The girl’s frown faltered, and she looked unsure. ‘I–I don’t know,’ she said.
The guy groaned. ‘Do you believe in fate?’ he asked, turning to Sage.
Sage blinked. She had no idea how to answer that question. Did she? It was a nice idea, that everything happened for a reason. It meant that maybe moving to Melbourne wouldn’t be the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Maybe her workshop with Yoshi Lear would transform her into an award-winning photographer.
The guy was still staring at her, awaiting an answer. Somehow, Sage wanted him to like her.
‘No,’ she said, surprised at how certain she sounded. ‘I believe we each make our own fate.’
‘Great,’ said the guy, looking oddly relieved. ‘Do you want a job?’
The blonde girl whipped her head around to him, her expression outraged.
Sage blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘A job. Helping set up and clean up and sell tickets and stuff. It’s not very interesting, but you’d get paid. Just think about it, okay? We’re here for about a month.’ The guy smiled at her, a wide, unexpected, goofy smile that made his rather aloof expression collapse into something slightly adorable.
The girl kicked him in the shin. ‘You didn’t think we should discuss this first?’ she said between clenched teeth.
The guy ignored her.
‘Um,’ said Sage, not sure how to reply. ‘Thanks. I’ll think about it. Er. Thanks for …’ She waved Zacky’s wand around vaguely. ‘Bye.’
A little dazed, she returned to the foyer and handed the wand to Zacky, who was sitting in a red velvet armchair.
‘Can I keep this?’ He thrust a flyer advertising THE GREAT ARMAND at her.
‘Sure,’ said Sage, still feeling odd. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Zacky was still chattering away about the magic show when they walked in the front door. He didn’t notice Mum’s tight-lipped smile, or the way she looked down at her hands when she said that Dad was going to be working late again. He told Mum all about Armand and his beautiful assistant as they ate their spaghetti bolognese, while Sage noticed that there was no garlic bread, and that the salad had boring iceberg lettuce instead of the fancy gourmet stuff, and that Mum was drinking water instead of her usual glass of red wine.
As soon as Zacky had finished, he galloped upstairs to rid his bedroom of evil trolls. Sage started to stack the plates. The house didn’t have a dishwasher, so she and Mum were taking it in turns to do the dishes. Sage hated the clammy, damp feeling of the rubber gloves, and the way the detergent made her sneeze.
‘Darling,’ said Mum. ‘Can you sit down for a moment?’
This had to be serious. Mum wasn’t even pretending not to look upset anymore. Sage sat.
Her mother explained to her that money was tight, that the move had cost them more than they’d budgeted for, and that it was taking her longer than she’d expected to find a job. Sage tried to feel grown-up and pleased that her mum was confiding in her, but mostly she just wished that she could be happy and oblivious, like Zacky. In Zacky’s world, problems could be solved with a wave of a magic wand, and treasure was buried around every corner. Sage missed thinking like that.
‘It’s all just temporary,’ said Mum. ‘As soon as I get some work and your father’s back-pay comes through, everything will be fine. We can get this place fixed up a bit’ – she glanced at the dark splotches on the ceiling, where water damage had ruined the plaster – ‘and everything will be fine. I’m sure we’ll love living here.’
Sage nodded. She wasn’t so sure. She missed her friends. She didn’t want to start at a new school.
‘But, honey.’ Mum put her hand on Sage’s knee. ‘Just for now, for the next couple of months, I’m afraid we can’t afford your photography classes.’
It had been part of the pitch her parents had concocted to convince Sage that moving to Melbourne would be the best thing that had ever happened to them. Dad had found an art college in the city that ran evening photography classes. It had a brand-new, state-of-the-art developing studio, and the next course was being taught by one of Sage’s photography heroes: Yoshi Lear, whose work hung in galleries all over the world. Sage had sent in her folio and, to her surprise and delight, she had been accepted into the course. Dad had promised her a new camera as a thankyou for helping out with Zacky during the move. Sage had already picked out the one she wanted, the same manual SLR that Yoshi Lear used. She’d never used film before – she’d always had a digital camera – but Yoshi Lear was a photography purist, and Sage was looking forward to learning how to process and develop her own film. She had spent long evenings reading online reviews of the camera, and poring over her Yoshi Lear photography books, looking at the way he used light and shadow.
