Born of Deception

by Teri Brown

We follow her into the sitting room and she asks me if I want any refreshments. “Actually, I could use a brandy if you have it.”

  Cole stiffens next to me, disapproval turning his mouth downward. I don’t care.

  Arching a brow, Leandra brings me a drink and I sip it, allowing the warmth to fill my chest. I take a deep breath. “Did Cole tell you about Calypso getting attacked yesterday?”

  Leandra listens intently as I tell her about Calypso staying with me and about my near collapse. When I finish, she pours another brandy and moves to stand in front of the fire.

  Harrison comes into the room and gives Leandra a kiss on the cheek, his love for her evident in his eyes. My stomach knots. I wish Cole and I could be that easily affectionate.

  Leandra pours another drink and hands it to Harrison.

  “Do I look like an orphan?” Cole asks. “I’ve had a terrible day and need something to wash it down with.”

  “I thought you disapproved of drinking,” I flash.

  He looks down at the glass Leandra poured him. “Good God, where would you get that idea?”

  From the look on your face when I asked for a drink, I want to tell him, but I hold my tongue. Tonight his disapproval is just universal.

  Leandra fills Harrison in while Cole and I sip our drinks. I’m very aware of the fact that we’re standing across the room from one another and I regret it, but I’m still too angry to make an overture of reconciliation and he either doesn’t want to or doesn’t know that he’s supposed to.

  “Speaking of information, did you get the list of people who are experts in the occult?” Cole asks. I drag my attention back to the conversation.

  Harrison nods. “As we suspected, there were the usual—university professors, spiritualists, et cetera—but several are very interesting.”

  “Let me guess. Harry Price is one of them,” Leandra says.

  “Of course. Mr. Casperson is on it, as well.”

  “Really?” Cole’s voice goes up in surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought he was interested in that sort of thing.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “Anyone interested in talking to the dead and other psychical phenomena would probably have at least a passing interest.”

  Harrison’s snorts. “Well, his is more than a passing interest. He has studied extensively with one of the top occultists of our time—who, incidentally, is back in the country.”

  “Who’s that?’

  “Aleister Crowley.”

  A chill prickles the hair on my arms. Mr. Casperson studied with the man the newspapers call the wickedest man in the world? I thought about how Casperson looked the last time I saw him at the séance. Sick. Nervous. Scared. Could he be the mole? Could he have killed Pratik?

  I look at Cole and see he’s thinking along these same lines.

  “Do you think Mr. Casperson could have had something to do with Pratik’s death?” he asks Harrison.

  “It’s difficult to tell, but we need to keep a closer eye on him. I know Scotland Yard will be questioning most of the people on this list. I’ll make sure I am there when they get to Mr. Casperson.” He glances over at me. “My friend also told me how to destroy the poppet without hurting Anna. He’s going to help me do it tomorrow.”

  “How?” I ask. The whole idea of someone creating a likeness of me to inflict harm terrifies me.

  “We have to slowly warm it with our hands until the features become unrecognizable. Apparently, my friend is going to be casting some sort of protective spell over you, as well.”

  My heart stutters. “I don’t have to be there, do I?”

  Harrison shakes his head.

  “Good, because I’m leaving for France the day after tomorrow.” I don’t say it out loud, but considering that I am still having episodes, it’s a very real possibility that whoever made the poppet has made another one, or worse.

  Cole moves over to where I’m standing and takes my hand. His regret and love come through loud and clear and it occurs to me how lucky I am to have him in my life. In spite of the arguments we seem to keep having, our connection is still so strong. I wonder if I could fall in love with someone I didn’t have a psychic connection with.

  Leandra pours another round of brandy for everyone. “You’re doing the Paris shows, right?”

  “Just three days.”

  She nods. “Good luck.”

  I wince. The words seem inane after the topic we were just discussing and once again, I feel a strange disconnect between my life as a Sensitive and my life as a magician.

