The Glass Magician

by Caroline Stevermer

  Thalia could sense her power over the audience faltering. Too much mechanical talk about things like firing chambers. She pressed on. “Gunpowder does not know who is using it or why. Gunpowder does one thing, and one thing only. Gunpowder explodes.” Thalia held the rifle to her shoulder, taking care to aim it up into the shadows above the miniature stage. The audience’s attention sharpened again, braced for a gunshot.

  Thalia went on. “The trick went wrong that night. Someone tampered with this weapon. Someone used a jeweler’s file to widen the passage between the trick firing chamber and the true one. The finest stage magician in the world couldn’t catch that bullet. Mr. Von Faber had no chance.”

  Thalia lowered the rifle, aiming it down toward the stage. “I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll tell you who tampered with this weapon. I’ll tell you who planned it all.”

  In the rapt silence that followed her words, Thalia surveyed the audience staring back at her. Mrs. Viridian’s face was pinched, eyes narrow, waiting for her next chance to interrupt. Immediately behind her, Mrs. Morris was wide-eyed and smiling. Her evident confidence in Thalia’s ability to save the day made Thalia’s throat feel tight.

  Nell stood next to Freddie at the gramophone, her brother beside her. Nell was radiant. Ryker was scowling. Both were focused on Thalia. Freddie was intent on winding up the gramophone next time the music faded.

  Aristides, although still in his seat and looking ostentatiously relaxed, was sharp-eyed, his attention on the room at large, not just on the stage. Madame Ostrova, on the other side of Ryker’s empty seat, watched with one eyebrow raised. The newspaper reporters appeared completely unimpressed. Only one had a notebook out. Thalia noticed another who was peeling a hard-boiled egg.

  Nora Uberti, who had once thought herself to be the first and only Mrs. Von Faber, sat quietly in the front row, her expression pleasant. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her head was tilted to show she was giving Thalia all her polite attention. Thalia met her mild eyes and held them, counting the silent seconds until Nora dropped her gaze. Six. That, under the circumstances, impressed Thalia. A cool customer, Nora.

  Thalia spun the moment out as long as her audience returned her scrutiny with interest, then resumed her patter. “May I have a volunteer from the audience?”

  Mrs. Viridian climbed on the stage before anyone else could move. “I insist you choose me.”

  The Bullet Catch proceeded. Thalia showed Mrs. Viridian the special leaden ball. Then, holding it in the hollow of her hand, Thalia pretended to whisper to the bit of lead. Thalia palmed that musket ball and only pretended to put it into the rifle. “I have asked the powers of mystery for their aid. They will show us the truth.”

  Using every trick of timing she knew to keep her audience focused on her, Thalia aimed her rifle at a bronze gong hung at the far side of the tiny stage. A second gong, hung at the back of the theater, was struck as soon as the gun fired. Anton Ostrova timed the strike perfectly. The reverberation filled the room and even drew a note from the untouched gong onstage.

  “Where is the bullet?” Thalia went through her pantomime with relish. “Where has it gone?”

  Once it had been thoroughly established that no musket ball had struck the gong she had aimed at, Thalia intoned, “Oh, mystic powers, show us the truth. Murder will out. Speak the truth!”

  In pantomime as elaborate as she dared, Thalia pretended to hear the musket ball whispering to her. The spotlights followed her as she followed the inaudible voice of the bullet, letting it call her down from the stage and into the audience. She followed it to Nora’s spot in the theater audience. “I hear it. Don’t you hear it? Powers of mystery, show us a sign!”

  “This is ridiculous,” Nora said, arms folded tight, every line of her body full of scorn.

  “Mystic powers don’t lie,” Thalia countered. “Turn out your reticule.”

  “Certainly not!” Nora glared at Thalia.

  “Anything to stop this nonsense.” Mrs. Viridian seized Nora’s reticule and upended it into Nora’s lap. Among the items that fell out were Nora’s comb and pocket mirror, a packet of pastilles, and a leaden musket ball engraved with the word “Murderer.”

  “What is this?” Mrs. Viridian took the musket ball between thumb and forefinger. “What on earth? Now it says ‘Murderer.’”

