by Lee Kelly
And my disappointment is as real and needling as a splinter.
I shake it off, try to hold on to the rush I got when I first heard about my night off, despite the fact that I’m alone. I grab my coat, hat, and gloves and hit M Street, turn down 15th Street, and soon run into a church. It’s packed outside, people coming and going, the church’s wide stone stairs busy and festive. A chorus of red-dressed girls and boys stand on the front lawn holding candles, all bundled up in their new coats and Sunday best, start belting out an adorable version of “Silent Night.”
And it’s only then that I realize it’s Christmas.
An intense loneliness falls over me like a shadow. I want to call Ruby and Ben, make sure that Ben made my gingerbread for her, ask if he remembered to pick her up something from the Drummond Five and Dime. But they’ve got no phone. I want to find Grace, enjoy the holiday with her, but I’ve got no clue where she went. In an impulsive moment, I think of calling on Alex, surprising him, telling him that I’m beyond excited that he’s joining our troupe, and that I couldn’t wait to see him one more day. But I don’t know where he lives.
And now my night off feels less like a gift, and more like a sad trick. Even more pathetic, I find myself wishing the Den was open tonight, so I could forget everything else, just throw myself headfirst into performance magic. I finally grab a hot cocoa from the meeting hall next to the church, watch the carolers for a little while longer, and try to make the most of the night.
* * *
The next morning I get up early, ready to break the news about reopening up and down our hall. I start with Grace. She opens her door to find me all smiles.
“Season’s greetings,” I say.
She’s still got sleep on her: matted hair, long white nightgown. “Did Gunn finally let you out last night? I stayed around here as long as I could, but it was too depressing.”
“Yeah, I got some time off, it was good.” Like a reflex, I turn inward, erect a mental wall to keep Grace from reaching in and pulling out the truth. “But I’ve got some better news—we’re reopening.”
She shakes her head. “Are you serious? How?”
“Gunn found us a replacement sorcerer. Get ready, meet me downstairs in a few minutes.” This morning actually seems more like my Christmas—getting back on the stage, performing. “We’ve got to train the boy,” I tell her as I cross the hall, “work him in, get him up to speed!”
I round up the rest of the troupe, tell them the same, then double back to my room and quickly throw on a splash of rouge and a wipe of lipstick. I’m nervous about seeing Alex again, with no McEvoy or Gunn breathing down our necks. It kind of feels like a first date. A date five other sorcerers happen to be attending.
I head downstairs to the show space, my excitement about performing—about sharing something I love with Alex—flooding me with a warm anxiety. Soon the troupe files in and settles on the benches around my stage.
“When do we open?” Ral asks, as he sits down wearily.
I steal a longer look at him. Not sure how he spent his first Christmas away from his family, but if I had to guess from his gray face and dull eyes, I’d bet it was on an all-night shine bender with Billy. Losing Stock probably made the holiday even worse.
“Tomorrow night, and then we perform straight through the week.” Then I add, “Should be enough time to get our heads on straight again,” hoping Ral catches my message.
“Gunn’s not worried about the patrons?” Grace asks. “About . . . about what happened keeping people away?”
Tommy and Rose exchange a loaded look at the veiled reference to Stock. None of us have been able to really talk about it. Was it Tommy and Rose’s sporadic lightning that killed him? Was it me running away?
“Gunn thinks the show must go on,” I say simply.
“Who’s the replacement?” Ral asks.
“He used to be Boss McEvoy’s right-hand sorcerer, on the street side of the Shaws’ operation. He comes highly recommended.”
“A street sorcerer?” Billy snaps. “Has he ever performed?”
There’s no use lying. “I don’t think so.”
Ral and Billy start mumbling to each other on the far bench. I knew they’d be the most resistant to this. They’re the biggest believers in the magic of seven, and two days to train and insert a new guy into our troupe, for our first reopening after a freak—and public—accident, is not a lot of time.
