangles up inside me. I want him to tell me how he feels about me. I want to be sure of his feelings for me. And I’m angry at my selfishness that I’m even thinking about this right now.
The woman at the front desk clears her throat and I know we have an audience. I close my eyes for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“If you don’t know, perhaps you should have waited to say something until you did.” He nods stiffly and moves to walk out the door.
I catch his sleeve. “Don’t go like this,” I tell him. “I’m leaving in the morning. I’m sorry. I’m just . . .” I pause trying to find a way to tell him that I’m confused, scared, miserable, but nothing comes to me. “I’m just tired,” I finish.
My lame excuse sits there for a moment and he chooses to accept it. “I am, too. And with everything that has happened—it’s no wonder we’re both on edge.” He holds out his arms and I move into them, not caring if the clerk is watching the whole scene.
This is Cole, I remind myself. My Cole. I slip my hands beneath his peacoat and feel the warmth and strength of his body. He rests his cheek against the top of my head and I feel my confusion and anger slipping away. This. This is what I needed. When he holds me like this, I know how he feels about me.
But I need to hear it too. Why can’t he say it?
I close my eyes and luxuriate in our closeness for a moment before he moves to lift my chin.
My eyes meet his. They’re dark and velvety and oh, so warm, but traces of regret linger in their depths. “I’m sorry we fought on your last night here. You’ll be with the troupe, I know, but please don’t go off by yourself, all right? We don’t know who’s behind the murder and Jonathon’s disappearance and if it is Dr. Boyle . . . well, you’ve already been at his mercy once. Just be careful.”
I nod. I know exactly how dangerous Dr. Boyle can be. “You too. Watch your back. Do you carry a weapon?”
He shakes his head.
“You should at least carry a knife.”
He smiles. “I would have no idea how to use it. That’s what I have you for.”
“But we won’t be together.”
His smile fades. “No.” His arms tightens around me and he suddenly reaches down and kisses me hard on the mouth. After a split second of surprise, I kiss him back, trying to let him know how I feel. Cole isn’t demonstrative, he’s far too reserved for that, but sometimes it’s as if the dam breaks and he can’t help himself. He pulls me up off my feet against the length of his body so we are more on level. The feel of his lips against mine makes my head spin and it’s so warm and thrilling that I almost cry out when he breaks away.
We stare at one another while my elevated pulse slows. He places me gently on my feet and then bends down, his mouth against my ear. I wait trembling, for him to tell me that he loves me.
“Au revoir, Anna. Please take care.”
My heart dips in disappointment. “You, too,” I manage.
And then he’s gone, leaving my heart in turmoil.
Eight
The troupe leaves London early the next morning in a fog that makes it impossible to see more than a few feet outside the train window. The plan is to go from London to Dover by train, cross the English Channel to Calais by ferry, and then start the long train ride through Germany and Austria and into Hungary and Budapest. The management of the show, in all their penny-pinching wisdom, didn’t provide private sleeping cars for us, so we’ll be sitting upright for over eight hundred miles.
As the ferry makes its painstaking way out of the harbor, we head inside to sit in the relative warmth of the observation salon. Sally and Sandy lean against one another and close their eyes, the veterans of countless European tours. The three Woodruff brothers carry their instruments with them at all times, preferring inconvenience over risking their livelihood. Billy sits with Jeanne, Louie, and several of
the others.
He’s been avoiding me since the party. Well, not avoiding me exactly. He’s been friendly when we run into one another, but he hasn’t sought me out. Which is good, I tell myself firmly, ignoring the fluttering disappointment around my heart whenever he’s nearby.
The flags outside whip in the wind as we hit open water and the rocking sends more than one troupe member scurrying to the bathroom. I sit at a table and take out a pencil and my stationery, planning to catch up on my correspondence.
The first letter is to my mother, who will be leaving on her own travels in the next couple of weeks. I want my note to reach her before she departs so she won’t feel it necessary to track me down right away when she arrives in Europe.
