The Magician's Lie

by Greer Macallister

  And I didn’t want to speak to him, I realized, because that might break the spell. He might be stupid or mean or angry. He might not like me, and I wanted him to like me, because I liked him. I felt sure that someone so tender with a plant would be just as careful with a person, but then again, finding out more might mean disappointment. He would have to have some kind of flaw. We all did. And as long as I never spoke to him or saw him again, he’d remain perfect.

  And so he did, for a time.

  Chapter Ten

  1895

  Metamorphosis

  The seasons passed. Without the vegetable dye my mother used to apply to it, the red-gold color of my hair started to show through, especially at the crown of my head. I piled my hair under my cap anyway, so no one much saw it, but I became fond of taking my hair down and looking at how red it was, how quickly I was growing into my new self.

  As for what had happened in the garden, it frightened me. Scared of ruining my fantasy, I didn’t go out to the garden again for weeks, though I considered it nearly every day. I ventured no further from the house than the statue of Diana. She helped define my limit. I pictured the boy, his hands gentle, his body tense and strong, and I treasured that picture. But I stayed inside with it and kept it to myself.

  In a way, even though there were many of us, the huge estate felt lonely. You could tell that the mansion’s best days were yet to come. You could look at the rooms and imagine them filled with rich people. Rich people reclining on the couches, or standing in the dressing rooms waiting for people like us to dress them, or taking their leisure on the lawn under lovely linen parasols on a summer afternoon. It was clear that this was the house’s destiny. But so far, it was only in our imaginations. We did have occasional guests, but they would generally tease Mr. Vanderbilt that they’d traipsed to the wilderness for his sake, and they thought perhaps once Biltmore was truly finished that it might really be something. Even the servants’ dining room, built to seat thirty of us, in those days was never more than half full. The swimming pool that had so frightened me that first night was finally completed but had yet to be filled with water. The bowling alley had a gleaming, polished floor and an impressive aspect but was still not stocked with balls or pins and remained as quiet as a church.

  ***

  In 1895, we welcomed our first large party, a full score of guests, for Christmas. With great fanfare, the master of the estate declared Biltmore officially open to invited visitors. The preparations kept us hopping for weeks. Every night, I slept the sleep of the dead.

  We decorated nearly every surface with spruce, from the fireplaces to the light fixtures, and covered the walls until they looked like living things. Men were sent out to denude whole sections of the forest and brought in heaps and armfuls of branches, and the heavenly smell filled every room of the house.

  We bedecked the house in ways large and small, finishing off the spruce garlands with red ribbon bows, changing out the table runners, tying glass ornaments on thin, nearly invisible threads to dangle merrily in each first-floor window. Every guest room needed to be in full and festive readiness, and linens upon linens flooded the laundry room on top of our usual work. It seemed a deliveryman was knocking at the back door every hour. The kitchen and pantry overflowed with the makings for not just the Christmas feast but a Christmas Eve seated supper as well and three days’ worth of enormous breakfasts and lunches. With little time to dance in the mornings, I found myself humming and stretching my limbs out secretly as I went about my other tasks, as if the instinct was threatening to burst out of me whether or not I let it.

  The eve of Christmas, we added festive touches to our uniforms—holly in the hair of the women, mint leaves on the men’s lapels—and served as we were meant to serve. We treated all the guests with outwardly identical deference, but some were more famous than others, and we all secretly jostled to have the honor of attending the stunning soprano Madame Nordica and grave but cordial Governor McKinley. Drinks were served in the grand parlor, with dozens of fragile glasses borne on silver trays up and down the back stairs and laden platters of hors d’oeuvres brought up by dumbwaiter.

  When the time came, the entire party was ushered down the grand staircase—that sight alone made them gasp in delight—and seated at table for seven courses, using every fish fork and ice cream spoon in the estate’s collection. We brought foods to table that most of us had never even seen before, bearing caviar and truffles as if they were grits and succotash. It was a mad scramble downstairs to achieve a tranquil appearance in the dining room, like a duck seeming to glide upon the water but paddling madly all the while. But all was charm and grace at the dinner itself, soup to nuts. At the end, we cleared away the last of the delicate china and steered the company to yet another parlor where coffee and brandy lay at the ready. Our collective sigh of relief afterward was so deep that it might well have been audible.

  After a quarter hour of lovely piping after-dinner music from a trio of French horns, we bundled the whole visiting party into elegant carriages for a late-night turn about the grounds. Even the carriage horses, matched white stallions, were decorated for the occasion, with jingle bells on their reins and red velvet ribbons braided into their manes and tails.

  Once the jingle bells faded into the distance, the mischievous Mr. Bullard stepped forward and said, “And until they return, let’s play!”

  The more cautious among us, myself included, made some noises of concern, but we were quickly shushed by the more adventurous. The grooms agreed to stand watch at the door so we’d have fair warning of the party’s return. The rented musicians with their French horns were quickly urged into the side room and a bowl of punch produced, and impromptu festivities began.

