The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  “We’re not stopping.” He turned the car again.

  Wren looked up, seeing the terse line of his jaw and his eyes focused on the road out in front of them. Elliot was steady in the moment. As if he’d done this very thing time and time before.

  Maybe this sort of madness was just another day at the office to him.

  Ignoring the shock and pain felt easier as they drove along—almost saving to her in a way—so Wren drew her arms in around her middle, making herself as small as possible. And to her surprise, she allowed Elliot to take the role of hero for the moment.

  He checked the rearview mirror again and again, eyes flitting from the shadows in their wake to the span of open road out in front of them.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  And that was all he offered.

  Wren hoped he wasn’t bringing them to the Federal Bureau office—the last thing she wanted to entertain was more agents’ questions—but she hadn’t the ability to think straight enough to render a guess. They sped along for what seemed like hours. Quiet. Each lost in the depth of their own thoughts as ice-rain pelted the windows and the engine chugged through the streets.

  Wren closed her eyes for a few moments, drifting between her inclination to demand control of the wheel herself or to submit to blind trust in a man she barely knew.

  Still, her shoulder nagged. She eased her hand over it, trying to rub out the throbbing with every bump and divot in the road. Eliot took one final turn, a sharp left that sent her sliding against the door again. Her eyes shot open, flooding her with the interior view of a carriage house with low, raftered ceilings and whitewashed stalls on one side of them.

  Elliot eased the car to a stop. “Stay here.”

  He’d pulled a revolver from his shoulder holster, then jumped from the driver’s side of the car, leaving the door to swing open in his wake.

  Wren couldn’t see much past the side of the car, just the sight of his feet pounding dirt on his way to the open doors. She slid across the seat so she could have a clearer view, stopping just behind the wheel.

  The sound of Elliot’s muffled footsteps died away soon after, and Wren could only see horse stalls and hay bales. Lanterns were perched on the wall, the ghostly glow of one dusting light against wooden rafters against the vaulted ceiling. Her frantic heartbeats wreaked havoc on the confines of her chest. The call of the wind whistled as it struck the carriage house walls over and over, the weather having kicked into a frenzy in the time they’d been driving.

  Wren exhaled, letting go of a breath she hadn’t realized she’d held captive for so long. Suddenly the burning pain returned. Now that she had time to think they might be safe, pain seared down the length of her arm.

  Wren’s heart nearly stopped when a path of red soaked through the outer layer of her coat sleeve, then trailed down to gather in a dark pool at her cuff.

  Elliot returned, startling her from the sight of her own blood seeping from her body.

  He didn’t hold a gun but a lantern. It illuminated his face, his eyes registering calm and concern. “Don’t worry. They’re gone. We lost them awhile back.”

  Wren didn’t hide her sigh of relief. He’d come back for her.

  “I . . . I think I’m hurt,” she managed as calmly as she could muster the words.

  She tried to show him the injury, but her arm wouldn’t work. It turned lax, burning and useless in her lap.

  Elliot nodded, placed the lantern down on the running board, and slipped his arms out of his jacket. Gentle fingertips eased under her arm and raised the elbow, and he wrapped the jacket tight around the wound.

  “Come on.” Elliot reached in for her, careful not to graze her shoulder, then swept his other arm under her legs, and to her surprise, Wren let him, opting to be carried out instead of trying and failing to walk.

  “We’ll be safe here.”

  “Where is here?” She battled to keep her head up.

  The air seemed colder than it was at her home on Beacon Hill, the wind whipping her hair in a frantic dance about her cheek. The air smelled fresh and clean, so unlike the city, salty and alive even in the frigid cold of February.

  With her energy spent and an unfamiliar numbness invading her arm, she felt overcome with exhaustion. Wren gave up the fight to stay strong on her own, allowing her chin to droop down against Elliot’s shoulder.

  “Stay awake, Wren. Keep your eyes open.” His pace quickened, leading them along the cobblestone path of a garden that lay quiet and still, sleeping through the height of their New England winter.