  The audience shifted and murmured, more stirred by Mrs. Viridian’s prosaic tone than they would have been by any dramatic announcement from Thalia, who considered the twenty-dollar gold piece she had given Madame Ostrova to slip that second musket ball into Nora Uberti’s reticule money very well spent indeed.

  “She’s tricked you.” Nora sprang up. “It’s a child’s trick. She palmed that musket ball when she pretended to load the gun. She planted it on me.”

  “She was nowhere near you,” Aristides pointed out dispassionately.

  “It was you.” Thalia pointed to Nora Uberti with all the dramatic flourish at her disposal, which was considerable. “You are the murderer.” This was a vital moment in the performance she had planned. Thalia relished the effect her accusation had on the audience. Whatever Nora Uberti said or did, the audience—for the moment—was in the palm of Thalia’s hand. Time to make the most important point clear. “I told you. I was there. I saw you load the rifle that killed Von Faber. You used far too much gunpowder. There was no reason to be safe, to measure it, was there? You knew what was going to happen.”

  “You’re a liar.” Nora’s manner was a perfect mix of pity and scorn. “Your friend is the real murderer, but you’re trying to put the blame on me. That’s why you’re playing these stupid tricks.”

  Thalia let her tone soften. “Von Faber was a second-class magician and a first-class creep. Why did you stay with him? Why didn’t you just find another line of work?”

  “Oh, now you’re my mother, giving me advice,” Nora sneered. “You know how hard it is to find this kind of work. That’s why you’re pestering me. You don’t want my competition.”

  Thalia kept right on asking questions. “Why did you use his stage magic act to plan his murder?”

  “I didn’t plan anything. You’re out of your senses.” Nora turned in her seat to call to the policemen. “You, you’re officers of the law. Protect me from this lunatic.”

  “You made someone steal the gun for you.” Thalia carefully omitted Anton’s name. She was grateful for his help in particular and the Ostrova family in general. Anything she could do to protect him from the interest of the police, she would. “You knew how the rifle worked because Von Faber made you take care of his, along with all his other props. You cleaned it. You kept it in working order.”

  “That’s true,” said Officer Kelly. “The stagehands told us that.”

  “Was it hard to sabotage?” Thalia persisted.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone,” Nora snarled.

  Thalia pressed on. “Was it hard to squeeze that trigger?”

  “I don’t have to listen to this.” Nora sprang to her feet. “I’m leaving.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere. You’re guilty of murder.”

  “You’re guilty of slander,” Nora retorted. “You’d say anything to clear that creepy Sylvestri friend of yours.”

  Thalia took a position that focused the spotlights and the attention of the audience on her face as she revealed the jeweler’s file she’d stowed in her sleeve for just this moment. “This is the tool you used, isn’t it? I found it in your makeup box.” Thalia did her best to let the light catch the drab object. “Small. Easy to hide. I knew it would be. I knew just what to look for. That made it easy for me to find.”

  As Thalia had sent Freddie Ostrova out to purchase a new file for this performance, it didn’t surprise her when Nora sneered. “No! That’s not the—”

  What did surprise her was that Nora Uberti blushed as she bit off her retort, a blush so powerful that she looked as if she’d been scalded.

  “That’s not the one you use
d?” Thalia inquired mildly, still pretending to admire the little file. “Perhaps you’d better sit down again. I think the policemen want to talk to you.”

  Indeed, there were policemen on either side of the young woman now. While the unspoken end of her sentence could have been anything at all, even the dullest pair of ears in the audience had caught something false in Nora’s tone. Even the least interested pair of eyes in the audience had seen that blush. A response that strong could not fail to suggest shame or guilt.

  “She’s lying. This is slander.” Nora Uberti kept her head. “It’s a trick! Let me go. I want a lawyer.” Nothing in her words admitted guilt. Everything in her manner did.

  Thalia watched the police officers take Nora Uberti into formal custody. She wondered if the young woman would ever confess to her crime. That was up to the policemen and the lawyers now. Thalia was no dime-novel detective. She hadn’t accumulated circumstantial evidence proving Nora’s guilt. She’d only assembled props and told a lot of lies. It was just a performance.