It had given her something to do other than mope around after Daniel had dumped her. It was the one thing she’d been looking forward to, the one thing that made the red circle on her calendar a teeny bit less terrifying. Even if school was terrible, even if she didn’t make a single friend, at least she’d still have her classes with Yoshi Lear.
Not anymore.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ said Mum. ‘I know you were looking forward to it. But I promise by September everything’ll be fine, and you can go then.’
Sage nodded and tried to look brave. She knew full well that Yoshi Lear’s ten-week course would be over by then. She told her mother that it was okay, that she didn’t mind, and then carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen and cried silently into the soapy water.
2. Palm: in which an object is concealed in the hand.
The house was unusually quiet when Sage woke up the next morning, just after nine. Usually Zacky bounded into her room at around seven-thirty, hollering at her to get up and play with him, but today everything was silent. She pulled on an extra pair of socks and a scarf, and went down to make herself some toast. Still quiet. It felt slightly eerie, as if some kind of apocalypse had happened and taken everyone away. She got quite a fright when her mum came into the kitchen to put on the kettle.
‘Where’s Zacky?’ Sage asked.
‘At some exhibition on computer games,’ said Mum with a broad smile. ‘The family next door just got back from a big overseas trip. They have a little boy – Roman – who is exactly Zacky’s age! I took Zacky over to say hi, and they got on like a house on fire. Roman’s mum looked pretty pleased about it too – he looks like a handful. She’s taken them into the city for the day.’
‘Oh,’ said Sage, feeling oddly jealous. Why couldn’t next door have a teenage girl as well? Or … even a teenage boy would be all right. If he was the right teenage boy. Sage sighed and remembered the stagehand guy’s goofy smile.
‘I thought you’d be pleased to have him out from under your feet,’ said Mum. ‘You’ve been so good with him with the move and everything, and I’m very grateful, but you need to have a life too. You should do something with the rest of your holidays. I’m sorry you can’t do your photography course, but I’m sure there are plenty of free classes you could take. You could try the local community centre, or the State Library.’
‘Sure,’ said Sage, feeling the squeeze of the red texta circle around her neck.
‘I can drop you in the city if you like,’ said Mum. ‘I have a job interview at eleven.’
‘No thanks,’ said Sage. ‘I can take the train.’
With Mum gone, the house was even more creepy. It was grey and windy outside, and a tree branch scrabbled at the living-room windowpane. Sage mooched from room to room, peering into unopened boxes full of books and knick-knacks. She considered unpacking a few, but it just felt like too much effort. She sat down at her computer and opened Photoshop, but didn’t have the energy to process any of the shots she’d taken over the last few weeks. The gloomy, moody photos she’d taken around the house just reminded her of how gloomy and moody everything had felt since they’d left Queensland.
She wandered into Zacky’s room. It was its usual explosion
of toys and books and dirty socks, just as it had been at home. How come little kids adjusted so quickly? Sage noticed the flyer for THE GREAT ARMAND wonkily blu-tacked to the wall, next to a Harry Potter poster and a self-drawn portrait of Zacky riding a broomstick. She remembered what the guy at the theatre had said. He had asked if she wanted a job. Jobs paid money. With money, she could afford to take Yoshi Lear’s photography class. She might not get the manual film camera she wanted, but she still had her digital one. That would do, wouldn’t it? Or maybe there was one she could borrow at the art college. Then she could learn to develop the photos herself at the college’s studio, soak each print in chemicals and then hang it from a clothesline and watch the picture appear. She’d always wanted to do that. Film was vintage and romantic, like vinyl records and rotary dial telephones.
But did she want a job? Really? Did she want to spend the last three weeks before school started selling tickets and scooping up spilled popcorn? Back in her own room, she pulled open her bedside drawer and yanked out a stack of photos. She’d taken them last year, during the winter holidays. She’d spent nearly every day hanging around the Strand with her friends, laughing and soaking up sunshine. In one, Nina was swinging around a lamppost. Another featured Eleanor and Parama arm-wrestling at a beachfront café.