  “Is that a garden?” she whispered. Even her voice felt foreign, weighted.

  “It was once.” He carried her up the path to a large house perched on the slight crest of a hill. “But don’t worry about that now. We’ve got a bigger concern.”

  Lamplight glowed soft in the windows.

  Her eyelids drifted closed with the welcome of it.

  They were at someone’s home, weren’t they? A safe place, by the looks of it. Somewhere out of the storm . . .

  “Wren, I’d say you were wrong about having completed your purpose at Amberley’s party tonight. It appears as though someone wants one or both of us dead, and I’m not prepared to comply.”

  CHAPTER 9

  JULY 2, 1910

  PICCADILLY CIRCUS

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Jenny shuffled her performance spot between street corners near Leicester Square and Coventry Street to the busy entrance of the Piccadilly Tube station. The heaviest pedestrian traffic was sure to filter past there during the day.

  She’d carried her leather-strapped wooden box through the streets, looking the part of a young shoe shine in worn trousers, shirt, and suspenders, her long fiery hair braided and tucked tight in a woolen newsboy cap. It’s where she’d been that Saturday afternoon, watching patrons trickle out of the matinee performance at the Criterion Theatre. Truth was, though, she had no interest in shining shoes at all.

  Those customers had to be turned away frequently.

  The wooden box with chipped blue paint and the sign that read Shine in wobbly white letters was all a ruse to fool the coppers, should they come poking around.

  Hers was a street game—a thimblerig—because it had begun with street gamblers hiding a pea or small stone under sewing thimbles. She used three shells, because they were easier to slide about the top of her upturned box, giving the illusion that one could follow the path of the pea beneath.

  It wasn’t a true con, as she never took wagers from patrons. Instead, they paid a flat fee, and if they could guess how she managed to consistently best them with the pea moving under one of three shells, they’d win. In truth, she wanted only to see if her illusion was good. If patrons could guess the sleight of hand behind her tricks, she’d know where to adjust so the performance could be seamless the next time.

  And one day, Jenny dreamed, she’d entertain like the performers in the Castleton Theatre. Only, she wouldn’t play the part of a comedy act or fill a spot in a girls’ chorus line. Jenny was an illusionist. No one needed to tell her. It was just there, inherent and engraved on her innermost heart. And one day she’d answer that call.

  “Are you shining today?”

  Jenny looked up, squinting in the sun.

  She found herself in the shadow of a man she’d noticed before. He’d just exited the theater, a well-dressed gentleman of medium height, with a muscular build and dark curly hair peeking wildly from his brow. With his hands in the pockets of his tweed suit, he waited for her answer, offering a slight smile.

  “I might be.” She shifted the wide leather strap to more evenly distribute the weight on her shoulder. “Depends on who’s asking.”

  The man lifted a shoe in a comical flat-footed pose, showing off the invisible dust of his travels. “A weary man who can sure use one, as you can see.”

  Jenny checked over her shoulder.

  He’d stopped to talk with a gaggle of on-
duty policemen near the entrance only moments before. Surely, he knew that street games—even if they were innocent of a gambling nature—were something she could be hauled into the nearest police station for.

  If the man wanted a shine, perhaps she could squeeze them in the edge of an alleyway. And if she saw a measure of trust in him, then she could inquire as to his interest in a game. It couldn’t hurt to try and work him out. And if he wasn’t interested, at the very least she’d earn a coin or two for her trouble and could be on her way after.

  “Over here.” She nodded and swept her box into the corner by a downspout and an alleyway that would ensure they went unnoticed. “Out of the sun.”

  He followed and she laid out her box, the angled shoe platform pointed to the sky. He leaned an elbow on the brick building and placed his first shoe into the groove. She went to work, opening her flimsy drawer to her shoeshine kit, taking polish and brushes from inside.

  “How are the wages along this street?”

  Jenny shrugged.