Dear Mother,
I’m sitting on the observation deck of the ferry, but the fog is too thick to see the famed White Cliffs of Dover. Perhaps I shall view them on our return trip. We should be in Budapest within three days as long as everything goes according to schedule. How strange that I’ll be traveling through the country you left so many years ago. Do you think we still have family in Hungary? Not that I’ll have time for anything but the show. After a week in Budapest, we head to Prague for five shows and then on to Warsaw for several more. I think Louie has a few other stops in the works, but I haven’t looked at the final schedule yet.
Rehearsals have gone well.
I chew on my pencil wondering what else I can write that will keep her at bay for as long as possible.
We have another trip sometime after this one to Paris and then we play London in the spring. It’s going to be frantically busy, I’m sure.
Hope you and Jacques are doing well and business is thriving. Cole sends his regards.
Love,
Anna
There. That should do it. I put the letter in the envelope and address it.
Cynthia’s letter is much more fun to write.
Dear Cyn,
I’m on my way to Calais and thinking of your love for French pastries and French accents. It’s hard to believe that in three days I’ll be performing in my own show! Have I told you about the other performers? You would simply love Bronco Billy . . .
I write three more pages and then sign off with an entreaty for her to come visit and see the show personally. I wonder what Cynthia would make of Calypso. Probably mincemeat if Calypso so much as looked at her husband. With her mobster background, Cyn doesn’t mess around much.
My note to Cole is short and to the point.
Dear Cole,
I miss you.
Stay safe.
Love, Anna.
There’s not much else to say. My own feelings are so entangled, I can hardly sort them out myself, let alone explain them to him. Perhaps it’s for the best that I’m getting away right now. This way Cole can concentrate on solving Pratik’s murder and finding Jonathon without worrying about my safety, and I can focus on the show instead of wondering about Cole’s feelings.
“May I join you?”
I glance up to see Jeanne Hart’s lovely green eyes smiling down at me. I nod and pack my stationery back in the box.
The older woman sits down and turns to me, her face alight with curiosity. “Are you writing to that nice young man who comes to the theater to watch you?”
“Yes. I owed my mother a letter too.”
“Oh yes, don’t forget your mother. Especially if she’s anything like mine.” Jeanne smiles. “Is this your first tour?”
I nod. “It’s my first solo show, but I’ve been performing since I was little.”
“That explains a lot. You’re very polished for someone so young.” Jeanne glances around as if to make sure no one is listening. “Don’t repeat this, but Louie is very impressed with you. If I do decide to quit, you’ll get top billing.”
I sit back on the bench, flabbergasted. Why would anyone want to quit a tour as well run as this one? And expect me to take over at the top of the bill? “But the others are so much more experienced.”
Jeanne shakes her head. “Not really and, yes, we have some talented people on the tour, but the acts aren’t as fresh as yours. You have a quality about you. If you can relate to an audience as well as Louie thinks you’ll be able to, you’re in. Just make sure this is what you want.”
“What do you mean?”
Jeanne lifts a shoulder. “Take me, for example. I spent the last twenty years fighting and clawing my way to the top of the game only to fall in love with a two-bit manager. Oh, Louie is wonderful and talented, but there’s no place left to go. No matter what Louie says, picture shows aren’t just a fad, and they’re cutting into our business. Pretty soon there won’t be a circuit left to perform on.”
I straighten, thinking of all the people I know who depend on vaudeville for a living.
“Oh, don’t worry, honey. It has a few good years left, and someone with your talent is always going to be able to find jobs, but make sure it’s what you want.”
“It is,” I tell her, ignoring the little seed of doubt inside me. I spent my early years moving from one bad hotel to another at the mercy of poor managers, erratic schedules, and bad food. Do I really want to spend my adulthood doing the same thing?
This is different, I assure myself. This time, I’m in charge and I don’t have to worry about my mother being carted off to jail. I don’t have to worry about her unpredictable moods either.