Sage lingered over the next photo. It was Daniel, standing on the jetty at sunset, looking out to sea. The orange and purple rays reflected off the water, making it look like Daniel was surrounded by coloured flames. That evening, he’d fastened a silver chain around her neck with a tiny silver camera charm hanging from it, and told her that he loved her.
Sage scowled at the photo, and considered ripping it in half, but the composition, light and colour was so good that she couldn’t bear to. Instead she shoved the stack of photos back into her drawer and slammed it shut.
Sage texted Nina to see if she could IM, but got no reply. She tried to read a book, but the red circle around July 16 seemed to be throbbing on the calendar page. Last summer’s Sage laughed at her from the photo. There were twenty-one days between her and that red texta circle. Twenty-one long, lonely, pointless days.
Before she could change her mind, Sage marched back into Zacky’s room and snatched the flyer from the wall.
Surely working for a magician had to be better than reality.
There were no performances on Mondays or Tuesdays, but Armand’s blonde assistant and the stagehand were in the auditorium. The assistant sat on the edge of the stage, her legs swinging. She looked effortlessly beautiful in a long purple skirt and white peasant top. The stagehand sprawled across two chairs in the third row, a notebook in his lap. He seemed to be wearing the exact same black T-shirt and tweed blazer as the previous day.
‘So what if we just swap it around?’ the assistant was saying. ‘I can ditch the old card and load the fake at the same time.’
‘No, you can’t,’ said the guy, scribbling in his notepad. ‘Not with the same hand.’
‘I can!’
‘Bianca,’ said the guy with an exasperated sigh. ‘You’re an excellent assistant, but it’s impossible to ditch and load with one hand in this trick, because of the Swami gimmick. Even Armand can’t do it, and he’s wearing a specially tailored suit. You’re wearing a leotard – where exactly do you plan to store the cards? Now let’s try to focus on a practical solution.’
The assistant noticed Sage and frowned. She eyed the stagehand and jerked her head towards Sage. The guy turned, and his face broadened in a wide grin.
‘You came back!’ he said. ‘Excellent, excellent.’
He sprang to his feet and made his way directly across the auditorium to Sage, climbing over seats instead of coming up the aisle. ‘Welcome,’ he said, grasping her hand. ‘We really need some help around here. We do six shows a week – evenings Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, two shows on Saturday, and matinee only on Sunday – plus we’ll pay you an extra two hours per day for administrative stuff. There’s a small amount of filing and handling of invoices, that sort of thing. Nothing to worry about. There’s some paperwork in the office to get you started.’
He spoke in a rush, still beaming, his hand still holding hers. Sage felt amused, overwhelmed and a little squirmy, all at the same time. This guy was strange. Cute, but strange.
The blonde girl slid off the stage and walked up the aisle, so graceful that Sage wondered if her feet ever touched the carpet at all.
‘I’m Bianca,’ she said, once she reached Sage. Up close, her beauty was all the more overwhelming, because Sage could see that it wasn’t achieved with lighting or makeup. Bianca’s skin was flawless, her features perfectly proportioned. But there was something else, an unexpected sadness in Bianca’s eyes that made her look fragile and delicate.
Shyly, Sage introduced herself, and Bianca’s sad eyes suddenly crinkled with a genuine smile.
‘Your name is Sage?’ she said.
Sage nodded. Was her name really that weird? The guy closed his eyes in what looked like anticipated pain.
Bianca let out a tinkle of laughter. ‘This will be fun.’
Sage frowned. ‘What’s so funny about my name?’
Bianca pointed at her. ‘Sage,’ she said, and then pointed at the guy. ‘Herb.’
The guy sighed. ‘Thanks,’ he said to Bianca with a sarcastic tilt of his head.
‘Your name is Herb?’ asked Sage.
‘It was my grandfather’s name,’ said Herb, rolling his eyes. ‘Herbert Jackson. It’s a dumb name. I’d go with Bert, except I don’t want everyone to always be asking me about my bottle-cap collection.’
‘I think it’s cool,’ said Sage. ‘Retro.’