  Her greatest protection was to fly by the world unnoticed. To be of no importance to anyone. Best then to keep the conversation light.

  “I’ve seen you working along this street before, I think. Do you live close-by?”

  Her stomach tightened. Jenny knew she didn’t look as though she belonged to London’s more affluent corners. Surely he could see the hole in the knee of her pants and the yellowed tinge to her once-white button-down. She’d dirtied them on purpose and worked quite hard to make them appear as naturally worn as she could.

  Why would he ask such a question?

  “Do I look like I live in this part of the city?”

  “Not necessarily. I hear there are some interesting characters in Bloomsbury. But I don’t know that anyone really looks like where they live. Just making polite conversation.”

  “Sorry, sir, but I’m afraid conversation isn’t going to shine your shoes any faster.”

  “Right you are.” He nodded as she lowered her gaze to refocus on her task. “But you don’t mind if I talk while you work, do you? I’m an entertainer by trade. It’s what we do.”

  Jenny’s heart pricked at his admission.

  An entertainer!

  She covered her immediate interest and kept working, dusting and polishing the first of his two oxfords, urging the black-and-white wing tip to a right shine.

  He pointed down the street toward Leicester Square. “I performed right over there for a time, at the Hippodrome. Spring 1904. You would have been . . .” He furrowed his brow, then let loose with a chuckle. “Well, you would have been quite young, I’m sure.”

  “Still am, sir.” She whipped her dry towel over the tips of his shoe. It gleamed, singing like a Sunday smile. “Next.”

  He looked down, surprised, it seemed, that she’d done half the job in such a short time. He slipped his second shoe into the polishing spot and turned his attention to his wristwatch.

  “Are you going to ask me what I do?”

  She shrugged. “Very well, sir. What do you do?”

  “I make things disappear. And I escape from tight spots—from persons or places that try to tie me down. I imagine an entertainer’s life is a fairly similar gig to your job here.”

  Jenny looked up again, this time just with her eyes edging under the brim of her hat. He kept his gaze on his watch.

  Was he timing her?

  Still polishing, she asked, “What do you escape from?”

  “I started with small things: picking locks around the house. Child’s play, really. It became something of a habit. And then I got better. Had more fun with it. So I graduated to picking all the locks in the shops of the little town where I lived. When I tired of that, I moved on to picking handcuffs at the local jail. Fell into that one, really. But I learned a valuable lesson when I had to pick a lock and there was no choice but to allow a prisoner to watch me do it.”

  Jenny hesitated, her hands pausing for a split second, feeling the direction of their conversation edging too close to her reality. It was polite to nod as he talked, but she readied her feet to move should she need to pack up and bolt in an instant.

  “In a sense, I had to give up my secret then and there for how I did one of my signature tricks.” He dropped his voice low, so only she could hear. “And I vowed after that, I’d never reveal how I performed any of my illusions again. Not to anyone, unless I had complete trust in them. Because that illusion is all I have. Once it’s broken, the story dies forever.”

  Jenny cleared her throat. Why had he taken his words in the direction he had? She checked over her shoulder, then quickly gathered her things, shoving them into the drawer without care.

  “Impressive,” he finally said, turning his focus from his watch to admiring her handiwork with his shoes. He dug through his pocket, chinking change. “How much?”

  “No charge, sir.” Jenny jerked the leather box strap over her shoulder.

  “No charge, you say?” His brows drew closer, doubt evident. He dropped the change back into his pocket. “Why ever not? You’ve done a fine job. And faster than any shine I’ve ever seen, I might add.”

  The crowd passing along the sidewalk had grown—ladies whisking by in their long dresses, men with bowler hats and bow ties. They had no idea the game of cat-and-mouse playing out beside them.

  This man, whoever he was, knew too much. And Jenny’s feet itched to run away from him, to weave into the crowd and leave him and his polished shoes far behind before she was handed over to the authorities.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll just be on my way.”