  Every performance requires a grand finale. Thalia took her position in front of the mirror box and clapped her hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, please? As the mystic powers have revealed the truth about Von Faber’s death, David Nutall has been cleared of all suspicion. Thus I shall restore him to you,” lied Thalia.

  The policemen began the process of removing their new suspect. As they moved her toward the exit, Nora Uberti raged at them, but tears of anger shook her words into sobs.

  Thalia carried on with her act. By now, Nutall would be well away. Thalia had done what she could to clear him of the murder charge. The authorities wouldn’t pursue him, although his Sylvestri kin would demand she bring him back. Aiding and abetting Nutall’s escape would put Thalia on the spot, no question. But she owed it to Nutall to do all she could to help him, no matter the cost to her.

  With a flourish, Thalia opened the front panel of the mirror box: empty. She spun the box on its axis to bring the back panel around and release it. The view through the empty mirror box impressed no one. Thalia stood tall just the same. Time to face the Sylvestri music. “Alas, even I cannot always command the mystic powers. I regret—” Thalia faltered, distracted by a familiar figure ensconced in the last seat on the left in the back row.

  Nutall sat there smiling at her as if nothing at all were amiss. Thalia knew that smile. It combined his pride in her with his satisfaction with himself.

  Thalia made a regrettable choking sound, then caught herself. “I regret the powers have not returned him to the box itself, but if you will direct your attention to the back row…” Thalia made a grand gesture. The little crowd turned and gasped.

  Nutall rose and acknowledged the audience with his most elegant bow, even though no one was applauding. “It was a lovely gesture, my dear. Thank you.” Nutall joined her onstage. “But a gentleman never jumps his bail.”

  They faced the audience shoulder to shoulder as Nutall spoke in his most authoritative tone. “Miss Cutler and I thank you for your kind attention. This brings my final performance to a close.”

  His announcement brought only puzzled silence. The gramophone had long since run down. Nell, her wrist again held firmly by her brother, was in no position to reach it. Freddie was watching from the wings, ready to close the curtain.

  Thalia looked out at their little audience and felt a sense of anticlimax. Was this all her grand gesture had amounted to?

  “That’s enough of this nonsense,” Mrs. Viridian informed the entire room. “David, we’re leaving.”

  Nutall ignored her.

  Madame Ostrova clapped her hands sharply, the first of a scattered drift of applause. Thalia winced. That kind of polite clapping was almost worse than none at all. Nevertheless, Thalia made a deep curtsy in reply. Beside her, Nutall made his most formal bow.

  The rest of the lights came on, illuminating the audience.

  When Nutall came up from his bow, he leaned close and murmured to Thalia, “I know the Skinner of New York when I see him, but who are those three behind him?”

  Thalia followed his glance. The next five seconds passed in what seemed like five minutes. Immediately, she recognized Mr. Tewksbury and Mrs. Hopkins, but the man sitting between the lawyers and the journalists, apparently fascinated by his own shoes, was a complete stranger.

  Still, there was something oddly familiar about the heavy line of his jaw and the slump of his shoulders. When the stranger raised his head to stare at her, Thalia knew what it was. Making herself speak took effort. When she managed it, her voice came out half strangled. “Manticore!”

  Aristides was already on his feet and hauling out his guns, but the manticore, shaking off its human form, knocked him down as it charged the stage.

  Nutall stepped in front of Thalia. Inwardly, she cursed herself for leaving her little revolver with her street clothes in her dressing room backstage. Even its small-caliber bullets would be better than nothing, faced with this. Or maybe not. She might shoot one of her friends by accident.

  Ryker shouted, “Aristides!” He pushed Nell behind him, ready to protect his sister.

  Neither of those actions were of any practical use, Thalia noted, in the distant, calm, and rapidly dwindling part of her mind that wasn’t busy insisting that she Trade to her swan form and flee. Thalia noted with gladness that the manticore was ignoring Nell completely. Her friend had been right all along about her ability to control her Trades. The manticore paid no attention to anyone but Thalia.