  Is a normal life even possible? And more important, is it possible with Cole?

  The question haunts me until it’s time for the troupe to leave for Paris. As I had expected, the doctor found nothing wrong with me, my mother found everything wrong with me, and Cole stuck close by. It was a relief to see my mother go so I could spend the afternoon with Cole. She seemed oddly reluctant to leave me and was only partly mollified that I would be seeing her shortly. As if in accord, Cole and I spoke of nothing negative and, as if sorry he hadn’t taken me anywhere for the past few weeks, he showed me the National Gallery then we found an old bookstore where we poked around for hours. It was probably the best time we’ve had together since I came to London. The thought saddens me even though I’m relieved we were able to reconnect before my trip to France.

  The weather holds bright and clear as the troupe once again crosses the Channel to Calais but instead of heading east this time, we climb aboard a train headed south toward Paris. It’s funny to think that Mother and Jacques made this same journey yesterday. Of course, they were in the first-class carriage, while we’re riding in second class, but they too must have seen the countryside gripped in that magical moment between winter and spring. It’s the kind of weather that makes you think of bicycles and picnics that start out under soft blue skies and end in downpours.

  Those of us in the troupe who’ve never been to France are riveted to the windows as our train meanders past medieval castles, soaring cathedrals, and charming stone cottages. It’s about four hours to Paris by train, and they slip by slowly as we travel through the small cities and towns with delectable names that roll off the tongue like Auchel, Amiens, and Beauvais. I’m so mesmerized by the passing scenery that I don’t notice that Billy has taken the seat next to me until he asks, “Are you feeling better today?”

  I do, however, notice his voice, stiff and somewhat cold. I raise an eyebrow. “I feel much better, thank you.”

  “Did you get some rest the other night after I left you at the hotel?”

  His tone is leading and I nod again, puzzled by his behavior. “Actually, I packed first, but then I lay down. I’m fine now.”

  There’s a moment of silence before he huffs, clearly irritated.

  “What?” I ask, exasperated.

  “I saw you going out with your friend after you told me you were too tired to go to supper with me.”

  My face flames as the memory comes rushing back. I had lied to him and now I was caught in it.

  “Are you his girlfriend? Is that why you gave me the gate, claiming to be exhausted, and then ran out with him?”

  A thought pops into my head so forcefully it almost hurts. He’s jealous. He saw me with Cole and he’s jealous.

  A little seed of pleasure sprouts in my chest.

  What kind of person am I? What kind of girl moons over one fellow and then is almost giddy when she discovers another one is jealous over her?

  The kind of girl who doesn’t know what she wants, clearly.

  I realize he’s waiting for an answer, but I’m not sure what to say.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot I had an appointment with him,” is all I can think of.

  “An appointment or a date?”

  “We were meeting friends for supper.”

  Billy is silent for a moment, then says, “Anna . . . don’t you know . . .” His voice is low, urgent, and I brace myself. Longing is coming off him in waves.

  “Anna, Louie wan
ts me to tell you he needs to talk to you before we check into the hotel.”

  I glance up at Jeanne, grateful for the interruption. Whatever Billy had to say, it was sure to muddle things even further.

  I turn back to the window. “Oh, look! Paris!”

  Everyone is distracted as we chug into the City of Light. Whatever it was Billy wanted to tell me, the moment has passed.

  As excited as I am to see Paris, I’m relieved when the train rolls into Gare du Nord. There’s the usual flurry of activity as we disembark, but we’re getting better at it now. I immediately head back to the baggage car to watch my magic props being unloaded. The last thing I want is my iron maiden to be shattered because of some careless railway worker. I extract a franc from my pocketbook and tip the porter, indicating my things. He nods, a wide smile on his face. Some call it bribery; I prefer to think of it as insurance money well spent.

  As I place my pocketbook into my handbag, my hand brushes against something cold and I pull out the medallion. It had completely slipped my mind and I resolve to try to steal some time in Paris to find out what the symbols on the back mean.

