Born of Deception

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.”

The volunteer nods at the audience and then sits in the chair my assistant placed next to the box. This way she can keep an eye on things and it increases my believability to the spectators.

The tension of the audience as my assistant handcuffs my hands behind my back is palpable. I allow the volunteer to check my cuffs and she nods again at the audience. My lips tremble in a suppressed smile at how seriously she’s taking her job. I back into the iron maiden, careful not to hit any of the spikes. As I back in, my assistant surreptitiously places a small bag of blood in my hands, secured just that morning from a nearby butcher shop. We’ve practiced this particular move over and over to make sure the volunteer in the chair can’t spot it.

Once I’m inside, my assistant cuffs my ankles, shuts the door, and then secures the box with metal bands placed through the hinges. I wait for a breathless moment until I hear the sound of the red velvet curtain encircling the box. The volunteer is sitting to the side of the curtain so she can see both in front of and behind it. By the time the draperies are completely closed, I’ve already pulled out the picklock from the sash of my dress where I’d secreted it. I drop the bag of blood to the floor and pick the lock of the handcuffs. My movements are quick but careful as I loosen the pins and remove my cuffs. Within minutes, the box is secure and ready for an audience member to inspect.

Once free, I carefully smear some of the blood on my arm, and then some on my cheek. Shuddering, I pull up the sleeve of my dress and press the bag into my armpit. Every time I squeeze it, more blood will run down my arm and wrist. Uncomfortable, but it does the trick. My stomach churns thinking of Pratik, but I shake the thought out of my head. I have a job to do.

“Jan,” I call, my voice weak. “Jan!” This time I pro-ject so it can be heard. I know that Jan’s exaggerated facial expression is showing the audience his alarm so that they know something went wrong.

He flings open the curtain and the audience gasps when they see me leaning against the iron maiden. Of course, I’m not really leaning against it; it’s on wheels after all and would go shooting across the stage if I did. I jump when the woman from the audience screams as she spots the blood trickling down my arm.

A panic-stricken Louie rushes out on the stage and calls into the audience for a doctor. A man with a black doctor’s bag rushes up onstage. It’s one of the Woodruff brothers in disguise. Jan leads the volunteer to one side as I take the seat. The “doctor” works over me feverishly with bandages as the audience holds their collective breath. While this is happening Jan opens the door of the iron maiden so everyone can see the inside. The volunteer has one hand over her mouth as she looks at the spikes.

When the doctor turns to the auditorium and nods, Jan pulls up my “good” arm in triumph. The restrained, well-bred audience goes crazy, clapping, hooting, and stamping. I give a pathetic smile and am led off the stage. I flush in triumph as the audience screams for a second bow.

“Go out!” Jeanne pushes me toward the stage again.

“Should I?” I ask.

She nods. “This is your moment, darling, take it.” Louie, standing next to her, nods in agreement.

Jan and a stagehand wheel the iron maiden and the curtain off as the audience chants my name. I take a deep breath and then reenter the spotlight. Mindful of my arm, I walk to center stage and give the audience a curtsy. The audience screams their approval and I leave the stage, waving my good arm.

This time, Jeanne gives me a one-armed hug, careful not to get any blood on her yellow silk dress. “I’m supposed to follow that?” she asks Louie.

I shrug and smile, knowing she’s only teasing. No one alive can sing like that woman.

“We’re not going to be able to do that every night.” Louie chuckles. “I have a feeling we’re going to have more than a few repeaters to see how you’re doing. So tomorrow you should have a bandage wrapped around your arm, and skip the blood bit. Damn, but that went over well!”

I agree. “So only once in every city?”

He nods and then shushes me. Jeanne has started to sing, a bawdy little song to warm up, and Louie’s eyes close as he hums along. I think about what Jeanne told me about relationships on the road and I think of all the strikes against Cole and me. My magic, his reluctance to tell me how he feels, his grandmother, not to mention we don’t even live on the same continent. The happiness of my triumph disappears with a whoosh. I know it’s after-performance letdown, but it still leaves me feeling flat and washed out.

Jan rushes up to me after helping the stagehands put our props away. A wide grin lights up his broad face. “We did good, yes?”

I clasp the hand he extends to me. “Yes! We did grand.”

“You will take me to America with you?”

I blink. “Oh. Um, I can ask the manager. But I don’t know . . .”

“Yes. You ask the manager. I am a good assistant.”

“Yes, you are.”