Jeanne smiles as if she can read the struggle in my mind. “I was the same way. No more, though. I sang at the New York Metropolitan Opera House and Carnegie Hall. Now I’m headlining at the Polish Theater, which is very nice, I hear, but it’s no Carnegie Hall. Besides, I want to settle down and have babies before it’s too late. Don’t tell anyone, but this is Louie’s last tour and I don’t even know if I’m going to stay for the whole thing. I have a hankering to head home to Scranton to set up house and wait for my man. Being on the road all the time is tough on a marriage. Not many relationships are as strong as the road is hard.”
She stands and pats my hand before leaving to join her secret husband, who is talking to the Woodruffs. My stomach churns as her words reverberate in my mind.
Not many relationships are as strong as the road is hard.
Sally and Sandy rush past me as they make their way offstage. “Tough audience,” Sally mutters as he passes me.
I’m not worried. It’s much more difficult in a foreign country to sell an act that depends on language than it is an act that’s mostly visual, like mine. Even in a cosmopolitan city such as Budapest, where the number of English-speaking attendees is high, subtle double meanings are often lost.
Louie is acting as MC tonight, introducing each act. My assistant for this leg of the tour, Jan, an aspiring magician who needed a gig, is standing next to me, trembling. I hope it’s excitement and not nerves. We were only able to run through the routine twice and I pray he remembers everything. I wish my regular assistant could have come but understand her reluctance to leave her baby for so long. For luck, I’m wearing the same black velvet dress with the white pearls that I wore for my last performance in New York.
The theater is more opulent than any I have ever performed in, with frescos on the ceiling, gold leaf on the pillars, and plush carpet in the aisles. I peeked out at the audience earlier and even my exposure to New York aristocracy couldn’t have prepared me for the old-world glitter represented this evening.
My stomach twists up inside itself, and for the first time, I desperately miss my mother. What was I thinking, imagining I could do this by myself? Who am I kidding? Who wants to see a magician as young as I am—and a girl?
I hear my name announced as if through a tunnel and walk out onstage to polite clapping. As I face the audience, panic empties my mind. My heart thuds. What am I supposed to be doing? Out of the corner of my eye, I see my assistant with a deck of cards and everything snaps into focus.
I give the audience a curtsy, take the deck of cards, and begin to do a series of card flourishes designed
for both eye appeal and wonderment. I perform wide arcs and dazzling fans, making cards appear and disappear at will. The audience responds well, if not wildly, as I move on to the rest of the show. I note my assistant’s whereabouts with my eyes, appreciating his economy of movement. He’s basically a prop for me, and many a show has been ruined by a scene-stealing assistant.
As always, I keep in mind how my body is angled with the audience’s line of sight. Though the auditorium isn’t large, there are three balcony levels and the line of vision of the people above me is different from those seated behind the orchestra, which makes my job that much more challenging.
By the time I get to the escape-gone-wrong trick, I’m warmed up and my body is humming. The audience is appreciative, and the connection between the entertainer and the entertained is firmly established. They aren’t going crazy for me but they like me, and for a first show that’s pretty darn good.
When the iron maiden is wheeled out, the audience gasps. My assistant and I turn the box around, showing all sides before opening it up to allow them to see the cruel-looking spikes. My pulse races as it always does before doing this trick. There’s just so much that can go wrong.
“I need a member of the audience to come up and inspect the box for me. Can I get a volunteer?” Hands wave wildly in the air and I choose a young woman about my age. I rarely choose older men, who are usually so hell-bent on tripping me up they take forever to inspect the box.
The woman hurries up onstage, smiling broadly. “Have we ever met before?” The woman shakes her head. I nod at the audience. “Go ahead and inspect the iron maiden.” I wave my hand toward the box and turn back toward the audience.
“The iron maiden was a torture device used during the Dark Ages. Spies, criminals, and even unlucky lovers were placed in the box and tortured. Today, I am going to attempt to escape from the box, fully handcuffed.”