“And Gunn didn’t think we should have any say in the matter?” Billy says to me.
“It came as an order, not a suggestion. You know Gunn.”
“Not as well as you.”
Billy’s words sting—especially since I don’t think I’ve ever felt more distant from him. Gunn’s been pulling me in one direction, and Billy’s loud, shine-laced lifestyle has sent him spinning in another. But the sting must be evident from my face, because Billy softens his tone. “You know this is ludicrous, Joan. How’s this new boy going to keep up? I don’t think this is the way the magic of seven works—if you’re down a man, you can’t just find some schmo and insert him as a stand-in. We’ve been working for months, months of magic ties and connections. You can’t replicate that in two days. And if the show doesn’t come together, there’ll be hell to pay from Gunn.”
I shake my head, because for some reason, I’m not worried. I’ve seen what Alex can do. And as crazy as it sounds, somehow I know I’ve only scratched the surface. “We’ll make it work. Gunn knows what he’s doing. And the new boy’s talented, Billy,” I answer. “He’s a manipulations expert, has a great eye for detail, works hard—”
Grace interrupts with, “Wait, so you’ve met him?”
At that, the group falls silent.
I swallow audibly. “Just around here. But I can vouch for him.”
Tommy sits up straight. “So there’s a big accident with Stock, and then poof, one of your gentlemen callers is on the roster.”
Rose whispers to him, “Man, our girl gets around.”
I feel my face flush as Grace cuts in, “This isn’t the time to be eating our own.”
“It’s the truth, Mama Bear,” Rose cuts back. “Stock would still be alive if he hadn’t been working with Joan that night.”
“You mean Stock would still be alive if you and Tommy hadn’t been shined to the moon that night,” I say. “It was your lightning.”
And then Tommy stands brusquely, whether to confront me with magic or with his fists, I’ll never be sure, because Alex picks that exact time to burst through the double doors. The six of us stop and turn.
“Sorry if I’m late,” Alex apologizes, as we all stare him down.
His eyes find mine, and that intense, almost crippling feeling—angsty, raw—washes over me on seeing him again.
When I don’t move or say anything right away, Ral crosses my stage and shakes Alex’s hand. “Ral Morgan,” he says. “My associates, Billy Caine, Grace Dune, Tommy and his sister Rose Briggs. And apparently, you know Joan Kendrick.”
“Yes, I’ve met Miss Kendrick,” Alex says warmly. He looks around at the crowd. “I’m Alex Danfrey. It’s nice to meet you all. I’m thrilled about joining such a talented troupe, and I’m looking forward to learning from, and working with, all of you.”
Billy crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Heard you worked with Boss McEvoy himself. He liked you enough to let you walk away, but not enough to keep you?”
“I protected him on the road for a little while,” Alex answers slowly. “Needless to say, we weren’t a good match.”
“Wait, Alex Danfrey?” Rose cuts in. “Are you related to that big pharmaceutical spell racketeer, Richard Danfrey?”
Alex’s face becomes taut. “I am. I’m his son.”
“Tommy, you remember those sad headlines?” Rose tsks, her gaze never leaving Alex’s, her dark catlike eyes glimmering. “Newspap
ers calling Richard Danfrey a traitor, saying his wife was poor and crazy now? Funny, never remember reading anything about a son.”
I see a fire light behind Alex’s eyes. “My family did well to keep me out of the papers.”
“So your pop works for D Street, things fall apart, and you get burned . . . and then you work for his enemy, McEvoy . . . you’re not good enough, and you get demoted.” Tommy laughs to himself. “You ever think you Danfreys aren’t cut out for magic?”
Even Grace clearly has doubts about Alex. She takes a step forward, like she’s about to go delving inside Alex’s mind for answers. “You really think you can keep up, Mr. Danfrey?”
“Enough, guys, this isn’t an interview,” I finally say, but Alex glances at me and says, “It’s all right, Joan.”