He gives another friendly nod for good measure, and as he walks away I hear a low chuckle behind me. Billy is leaning against the wall, laughing. “You’re going to have a hard time getting rid of that one.”

I smile. “He’s a good assistant.”

“Are you ready to head back to the hotel? The boss asked me to walk you back. He doesn’t like any of his performers out on the street alone.”

“Just let me grab my things.” With an undercurrent of excitement, I rush back to the dressing room and pack up my things in my valise. I learned a long time ago: Never leave personal things in your dressing room if you want to keep them. When I enter the cramped room, I’m surprised to find a veritable bower of flowers on the vanity. They must have been delivered while I was performing.

Smiling, I sniff the sweet scent of the bouquet. Spying a small box wrapped in purple foil alongside the vase, I pick it up and open the attached card.

I saw these and thought of you.

I hope your performance was a hit. I miss you.

Cole

I rip off the paper, then frown in confusion as I see the box of waffle-shaped cookies. He thought of me? Then it hits me. The first time we went anywhere together he took me out for waffles at Child’s. My heart bruises with tenderness. He does love me. I know he does.

Whistling, happier than I ever thought I could be, I wipe away the blood from my arm and run a brush through my hair. I leave the flowers on the vanity to bring me luck for tomorrow’s performance and tuck the cookies in my pocketbook before meeting Bronco Billy at the exit.

His blue, blue eyes crinkle up as he gives me that slow smile that starts at the corner of his mouth and spreads across his face like the sun. He holds his arm out and I tuck mine through his. Gasping at Hungary’s bitter winter wind, I hurry my steps. Downtown Budapest is bustling, in spite of the late hour, with couples wrapped up against the chill, scurrying from dance hall to dance hall.

“Would you like to stop somewhere for coffee and pastry?”

I hesitate, not sure how Cole would feel. On the other hand, Billy’s at least four years older than I am, so it’s not as if I’m interested in him romantically. I shrug and he leads me across the street to an all-night restaurant.

The fragrant warmth is welcoming, and I remove my coat as we find a table. The restaurant is packed with gaily dressed revelers intent on enjoying their Saturday night. Cigarette smoke lies heavy in the air and the room is a sea of sequins, feathers, and cloches. It could be any café on any street corner in New York City except for the sound of Hungarian tickling my ears.

I tilt my head, listening. It’s tantalizingly familiar and every once in a while I fancy I hear a word I should know.

I order coffee and a palacsinta. Billy raises an eyebrow. “It’s rather like a sweet crepe filled with walnuts,” I tell him as he orders the same.

“Köszönöm,” I tell her.

Even though her hair is more gray than brown, she gives Bronco Billy a long, lingering look. He smiles at her easily before she moves on. He just has that kind of impact on women.

“You want a cigarette?” Bronco Billy asks after she leaves.

I pass.

He lights his cigarette and blows the smoke out in a huff. “Where did you learn Hungarian?”

“My mother comes from Hungary, but she moved to the States just before I was born. She spoke both Hungarian and English to me as a child, but as she learned more and more English she stopped speaking the old language altogether. Eventually, I forgot I ever learned it. I only remember the odd word or two, but I do remember how delicious palacsinta are.”

“Where do you come from?”

What is this? Twenty questions? My suspicion of people is as natural to me as my blue eyes, but I suppress it. He’s just being friendly, I tell myself. “All over, really. My mother was a mentalist and a performer. We moved around a lot. What about you?” I say, before he can ask another question. “You told me about how boring cowboy work was, but how did you actually get into vaudeville?”

He smiles and, in spite of the fact that we’re just colleagues, my pulse speeds up. He’s just that beautiful.

“I told you how I used to practice my lariat work and gun tricks out of lack of anything else to do, right?” I nod and he continues. “One time the boss gave us younger cowboys the night off to go into town and see a traveling circus. It was one of those poor, tired circuses, but it certainly looked like more fun than what I was doing, so when I was offered a job as a hand, I jumped on it. Once the manager saw my repertoire of tricks, I was promoted to performer. I never looked back.”

My eyes widen. “Really? I worked in a circus, too. I was a knife girl!”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s quite a life, isn’t it? I only traveled with them for six months, but what a cast of characters! There was this old guy, a sword swallower who could swallow three swords at one time.”

Excitement causes me to sit upright. “Swineguard?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “How did you know?”

I start laughing. “Swineguard taught me everything I know about handling a knife.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up and he raises an eyebrow. “You carry a knife?”

