The Glass Magician

by Caroline Stevermer

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  This book is respectfully dedicated to Nell Odella Newton, better known as Dell O’Dell, whose stage magic appeared not only in vaudeville, but on television. Her long career inspired this novel.

  Without Moshe Feder and Ellen Kushner, this story would never have been started. Without Frances Collin and Claire Eddy, it would never have been finished. Please accept this dedication as proof of my gratitude.

  Chapter One

  Thalia Cutler, the stage magician known as the Lady of the Lake, stepped nimbly aside to avoid the singer coming offstage at Keith’s Vaudeville Theater in Philadelphia. A plate spinner had already taken the singer’s place, and onstage the show went smoothly on. Backstage was the usual bustle for an evening performance, invisible to the audience out front, essential to the performers.

  “Look alive, sister.” Eulalie the Trader Nightingale, known offstage as Ermentrude Ulrich and as ordinary a Solitaire as Thalia, gave her a cold stare as she bumped her. “Coming through.”

  Thalia spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m not your sister, Trudy.” Beneath her costume, she wore a pigeon squeezer, a homemade contraption that held the doves she used in her act. The singer’s clumsiness had driven one of its hidden wires between the bones of Thalia’s corset. It hurt.

  “Shut up, Blondie.” The red-haired singer swept past. “Make way for the talent.”

  Thalia reminded herself she was a consummate professional. Therefore, she resisted the urge to step on the train of the singer’s gown as she passed. The gown, because it was supposed to belong to a Trader, was the last word in luxury, coral silk with jet beads and egret feathers that matched Trudy’s picture hat. Damaging it wouldn’t accomplish anything, and Thalia knew she was above all that nonsense. Anyway, she had work to do. The Lady of the Lake was next on the bill.

  Just offstage, inches out of the audience’s line of sight, David Nutall stood talking to one of the stagehands. Nutall—like Thalia, a white Solitaire—was looking paler than he usually did, his straight black hair and pencil mustache a greater contrast even than usual.

  Thalia tried to pick out their conversation. Both spoke in murmurs. Thalia had to come close to hear them.

  “No, Horace.” Nutall smiled but his voice was firm. “This time, you’re wrong.”

  “Think about it, that’s all I’m saying.” Horace, a black Solitaire whose nose testified that he’d been in many fights, was holding a rope but had his entire attention focused on Nutall. “‘Deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book.’ If Shakespeare wasn’t a Trader, how could he write dialogue that fancy? He knew how Traders like that talk because he was one.”

  “Birnam Wood came to Dunsinane, does that make Shakespeare a Sylvestri?” asked Nutall.

  Horace was offended. “I never said he was Sylvestri. I said he was a Trader. No Solitaire would ever be so fancy, you have to admit.”

  “On the contrary. I’ve known some tremendously fancy Solitaires in my day.” Nutall turned to greet Thalia as she took her spot beside him. “There you are.”

  “Shakespeare was a Trader?” Thalia murmured.

  “No.” Nutall was firm. “He certainly was not. William Shakespeare was a Solitaire.”

  “Just like you and me?” Thalia asked.

  “Exactly,” said Nutall.

  “If you say so. Good evening, Miss Cutler.” Horace, stoic in the face of Nutall’s skepticism, turned his attention firmly back to the plate spinner at work onstage.

  The theater was nearly full, the audience happy but not boisterous. The pit orchestra struck up Thalia’s music. Nutall gave her a brilliant smile. “That’s us.”

  Together they took the stage. Blinking to focus in the glare of the lights, basking in the attention of the audience, Thalia felt the whole world sharpen around her. Shoulders back, head held high, she took her mark onstage. She did not walk, but glide.

  Nutall’s deep voice provided the narrative to the act. “Ladies and gentlemen, Solitaires, Traders, and Sylvestri, I present to you Thalia Cutler, the Lady of the Lake, here to amaze and entertain you.”

  Clad in a shining white gown with medieval sleeves, with her fair hair loose over her shoulders, Thalia stood center stage and made doves appear from thin air. Thalia turned cards into coins and changed them back again. She turned a wooden staff into a snake that slithered off into the wings.

  The audience was rapt throughout, applauding each trick enthusiastically. The music and the sleight of hand went smoothly.

  At the climax of the act, Nutall declaimed, “For her final trick this evening, the Lady of the Lake will defy the incredible danger of the Siege Perilous.” On cue, the curtain behind Thalia swept aside to reveal a simple throne of rough-hewn wood. This was no flimsy stage prop, but a solid chair with arms and a high back, approximately medieval in appearance.

  Above the chair was a rope-and-pulley rig that held a sword suspended, point down, over the wooden throne. The pit orchestra played a little waltz while Nutall paid out the rope to bring the sword down to demonstrate how sharp it was. He sliced an apple with it, then hauled it back to its menacing position. He produced a candle, which he set in a wrought-iron stand. It was placed so that, once lit, the flame would touch the rope.