  In one bound, the manticore reached the space between the front row and the stage, a seat that had been vacated by Inspector Ottokar. Thalia bumped into Nutall, took an involuntary step backward into her props, and trod on the Bullet Catch rifle. She fell, taking Nutall down with her.

  Aristides produced a pair of Sibley-McKay pistols and fired at the manticore from close range. Now fully transformed into its monstrous shape, the manticore only paused for a moment to utter a pained roar, then leaped over the footlights, up on the stage.

  The swan within her spoke to Thalia. It demanded to rise. The manticore called it forth. As she sprawled on the stage, Thalia caught her own scent, at once sweeter and more rank than her usual self. Thalia pushed the voice within down with all her might. Shut up. Not now. Shut up.

  “Stay down.” Nutall tried to pull Thalia beneath him to shelter her from the chance of a stray bullet.

  Thalia shook him off and turned back to her discarded props. She could already tell she was going to have bruises from rolling among them. The muzzle-loader, now discharged, was useless, but beneath it lay her sword, the Lady of the Lake’s Excalibur. Thalia seized it and scrambled to her feet.

  The blade sang through the air as she swung it up to the ready position. Each moment stretched; she could not help grimacing in despair at how long it took her to come on guard. As Thalia started her attack, the manticore was already there, trampling Nutall underfoot.

  Thalia kept her arms moving, letting the energy of her turn augment her swing. She missed her target completely, but the manticore sat back on its haunches in its haste to back out of range. Nutall rolled away stage left, apparently unhurt.

  The swan inside Thalia, drawn near the surface by the manticore, fought for dominance over her. Thalia put every bit of her will into ignoring the swan and every ounce of her strength into recovering her balance. She readied a better swing even as the manticore gathered itself to attack. Thalia’s whole focus was the monster before her. Yet within, she welcomed the sense of the swan melding its fury with her fear, lending its strength to her arm.

  Distantly, Thalia knew that the Skinner must be lining up his shot, even as her audience and assistants were scrambling for shelter from the fight. Only she and the manticore remained onstage. Out of all the people in the theater, Thalia alone had what the manticore wanted. If she could resist the urge to Trade, her audience could flee. They were safe while the manticore attacked her. She was safe only as long as her str
ength lasted.

  Thalia was no stranger to anger. Always, she had been best served by using her anger on someone else’s behalf. Now, in defense of her audience, Thalia set her anger—and the swan’s fury—free. She snarled at the manticore. “No Trading today.”

  The manticore snarled back at her, coming so near that its breath made Thalia gag.

  Thalia and the manticore were joined by a third presence at center stage.

  Tycho Aristides, the Skinner of Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, and the Bronx, shoved his way into position just behind the manticore’s left foreleg. He leaned against the beast. It had to shift its weight to keep its balance. The manticore, still focused completely on Thalia, shouldered Aristides back.

  Aristides aimed both his Sibley-McKay pistols at the base of the manticore’s skull. He fired. The manticore went down and stayed down. The smell of gunpowder was sharp for a moment, then completely overwhelmed by the stench of the dying monster.

  The overpowering urge to Trade left Thalia, snapped like a thread. That, as much as Aristides’ professional air of limitless calm, convinced her she was truly safe.

  Aristides used his knife to remove the creature’s gall bladder and stow it tidily away in one of his collection of jam jars. While he worked, Thalia stayed on guard. Where one man could transform into a manticore, there could be another. It was unlikely, but Thalia earned her living on the border between likely and unlikely.

  Time picked up its natural speed again as Thalia caught her breath. The audience regained its composure. Nutall came back to Thalia’s side. “Are you quite all right?”

  Thalia nodded. For the moment, words were beyond her.

  “You could put the sword down now. If you like.” Nutall put his hand on Thalia’s wrist and guided her as she let the sword point come safely down. “Put it down, there’s a good girl.”

  “It would have worked,” Thalia said, meaning the sword. Even now, with the manticore dead at her feet, she felt she would never willingly put that sword away again.