I laugh harder and barely get the words out. “Of course. What self-respecting knife girl doesn’t?”

He joins me and the last vestiges of my shyness disappear.

“I can’t believe you worked for the same circus I did!” he finally says.

I wipe my eyes, my laughter abating. The waitress comes back and drops off our food and coffee, and for a few moments we’re silent as we taste the palacsinta, which are every bit as wonderful as I remember.

“These are good,” he says, and promptly waves down the waitress to order another.

I nod, my mouth too full to reply, and take a sip of my coffee. “You know, it’s really not that surprising that we worked in the same circus. Just how many circuses could there be roaming small towns in the West? The bigger, well-known circuses only hit the big cities.”

He nods. “That’s true. Did you know Hairy Harold? I would have never believed anyone could have that much hair without seeing it for myself.”

I laugh and we talk for the next hour, discussing the people we both knew and the places we’ve both been. I find myself relaxing and tell him far more about my life than I would just anyone. I even tell him about my mother and the séances.

I finally look at him with a bit of surprise. “It’s nice to talk to someone who understands without explaining why you feel certain ways about things or having to censor yourself because your words are too shocking.”

He nods. “Most people don’t understand that you can do things you’re not proud of to survive and still be a good person at heart.”

I feel the sadness of regret coming from him and can detect from his voice that there’s something he’s not telling me. I don’t pry, though. I understand the need to hide things.

In spite of my success and the entertaining night out, a fine layer of melancholy settles over me after I reach my room. I think again of Jeanne’s eagerness to leave the kind of life I desired. For so long I thought I wanted the life of a normal girl, and it took a crisis to make me realize just how important my magic is to me. Now that I have that, I’m strangely dissatisfied. Isn’t this what I wanted?

Restlessly, I ready myself for bed and turn down the gas lamp. The hotel the company put us up in is shabby, but at least the heat works and the bed looks comfortable. I pull the heavy quilts up to my chin but am too keyed up to sleep. I wonder what Cole is doing and if he’s thinking about me. I hate feeling so insecure about him, but he either doesn’t understand that I need occasional reassurance or he’s so sure of our relationship that he doesn’t feel the necessity. But there is a need. How could I possibly fit into Cole’s tidy En-glish life? I remember all the times I’ve shocked him without meaning to, like when he discovered I’d been with a circus or that I carried a knife. I can’t help but wonder how many times he’s hidden his shock over something I’ve said or done.

My fingertips go numb and I roll over onto my side, hoping the change in position will help. It doesn’t, and the pins and needles feeling travels up my hands into my elbows. At the same time, the same feeling attacks my feet and slowly inches up my legs.

My breath quickens. What’s happening to me? Something heavy and solid pushes me down into my bed like a weight has been dropped on top of my body. I want to struggle against it, but it’s so heavy I can’t. I lie on the bed, trying to focus my scattered thoughts. Suddenly, something shatters and my heart slams against my chest. My eyes stare at the mirror above the bureau as little flashes of light emit from the glass. That’s when I know:

The lights are coming from the mirror.

Fear, sour and metallic, coats my mouth and my heart feels as if it’s going to beat out of my chest. I wiggle underneath the weight of the invisible heavy thing, but it’s as if a giant fist is holding me against the bed. I open my mouth to scream, and suddenly my body is released.

I remain motionless, terror pulsing through my veins with my blood. My heartbeat is so loud it’s a wonder it isn’t heard in the next room. As soon as I’m able to move, I crawl out of bed and light the gas lamp. The glow reaches every corner of the room, chasing away the shadows. I look throughout the small room and bathroom but can’t find any broken glass.

My feet ache from the cold floor and my legs tremble as I crawl back to bed. I’m going crazy, imagining things that aren’t there. Even as I tell myself that, I know it isn’t true. No matter how implausible it seems, it was real. The only explanation I can think of is that it’s a dead person having a joke on me. It’s never happened before, but that’s not to say it can’t. My closeness to Cole has made my abilities sharper and stronger.

I suck in my breath and pull the covers around me tighter. Why have I never thought about that before? What happens if I spend the rest of my life with Cole? Will my abilities continue to change and grow as long as I’m with him? What does that mean? Will I soon be seeing dead people everywhere? Having nightly visions? Feeling everyone’s emotions? My chest tightens. What if my ability to control my talents doesn’t keep pace with their growth?

Am I willing to risk my own sanity to be with Cole?