  Thalia, with due ceremony, took her place upon the throne. Nutall took up the manacles that dangled from chains welded to the arms of the throne. He called for a volunteer from the audience to witness that the cuffs were made of genuine steel and that the chains were just as solidly made. When the volunteer went back to the audience, Nutall closed the manacles on Thalia’s wrists, trapping her in the chair. He placed the key—the only key—in his waistcoat pocket and walked away.

  Thalia sat tall and did her best to look queenly and brave—but not too stupid to realize her danger—while she let the audience take in her plight.

  Nutall stepped to the candle stand and produced a box of lucifer matches. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give the Lady of the Lake your undivided attention.”

  The orchestra fell silent, save for a snare drumroll. Overhead, the sword gleamed in the stage lights. Thalia could sense the audience’s anticipation. She could smell the apple Nutall had sliced in half. When Nutall struck a match to light the candle, Thalia could smell the sulfur of its flame and then the scent of burning hemp as the candle flame licked the rope.

  Nutall raised his hands and the inner curtain closed, concealing Thalia from the audience. The drumroll continued.

  The moment the curtain hid Thalia from the audience, she set to work. The handcuff key hidden in her left sleeve dropped into her hand, and with a twist and a tug, she freed herself from the manacle on her right wrist. />
  Thalia could have picked the locks, but it was far more efficient simply to lie about the number of keys. She used her free right hand to release the catch that held the seat of the throne in place. With the faintest of clicks, the seat dropped from beneath her like a trapdoor, clearing the way to the open trapdoor in the stage below. All that remained was to unlock the manacle on her left wrist, bundle up her skirts, and drop through both openings at once to hide beneath the stage.

  With the key in her right hand, Thalia worked to unlock the remaining manacle, keenly aware of the dwindling seconds she had before the rope, treated to burn slowly, would part at last.

  Something inside the lock jammed. Thalia worked in vain. She was stuck.

  Thalia took a wild look around. The sword was directly overhead, but not for much longer. On the other side of the curtain, the audience waited, attention rapt on the candle burning through the rope. The drumroll still sounded.

  Thalia could smell greasepaint and her own sweat. Her entire focus was on the last chance she had: to slip her hand through the locked cuff.

  It never occurred to Thalia to call for help. This was her profession, her birthright. The show simply must go on.

  Thalia dropped through the trapdoor in the throne as far as the length of chain allowed. The links of the chain kept the seat from snapping back into place as it was meant to. That alone would certainly ruin the trick. When the sword dropped, it would strike her, but perhaps not fatally.

  The numbness in Thalia’s left wrist had turned to fire. Stubborn to the end, angry with herself for failure, Thalia was still twisting the key in the jammed lock, while straining to pull her hand through the cuff despite the impossibly tight fit.

  Thalia’s arms, her whole body, went from numbness to pins and needles everywhere. She looked up, ready for the sword, angrily resigned to pay the price for her clumsiness with the jammed cuff. But Thalia could not see her left hand. She saw something white, something she didn’t understand. It could not be what it seemed, white feathers forming a shape like the tip of a bird’s wing. Before she could make sense of what she saw, Thalia fell at last, free of the cuff.

  The chain, free of Thalia’s weight, was rigged to slide to the outside of the throne. It slithered upward out of sight. The trapdoor in the throne clicked shut as Thalia fell into blind darkness beneath the stage. The numbness held her. She couldn’t see, but she could hear.

  The sound the crowd made, the collective gasp of horror and delight, told Thalia the candle had done its work at last.

  The rope parted.

  The thud of the sword overhead made Thalia flinch. From far away, applause told her the curtain had drawn back to reveal the empty throne with the sword lodged harmlessly in the wooden seat, the empty manacles dangling.

  Thalia lay there, swiftly becoming aware of her situation. She had arms again, not feathers. She was lying on a mildewed mattress directly beneath the trapdoor in the stage overhead. She was herself again, not pins and needles, not fire, not numbness.

  Thalia crawled off the mattress, vomited on the dirty floor, and spat. She drew a shaky breath. What she had seen in that elongated second before she fell had been her own hand transformed into something she could not put words to. Something with feathers. Thalia knew that Traders changed that way, Traded one shape for another, as easy for them as breathing. Thalia knew she was only a Solitaire. Yet somehow, she had changed. What did that mean?

  Far above, as the applause died away, the pit orchestra took up Thalia’s music again. Thalia found herself on her feet, staggering toward the door that would take her to the back of the theater. Nutall would be watching for her so he could point her out to the audience.

  As Thalia made haste, her head cleared. She found herself counting the bars of music. If she hurried, if she ran full tilt, she could still make her cue. She must not miss her cue.

  Chapter Two

  Thalia finished the performance only by refusing herself permission to think. She moved as if mesmerized, taking her bows with Nutall, clearing up her props, removing her stage makeup in the dressing room shared by all the chorus girls, and changing out of her costume and into a tan walking dress and her favorite hat.

  At last, in the dark street outside the theater, Nutall offered her his arm and an unconvincing smile. “What happened?”