  Some of the group grasped hands and began a partnered dance. I stood aside, thinking I would only watch. But once the first deep trill of the French horns sounded, the dancing itself was like a spell that came over me.

  Only the first few motions were mechanical. I raised my arms over my head and began with a pirouette, then swept my whole body forward and extended my fingertips as if to embrace the great far ceiling, and from there, I let the music carry me off. I stretched and bent, leapt and flourished, every movement quick and lovely and joyous, until an unknown time later when the music began to fade.

  The sound of applause brought me back to the room almost reluctantly, with a warm haze of delight still lingering in my limbs. Many of the servants were watching me, and their applause was directed toward me, so I bobbed my head in a quick acknowledgment. It gave me a warm feeling, their admiration. Cheeks flushed, I stepped back toward the wall.

  Mr. Bullard handed me half a cup of punch. Thirsty, I drank it in a few fast gulps. The horns continued to play, and I must have been swaying along. I felt the music swelling inside my body deep down, nudging me into motion again.

  “Let’s see you dance some more!” cried Mr. Bullard, who had never previously shown signs of getting carried away, but I obliged.

  To impress him, I brought my arms up in second position, struck a haughty, high-chinned pose, and set myself up to spin clear across twenty feet of open floor in a sharp series of piqué turns. Before the Christmas preparations had started, I’d done it a hundred times. But after the punch, I wasn’t spotting correctly. When you do piqué turns, chaîné turns, or other sharp spins, it’s essential to spot. You focus on a place on the wall and turn your head quickly at the end of each spin, fixing your eyes on that spot again, and it keeps you level. You don’t get dizzy. But I spun out of control, and instead of ending in the corner I aimed for, I ended by thudding into something soft.

  I looked into the eyes of the something soft. A man, just about my size, almost too close to make sense of. High cheekbones, a straight thin nose, and small lips. Thick, dark brows with a pointed arch at the far end of each. Blue eyes, clear and infinitely deep. I recognized him then. His was a face in perfect harmony, st
rong and sharp, and not so different close up than it had been glimpsed from afar.

  His eyes were turned upward, so I followed his gaze to the door frame above our heads and saw the mistletoe hanging there, a sprig of green sharp leaves with a cluster of perfect white berries, and then his face was very close by my face, and his eyes closed, and he lowered his lips to mine.

  It was a sweet, soft kiss, and it was over in a moment.

  We stepped away from each other at once. The music resumed. The world started to move again. My lips felt both numb and aching, as if I’d nibbled horseradish. I felt a hundred eyes on me, but when I peeked back at the rest of the servants, it was as if nothing had happened. The swarm of chattering and murmuring voices continued without break. The music piped on. No one was turned our way.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said.

  “Roses,” I blurted.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You tend the roses,” I said.

  He smiled then, and it was like sunshine. “The roses, yes, and the pond lilies, and the tall grass, and the forests around us. Whatever the master wants to grow, or not grow, on the land. How did you know?”

  “I saw you once.”

  “When?” he asked. “Hasn’t been much growing lately.”

  “In the summer.”

  “That long ago? And you remember me still? How flattering.”

  I blushed from the roots of my hair down to the collar of my uniform and well down underneath the cloth.

  “But where are my manners?” He thrust out his hand. “Clyde Garber.”

  We shook hands. “Miss Bates.”

  “No,” he said. “What’s your first name?”

  “Ada.”

  “You have beautiful eyes, Ada.”

  “Thank you.” I dropped a fast curtsy.

  “No, I’m not being polite.” He extended his hand again but with the palm turned up. “Will you dance, this time with me?”

  I wanted to reach for that hand, wanted it badly, but I felt myself teetering already. “I’m afraid not. The punch has left me dizzy.”

  “You should sit. Come this way.” He beckoned for me to follow him into the next room, the library, and I did.

  There, it was cooler and less crowded—empty, in fact—and I settled my body onto a soft couch next to a tall bookcase. I expected to feel his weight drop onto the cushion next to mine, and the thought sent a pleasant shiver up my legs, but there was nothing. I looked up. He was facing the bookcase instead.

  “Have you read any of these?” he asked, gesturing toward the books.

  “I don’t think I’m allowed.”

  “You’re that obedient? I didn’t take you for a child.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “A lady never tells.”

  He stared me down. There was an intensity to him that I found unsettling and comforting at the same time.

  “Fifteen,” I said. I knew I looked older, because the other girls said so, but the truth would do well enough.

  Chuckling, he said, “That’s what I thought.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” he said. “But I feel like I was born much older.”

  “Tell me what you mean.”

  “Another time. You should take a book or two whenever you want. They never check. I take them all the time.”

  “You steal Mr. Vanderbilt’s books?”

  “Borrow. I borrow. And mostly when Mr. Vanderbilt is traveling.”

  “What do you read?” I asked him.