  She tried to slip away, but he stopped her, laying a hand on the leather shoulder strap from behind.

  With fists balled and ready for a fight, Jenny turned to face him.

  His wasn’t a face that accused. Actually, he looked kind. Interested, even, in what her life on the streets might have been like. He ignored the fists she’d frozen in front of her face and held out a business card in his fingertips. “Your payment, miss.”

  She hesitated, wanting to run but fear making her feet sink as if the pavement was quicksand under the soles of her shoes. She stood still, terrified that he’d discovered she was a girl and not a boy and, worse yet, had known about her con all along.

  He tipped his head to her. “For a job well done.”

  Jenny reached out with trembling fingers and took the card. The man nodded, satisfied.

  “Is this a trick?”

  He shook his head and laughed, of all things. “No. I’d never resort to trickery.”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “A word of advice, young lady?” He leaned down, putting them face-to-face. “Never reveal your secrets to anyone. If people can guess how you perform an illusion, then your story wasn’t strong enough. The last thing you should do is pay them to learn how you hide that pea. Do you understand me?”

  Jenny couldn’t think of the right words to say, though her mouth was too dry to speak anyway. She absorbed the shock of all that he seemed to know about her. A nod was easiest to handle, so that’s what she did. And trusted that he’d not turn her in to the authorities.

  “When you’re ready, say sixteen years old, you come and find me. I just might need another pair of hands and a clever mind like yours.”

  “You’re . . . offering me a job?”

  “Offering you the grunt work in an entertainer’s traveling show? Probably. But you’ve got talent. And passion. And I can promise you that combination doesn’t come along often. Not even in Piccadilly. So, miss, you know me. Might I have your name?”

  “Jennifer Charles,” she mumbled, grasping the card tight in her hand. “But I go by Jenny.”

  “Jenny. That’s fine for now. I’ll remember it.” He smiled. “But you’ll need a new name down the road. Think about it now, who you want to be on the stage. That girl will need a name all her own. And before she comes back, she’ll need to know exactly who she is.”

  “You think I’m dest
ined for a stage?”

  “We’re destined for a lot of things. Make sure your dreams are worthwhile.” He winked, stepping out into the afternoon sun. But he paused in his stride and turned back around. “Oh, one last thing.” He pointed to the shiny buckle shoes on her feet, the pair her nanny had put out for her that day. “Get different shoes, Jenny. Today. There’s an old cobbler’s shop but one street over. Check the waste bins in the back. Find an old, mismatched pair and wear them at all times. And shore up your accent. You sound like you’re from anywhere but London. If your customers believe the details of your story, then they’ll buy what you’re selling. It’s how we live that will convince them what is truth and what is an illusion.”

  He tipped his head and walked away from her then, moving past the throngs of pedestrians to step into a sleek black chariot of an auto that had been waiting by the curb.

  Jenny looked down at the card in her hand again, inspecting it more closely. It was plain ivory with a gold border and curling, almost mysterious, black lettering printed with his name on the front. She flipped to the back.

  Blank.

  It had no street number. No way to find him again or send word through the post.

  “Wait!” she called out as the car drove off, drawing notice from people moving with the ebb and flow of sidewalk traffic. They parted in a small circle around her, cautious against anyone shouting out in the middle of a crowd. “Wait, sir!”

  But he was gone, his car having vanished.

  Jenny was left to stare down at the card in her fingertips, her heart beating a frenzied dance in her chest. Numb, she looked left to right as the crowd moved by. The only thing she could think to do was to ask at the Hippodrome. He said he’d performed there some time ago.

  What year was it?

  She wracked her brain. Why didn’t I pay better attention to the details of what he said?

  Then . . . the Criterion!

  The theater popped in her mind—it was the only course of action she could take.

  Jenny readjusted the strap on her shoulder, keeping her box firm at her side, then trotted up the sidewalk to the front doors of the theater. A man in a suit stepped from the archway before she’d made it two paces in, hooking her by the elbow.