He runs his fingers through that silky blond hair of his, takes a big breath. “I do think I can keep up,” he addresses my troupe. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m good with visual manipulations, and I’ve been told that I have an eye for detail. Doesn’t take me too long to learn a new trick, either.”
“And he’s being modest,” I cut in.
“Joan mentioned you’ve never performed in front of an audience,” Ral presses.
“No, but I’ll learn what I need to learn. I won’t let you down.”
“And I’ll help him,” I blurt out. “He can work with me on my performance trick until he gets settled and we decide where it makes sense for him to go.”
“You want to take the weight of training him?” Ral says, his voice a strange mix between relief and doubt.
I nod.
“All right, fine,” Ral says. “Then let’s get to it. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, if we’re opening on Monday.”
Alex stays in my performance circle with me, as the rest of the sorcerers move to their own spaces.
“Nice and tense around here,” Alex says.
I shoot him a glance as I start dumping out some feathers from the bin around my stage. “The guy you replaced, he—he passed away a few nights back. I think everyone’s just trying to find someone or something to blame for the mistake.”
Alex flashes me a thin smile. “Easy thing to understand.”
“Don’t worry. The troupe’s got bark but little bite. Especially Billy and Ral, they’re good fellas deep down, trust me. And Grace just takes it upon herself to keep mental tabs on all of us.” I give him a smile. “Just start imagining sky-high brick walls when she’s nearby, and she’ll take the hint and back off.”
“I appreciate you vouching for me, Joan,” Alex says. “I still can’t believe I’ve never caught a show before.” He looks around the space, to the rest of my troupe now practicing their own tricks in their performance circles. “Must be something, being here as a patron.” He swallows. “Got to say, I’m feeling a little out of my league.”
“You’ll get the hang of it—you just need to immerse yourself in the troupe. You’ll feel it, once the magic of our seven has you. Your set of tricks will expand, your talents will start to mature.” I think back to those first nights we were practicing as seven here at the Den, when we started to understand just how strong our magic had to become to achieve Gunn’s vision. “Pretend your magic is one part of our puzzle, and have faith that it’ll come together to make the big picture.”
Alex smiles. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
“It’s what works for me,” I say. “You’re going to be great, okay? I’ll help you, one step at a time.”
At that, Alex throws me that smirk that I’m always sort of angling for from him, the one where it almost looks like he’s about to laugh at you and with you at the same time. “Seriously, Joan. Thank you.”
My face flushes, so I nod and start to pace around my circle. “We practice our individual performances every day—the one-man and two-man tricks that take up the show’s first hour or so—and then Gunn comes in after lunch to give us his thoughts on the night’s finale,” I say. “Then we’ll experiment, try to run the finale a few ways, until we finally show him a dress rehearsal. After dress, we break for about an hour and come back here a little early for the real show.”
Alex raises his eyebrows. “Long day.”
I shrug. “It is, but you get used to it. There’s a show every night but Sunday, which I usually spend sleeping.”
Alex smiles again. “And the shows start at eight?”
I nod and point to the double doors. “Right through there, a hundred and fifty patrons come pouring into our show space. And trust me, the crowd is always something to see.”
“Lots of crazy cats come in here?”
I grin. “Rich, eccentric, addicted to shine. Sure you can paint yourself a pretty picture.” Then I tell him about some of the better finales we’ve conjured, and how we wrap up the show by brewing sorcerer’s shine for the audience. “Win told Gunn that you’re steady with transference—that you can brew your magic into a bottle, right?”
Alex nods.
“Well, we brew the shine up there, on the stage”—I point to the back of the show space—“and the stagehands take care of pouring it and passing it around.” I smirk at Alex. “And then it really gets insane in here.”
Alex laughs. “Like how?”
“People claiming that they’re seeing God, walking around like mummies, mumbling to themselves.” I laugh. “Lord, some even go stripping and streaking. Once caught a little orgy in the corner over there.” I feel my cheeks flush again, and look away. Why did I just mention that to him? “Sometimes I sneak up to my room, when Gunn’s not looking, just for a little break from it.”