  “Come here, I’ll show you,” he said, and I did. As I stood next to him, he ran his fingers along the spine of each book as he talked about it. I was close enough to feel the warmth of his body and smell the mint in his lapel, and the music drifted in from the other room while he talked to me about the beauty of Shakespeare and Donne and Zola. When I told him I’d read all that and more, he grinned and nodded and said what a pleasure it was to talk to a well-read woman for a change. He went on to tell me about a particular book called The Picture of Dorian Gray, which he had just finished reading but had not had the chance to place back on the shelf. While he talked about that book, he stroked the spines of the books on either side of the empty space. I began to imagine his fingers stroking my body instead of the books, those careful long fingers against my bare skin.

  I couldn’t help it. I reached out for his hand. He turned his body toward mine. The intensity of his gaze unsettled me and I froze, fearing I’d been too bold. But then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he entwined his fingers with my fingers, and his lips came down on mine.

  The second kiss was different from the first. Hotter and sweeter. Instead of the brief firm touch of the kiss under the mistletoe, I felt his tender, playful mouth against mine, shifting and asking and answering all at once.

  My body, with a will of its own, drew closer to his. I felt his fingers on my neck, the calluses rough against the tender skin but his touch nimble and teasing, setting my nerves atremble. I’d imagined the touch of his fingers, months ago, and they were exactly as gentle and graceful as I’d imagined.

  Then I heard shouts from the other room and realized belatedly that the music had stopped. The riding party had returned. They’d come flooding into the entryway at any moment. Mr. Garber might not be obligated to receive the guests and assist them, but I was. My absence would be noted if I stayed.

  I broke away from him, my cheeks flushed.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I have to go.”

  His hand was still on the warm flesh of my neck. He let it linger there a moment longer as he said, “Ada, it was a true pleasure.” Then it fell away, and he left by another door.

  Late that night, after the guests had been carefully tucked under their fine duvets, with that day’s elegant gowns packed away and different elegant gowns laid out for morning, I went to bed with a strange, hollow feeling in my stomach. Some of the less discreet girls gossiped in the laundry room in great detail, and I knew what men were capable of on a good day, or during a good night. There was a storm in my blood, however calm I looked on the outside.

  I had cherished a private fantasy of this young man, but now I had something new. The warmth of him, the rumbling sound of his voice, the sweet yielding pressure of his lips on mine, the feeling of those hands. It was almost too much all at once. The dizzying possibilities. I imagined him next to me as I lay down to sleep, picturing his head sharing my pillow, those sky blue eyes closing slowly, his face so close to mine that I could feel the stirring of his breath. I fought sleep even as I welcomed it, stretching out those moments, thinking, wondering.

  How do we know what love feels like? Especially the first time we feel it? I was unprepared. For the first few days, I couldn’t stop stroking my lips with my fingers, grazing them against my chin, touching the places he had touched. He was more than on my mind. He was everywhere I looked, even when he wasn’t. Had he thought me a silly girl, too simple and too forward, or would those tender moments ripen into something more lasting? I wouldn’t know until I could talk to him again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Janesville, 1905

  Two o’clock in the morning

  When she falls silent, he speaks into the silence, softly. “And did you grow up to marry this young man?”

  She cocks her head and says, “Was your wife your first love, officer? We love more people than we marry, most of us.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Her even, logical tone makes him angry. It’s a tone for discussing a tedious sermon, not danger or love or murder.

  “I’m going to ask another question. And this time, I want you to answer. Do you understand?”

  “Officer.” Sh
e sighs. “I don’t want to talk about the murder.”

  “I know. That’s not what I’m going to ask about. I want to ask about your magic.”

  “My magic?” She says it with a slight laugh.

  “Yes,” he says, “your magic,” and reaches out to touch her throat, holding aside the edges of her lace collar to see it clearly. He was right; the bruise there is completely gone. The whole of her neck is pale and unblemished.

  His fingers still on her throat, he looks into her face and says boldly, “The magic that helps you heal. You mentioned it. You realized, at Biltmore, that you were making it happen, that you were healing yourself. With a wish.”

  She eyes him out of the half-brown eye with something resembling respect. Perhaps she thought he’d forget, given the length of the night and her story. Then again, she must know the claim is extraordinary. “I suppose we could dance around it, but what’s the point?” she says.

  A different air altogether has come over her. There’s a new tilt to her chin, a different angle in her carriage. She’s proud of what she can do. As well she should be, he thinks.

  “So,” he says, thinking of her neck, her wrist. “Bruises. Cuts. What else?”

  “Bruises disappear. Cuts seal themselves up. Broken bones become whole again. As simple as that.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “Small things, just a matter of hours. Longer for something more serious. As I’m sure you’ve figured out from what I told you.”

  He remembers the story of the leg broken in her fall, the fingers crushed by a horse’s hoof. How quickly she healed afterward in both cases. The story she’s telling him may or may not turn out to be the story of the murder, but it has very useful information in it all the same. Information that could, he’s now realizing, change everything. He doesn’t just have to decide what to do. He has to decide what to believe.

  “So Ray was right.”

  She flinches, hard. He immediately regrets saying it.