Bianca poked him in the ribs. ‘I hope you’ll call your firstborn Garnish.’
The guy blushed bright red, and shot a resentful look at Bianca.
‘Well,’ said Bianca to Sage. ‘Welcome to the Lyric Theatre. I hope there’ll be enough for you to do.’ This comment appeared to be directed towards Herb. Sage shifted uncomfortably – Bianca clearly didn’t think she was necessary.
‘There’ll be plenty for her to do,’ said Herb.
Bianca shrugged, and started to glide back down the aisle towards the stage. ‘Oh,’ she said vaguely over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry if you hear weird noises in here. The theatre’s haunted.’
Sage blinked, and Bianca disappeared backstage.
Herb let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘Did I mention?’ he said to Sage. ‘Bianca believes in ghosts. And auras. And horoscopes. And the Easter Bunny, for all I know. It’s very annoying.’
Sage shivered and looked around. Did she believe in ghosts? And if there was a ghost in the Lyric Theatre, how awesome would it be to get a photo of it?
Herb showed Sage around backstage. Behind the wings was a short corridor leading to three cramped rooms: Bianca’s and Armand’s dressing-rooms, and a third room which Sage would share with Herb as an office. There was also a storeroom at the end of the corridor, and a stage door to the alley that ran alongside the theatre.
The office contained a rusty filing cabinet and two desks. One desk was littered with screwed-up pieces of paper, magazines with names like Genii and Magicseen, and a plaster bust of Harry Houdini. Most of the other desk was taken up by an ancient computer that Sage suspected might be older than her, and an in-tray overflowing with what looked like overdue invoices, magazines and unopened mail.
‘We really need someone to overhaul our existing system,’ explained Herb.
Sage looked dubiously at the teetering pile of paper. ‘What is the existing system?’
‘We put everything in the in-tray.’
Sage waited for the next step.
‘That’s it.’ At least Herb had the decency to look a little ashamed. ‘We’re not very good at the … organisey stuff.’
Sage nodded, and pulled out a chair from the desk so she could sit down, but discovered a white rabbit had beaten her to it. She squeaked. The rabbit blinked sleepily.
‘This
is Warren,’ said Herb, lifting it up and waving one of its paws at Sage. ‘Say hello, Warren.’
‘Hello, Warren,’ said Sage, touching the rabbit’s soft ears. ‘Shouldn’t you be in a hat somewhere?’
Warren hung limply from Herb’s hands. ‘Are you sure he’s alive?’ asked Sage.
‘He’s just lazy,’ said Herb. ‘Lazy but clever. He does this stunt where Armand puts him in a frying pan and turns him into Welsh rarebit. Which isn’t rabbit, you know. It’s just a grilled cheese sandwich.’
Herb deposited Warren in the middle of the desk, where the rabbit yawned and immediately fell asleep.
‘Any other tenants I should know about?’ asked Sage, gingerly sitting down on the chair.
‘We did have three white mice,’ said Herb. ‘But they’re currently on recreation leave.’
Sage raised her eyebrows.
‘They ran away. You’ll spot them every now and then backstage. I’m sure they’ll come back when they’re ready. Oh, and there was a dove, too.’ He shot a guilty look at the filing cabinet. ‘Best not to ask what happened to it.’
‘I take it you don’t always see eye-to-eye with Bianca,’ said Sage.
‘Very rarely,’ Herb replied. ‘But what specifically were you referring to?’
‘The theatre being haunted.’
Herb snorted. ‘If there was a shred of scientific evidence to suggest that ghosts exist, I still can’t imagine why any spectre would bother to haunt this dump.’
Sage didn’t say anything.
‘Please don’t tell me you believe in ghosts,’ said Herb, his voice pained.
‘I–I don’t know what I believe,’ said Sage. ‘But if there is a ghost, I’m going to get a photo of it.’
Herb winced, as if Sage had done something terrible to injure him. ‘Good luck.’
Sage blew dust off the computer’s keyboard and booted it up. The startup chime made Herb cock his head.
‘Huh,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know it was even plugged in.’
‘You don’t use the computer? Ever?’
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