“I hear you,” Alex says, as his laughter begins to fall away. “Some nights on the road I would have given up my right hand for a ten-minute break from McEvoy.” He points to my circular stage. “So what’s your trick?”
“Watch and learn.” And then I run through my solo performance, the one I’ve done over a hundred times since I arrived at the Red Den, where I take a ring of feathers, lift them until they slowly encircle me, then spin them fast as a tornado, until a live dove flies out of the chaos. I’ve done the trick so many times that I don’t even consider it “magic” anymore, but when the bird flaps to the rafters above, Alex gives a sigh, just like a patron. “That’s amazing.” He looks at me. “What do you do with all the birds?”
“A stagehand rounds up the five or so I make each night into a cage,” I say, as I gather more feathers from my bin. “Then I release them, to fly for one glorious night, before they’re condemned to disappear.” I give a little smile. “For that minute, when I lean out the window and watch them flap away, I pretend that I’m flying with them.” Lord, I can’t believe I just said that out loud. It feels weak, and sappy, and it’s something I haven’t even shared with Grace. Maybe ’cause it makes it sound like I want to run away. And maybe ’cause sometimes, when I’m in Gunn’s office, when the walls are closing in, there’s nothing closer to the truth.
But Alex doesn’t flinch, and his eyes grow warmer. “Where would you go?”
If I really could fly? I’d turn Ruby, Ben, and me all into birds, let the three of us soar under the moon, without a care in the world, Ruby’s laughter spellbinding the night. “I’d fly for as long as I could.” I look away from him. “Why don’t you try it this time?”
“I don’t know if I can,” he says doubtfully.
I sit on the bench next to him. “Just focus on every feather, at the same time you’re imagining the bird. Your magic touch wants to make the connections.”
Alex nods, turns in on himself. He dumps some more feathers around him. Then he furrows his brow, points his hands toward the floor, and the feathers begin to lift, sashay. Then they start to move together like a complicated dance. But my eyes stay on Alex. He’s beautiful, standing there concentrating, his hair flopping over a strong brow that’s just starting
to perspire. He’s exactly the kind of intriguing, handsome boy you’d want to trick you.
The feathers soon spin into a frantic white wind, and then a dove is birthed from the center of its magic cocoon. The bird flies across the show space and lands on a ceiling pipe high above the double doors.
“You’re really talented, Alex.”
“I’m not so sure anymore, now that I can see what you all can do.” But he’s clearly pleased by my compliment.
“When did you find out you could do all this, that you could sorcer?”
“At the end of puberty, same as most people who get the magic touch.” He studies his hands. “Wonderful, isn’t it, trying to figure out who you are right as you realize you can create lightning with your fingers?”
I nod but think back to my conversation with Gunn, how he said that Alex had a “cloudy past.” From Rose and Tommy’s teasing, it’s clear that Alex’s father ran some big, scandalous spells scheme. I wonder if Alex’s pop was like my mother and tried to keep him away from magic, at least at first—or if he was the reason Alex dove headfirst into this underworld. “So did your father teach you everything he knew? About magic, and the spells racket he was running?”
He looks at me quizzically. “Thought you didn’t read the papers.”
I shrug, drop my gaze. “I don’t, just couldn’t ignore what the others were saying, is all.” I give him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, don’t mean to pry—I’m just trying to learn more about the mystery man, Alex Danfrey.”
“You want to learn all my secrets?” he jokes softly, takes a couple steps closer. “Why don’t you show me yours first?”
I look up, and Alex is holding a small mirror in his palm. I expect to see my reflection back in it, but in the center of the glass just floats an image of that same black orchid he gave me, all those nights ago in the hall. And then my dove trick kind of feels beside the point. An idea, hot and fast, turns me on like a switch.
“That’s what we’ll do for our performance,” I say breathlessly. “Magic’s better when it means something—when you let it breathe.”