  I spot Louie, yelling orders and waving his arms around, his ever-present cigar bobbing in his mouth. Once I collect my suitcases, I lug them over to him and wait for him to finish yelling at one of the stagehands.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” I ask once I can get a word in.

  He nods. “Yeah, doll. I wanted to let you know I changed the lineup. You’ve got the top spot. Don’t let me down.”

  I stand on the platform, with all the noise of one of the busiest train stations in the world, and everything fades as Louie’s words sink in. “But why? How?” I know my shows have been successful, but I’m green compared to some of the other members.

  He shrugs. “I admit, I was pretty skeptical when Martin Beck insisted I take you on. But then I watched you perform and thought to myself, Self, she’s a pretty good little magician and she has that magic—no pun intended—thing that top performers have. And she’s pretty to boot. So I took you on. You’ve been nothing but professional and haven’t given me a moment’s worry, unlike some of them.” He glares over at Jeanne, who is collecting her things, then continues. “Turns out, Mr. Beck and one of his friends were at the Budapest show and were quite impressed with you. They met me in London and while I was discussing the Jeanne situation with them, his friend suggested I put you in the top spot. Seemed real interested in your career. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m in charge of the show, but I was thinking about giving you top billing anyway. Now guess who that friend was?”

  I shake my head, baffled. Why would a friend of Mr. Beck be so interested in me?

  “None other than Harry Houdini himself, missy. You could have knocked me over with a feather when he showed up.”

  My skin goes cold and hot all at the same time. Harry Houdini was in London? He came to Budapest to watch my first performance? Louie’s shrewd eyes are watching me closely, so I swallow and give him a wan smile. “I’m incredibly flattered and honored. I won’t let you down.”

  I don’t mention Houdini because I don’t know what to say. That he may or may not be my father? Either Louie has heard the rumors or not. I learned a long time ago that mentioning the gossip simply lends it validity.

  “See that you don’t.” He turns away, his quick mind already leaping to one of the many problems he faces every time the troupe travels.

  Jeanne saunters up to me, her movements languid and somehow triumphant. She’s looking especially beautiful today, her white skin glowing almost translucent and her short red hair a sleek punctuation mark. “Did Louie share the good news?”

  I nodded. “I can’t believe he’s giving me top billing.”

  Her laugh rings out, pure and vivacious, and people stop what they’re doing to watch her for a moment. “Not that good news, silly. Our good news!”

  I must look confused because she laughs again. “We’re going to have a baby!” Her eyes gleam with happiness and for a moment I’m envious. What must it be like to be so sure of something? I’m hopelessly in love with one young man and attracted to another one.

  “Congratulations,” I tell her. She looks like a woman who has everything she has ever wanted.

  The entertainers take cars to the hotel while the stagehands will follow our props to the theater before getting to do anything else. We’ll have a dress rehearsal this evening and will open tomorrow night. Even though our schedule for the next four days is grueling—we’ll be doing three shows a day—I’m determined to sneak off to a library at some point to find out what the symbols on the medallion are. If only to make up for the fact that I may have had an important clue sitting in my purse for the last couple of days and neglected to tell anyone about it.

  But I also have to be in good form for my performances. I’ll be the top bill unless I can’t cut it. Louie would have no qualms about bumping me back down the roster—Houdini or no Houdini.

  My mother and Jacques are waiting for me when we get to the hotel even though it’s several hours before the dress rehearsal. “I hope you’re not angry that I came so early, darling,” she says after kissing me on the cheek. “I wanted to show you the apartment. It’s just off the Champs-Élysées. I’m sure Louie won’t mind.” She glances up at my boss, who came up behind me with Jeanne.

  He waves his hand. “Go ahead. Just be back in time for a quick run-through.”

  Mother helps me unpack and freshen up while Jacques stays downstairs and talks business with Louie. “You’re going to love the apartment, darling. It’s quite large, with floor-to-ceiling windows, parquet floors, and quite the modern kitchen.”