  They set off toward the Solitaire boardinghouse where they had rented rooms for the duration of their stay in Philadelphia. It was a chilly night in early April. The air was not precisely fresh but it was cool on Thalia’s face as she matched her steps to Nutall’s. It cleared her head and made her feel more like she was awake and less like she was still lost in a dream.

  “What’s wrong?” Nutall prompted.

  Thalia cleared her throat. “I Traded.”

  Nutall stopped in his tracks. Thalia released his arm and stood facing him, wishing the nearest streetlight were bright enough to show her more of his expression.

  “Not here.” Nutall led Thalia back to the boardinghouse parlor. Most of the other residents had long since retired for the night. Nutall turned up the gaslight and gestured Thalia to the horsehair settee while he pulled a spindly chair close. “Keep your voice down and tell me everything.”

  Thalia drew back her glove enough to show Nutall her left wrist, swollen, scraped, and already bruised. “I couldn’t unlock the cuff.”

  “I saw one manacle was open and the other shut. I assumed you’d pulled your hand through.”

  “The lock jammed. I tried to.” Thalia described her experience. “I Traded, didn’t I?”

  Throughout her account, Nutall had grown more and more rigid and still. His dark eyes blazed into hers. “Why didn’t you call for help? Why didn’t you stop the act?”

  “I didn’t think of it.” Thalia rubbed her wrist. “Are you upset because I Traded or because I didn’t stop the act?”

  “I am surprised and concerned,” said Nutall. “Milk bottles are upset.”

  Whenever anyone said they were upset, it was a sure thing that Nutall would say that. Sometimes Thalia said it herself without meaning to.

  “You may well have demonstrated the ability to Trade. Whether you did or not, I am angry with myself that I didn’t train you better. You should have stopped the act. On that point, I admit I find myself torn between fear for your safety and pride in your courage.”

  “Oh.” Thalia took a moment to let that sink in. Fear had ruled her. She’d known Nutall would be frightened too once he saw the locked manacle. It was strange to think he’d felt proud of her for her single-minded stupidity.

  “Did you Trade spontaneously after twenty years of Solitaire behavior?” Nutall went back to glaring at Thalia, but she could see the raw concern behind his stern expression.

  Into the resulting silence, Thalia ventured a reply. “Yes?”

  “Well, good.” Nutall did not seem to think it the least bit good, but he was as calm as ever. “In the morning, I will make some inquiries. We will find someone who knows about these things. For now, rest. You need sleep.”

  Thalia regarded him with disbelief. “How on earth can I sleep? I may have been wrong about myself all my life. What if I’m not a Solitaire at all? What if I am a Trader?”

  “Don’t sleep, then. Go to your room and practice your card passes instead. No, I take that back. Let your wrist recover before you resume your practice.” Nutall gave her a genuine smile, not one of the artificial versions he’d tried before. “In the morning, we’ll look into this properly.”

  * * *

  Thalia surprised herself by sleeping most of the night. The rest must have done her good, because by the time she and Nutall finished breakfast with their fellow boardinghouse residents, Thalia felt perfectly well. Last night’s trick gone wrong had dimmed in her memory. It was only a nightmare now, not something she jumped back into every time she closed her eyes.

  Nutall led Thalia away from the rather sticky breakfast table, and they readied themselves to go out. Nutall was h
is usual spruce self, boot-polish-black hair combed flat and gleaming beneath his elegant hat. Thalia was wearing her best walking suit, dark brown wool with amber-brown velvet lapels the same shade as her eyes.

  “Where are we going?” Thalia adjusted her hat and pulled on her gloves. April in Philadelphia could be lovely, but this morning it was not. There was a damp cold wind that promised rain to come.

  “I’ve made some inquiries,” Nutall replied. “We are going to pay a call upon Professor Philander Evans, an authority on Trader literature at the University of Pennsylvania.”

  Thalia fell into step beside Nutall as they walked along the broad cobblestone street in the direction of the university. “Why Trader literature? Don’t we need a Trader scientist or doctor?”

  “But we have an appointment with the only Trader authority who had time to speak with us before we catch the New York train.” Nutall looked chagrined. “It’s not ideal.”

  Thalia agreed. Their booking in Philadelphia was over. By evening, they would be in New York City, working at the next theater on their vaudeville circuit.

  As they marched, the row houses on either side of the street grew in dignity as the greenery, trees, and ivy on many of the dark brick walls grew more dense. Nutall drew up in front of a particularly appealing house, with elegant leaded-glass windows and holly bushes on either side of the front door. There were yellow tulips growing all along either side of the front walk. “Here we are. Professor Evans is expecting us at half past nine.”

  Thalia consulted the plain little watch pinned to her bodice. “It’s already five minutes past that. Why are we waiting out here?”

  “One mustn’t abuse courtesy with promptness.” Nutall checked his own watch, a handsome repeater that he’d once won at cards. “Give it another minute, and then we’ll dawdle up the walk.”

  Thalia drew a calming breath as she waited for Nutall’s cue. It felt ridiculous, consulting a strange academic about her experience of the night before. What would a professor of literature know about turning into a Trader?