  I smile, wondering why Mother would need a modern kitchen. She rarely stepped foot in any kitchens we ever had.

  Jacques kisses my cheeks, very European, and calls for a taxicab in front of the hotel. He speaks to the driver in rapid French and soon we are on our way. It’s strange seeing him in his own country. His accent always made him a bit too much of a dandy for my taste, but he seems almost masterful here.

  I stare out the window, my eyes wide as Paris unfolds around me. Both brash and bossy New York and staid and self-important London are overtly masculine in how they feel. Paris, on the other hand, is blatantly feminine. Everything, from the soft gray of the buildings to the ornate architecture to the blooming daffodils and the budding trees gives the impression of a young girl in love with herself.

  “Isn’t the building beautiful?” Mother asks, excitement lacing her voice. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her sound so girlish and lighthearted. I get out of the car and gaze upward, my heart giving a little leap. The building stands about seven stories tall and the facade is made of white stone. Each tall, slender window has a Juliet balcony of curling black wrought iron.

  “It’s lovely,” I breathe.

  “Come see!” She snatches up my hand and races into the building while Jacques pays the driver. A doorman opens the door for us and tips his hat. “Can you imagine?” she whispers. “A doorman!”

  Her dark eyes are shining and for the second time in a day, I find myself envious of someone’s happiness. I tamp it down as Jacques joins us in the foyer and we climb the stairs to the fourth floor.

  When we arrive at the door, my mother, always a performer, makes me close my eyes. I smile at her enthusiasm. There’s nothing of the sophisticate about her today. This is a woman whose dreams have come true. She leads me in. “You can open your eyes now!”

  I open my eyes and gasp. There are six windows along a narrow living area that look out on Paris and the river. The shining wood floors are dotted with white sheepskin rugs, matching the white furniture that seems to be all ovals and cubes. Plain black tables finish out the room and the only decorations on the wall are three large oval mirrors that reflect the Paris light from the windows.

  The apartment is delightfully fresh and modern and the sky is so blue with the clouds scudding across it that I get the illusion that I’m fl
oating above the city. “It’s beautiful,” I tell my mother and Jacques. “Absolutely extraordinary.”

  Jacques rocks back and forth on his feet, pleased with himself. “I had my solicitor looking for us and though he found several, I knew immediately, this was the apartment for my new family.”

  I raise my eyes to his, a lump forming in my throat. Even after our rocky start, he considers me family. Overcome, I hug him and then my mother. Mother shows me the rest of the apartment, pride of ownership apparent in her every movement. From the black-and-white tiles in the kitchen and the bathroom to the crystal chandelier in the small dining area, the apartment is a home that finally fits my mother’s perception of herself. Though I will probably always love our New York apartment best, as it was my first real home, I can see my mother being very happy here. The small empty corner bedroom is mine, I’m told, to do with what I will.

  “I was hoping you could come and decorate it,” my mother says. “Once the tour has ended,” she adds hastily, seeing my face.

  “That would be nice.” It’s the truth. The temptation of what mother told me in England hits for the first time. To live in this apartment, to be taken care of instead of taking care of Mother and myself, is alluring.

  But didn’t I already make that decision? I wonder as we head back to the hotel. In New York, I decided that I wanted to perform my magic more than anything else in the world. I glance at my mother and see the changes Jacques has brought her. There are the obvious physical changes of a spoiled and pampered woman, but there are less obvious changes as well. A fullness about the lips, a softness in her eyes, and a relaxation of her erect carriage, changes brought about by someone who is in love and loved in return. Living with this new mother might not be so bad. But then I remember how she handled Cole and Calypso at lunch. She’s not so different. Almost eighteen years with my mother has taught me she has as many colors as a chameleon. I would love to trust this kinder, gentler mother, but I know better and I’m not sure I want to give up my independence to be taken care of, no matter how tempting it might be. I glance at my wristwatch.