The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  If only the man had known the truth of the matter, that Irina could talk herself out of nearly any situation, he’d have let them pass without a second thought.

  “Come a long way, have you, with that accent?”

  “I have,” she stated, then added a mock sigh of nervousness to flavor the story. “We have, actually. But if we’re asked to wait much longer, I’m afraid we’ll be tardy on our first day.”

  “I thought all of the stage crew had arrived days ago.”

  “That’s my understanding, too, but we’ve just arrived from Boston. It wasn’t possible to catch a train until today.”

  “And why is that?”

  Wren raised her chin. “My guardian’s funeral. We came to the capital as soon as we were able.”

  She’d been honest about why she was only making it to Houdini’s stage now. As for stretching the rest of the truth—that the entertainer had no idea they were there . . . Wren would keep that choice tidbit to herself.

  The guard’s hard edges softened, and he handed the card back to her, the speculative air gone from the creases around his eyes and mouth. “I’ve never seen a young woman in pants before, walking around plain as day. You aren’t one of those free-thinking Lucy Burns suffragists, are you?”

  “I’d have thought it rather commonplace for a variance in dress in the entertainment world. And I’m not a part of the stage crew. I’m an illusionist.” She offered him a sweetened smile. “And I don’t know about Lucy Burns, but I’d say the sooner women can start to wear what best suits them, the better off we’ll all be.”

  Wren picked up the leather suitcase she’d set at her feet. She clutched the case that held her very dear belongings packed inside, as if she was ready to be on her way.

  “If Mr. Houdini’s here, you’ll find him back in the auditorium. Doors at the back. You can go on in.”

  “Thank you. And I’ll be sure to relay how helpful you were.”

  “Helpful he was not,” Irina echoed under her breath, the moment they’d walked through the red carpeted lobby to the auditorium doors. “Did we come all this way to be treated like this?”

  “Forget him. No more card tricks at a Southampton boardinghouse for you and no more Piccadilly street corners for me. We’re up for better things—starting now.”

  “I almost believed that once.”

  Wren tipped her head to the side, bestowing the best authoritative glare she owned. “Well, believe it again. Deep breath.” She pushed the doors open. “Shall we?”

  Irina shook her head. “Not this time. You go.” She nudged. “He gave you his card, and it’s you he’ll want to see. I’ll wait here. Managers stay in the shadows of their stars.”

  Beyond the double doors, a world was bustling.

  Vaudeville was alive with all manner of costumed showmen and dancers and stage crews hammering, painting, and unpacking who knew what. Men tinkered around with lights and rope, organizing mechanical things along the back of the stage. Above them, voices carried from a catwalk over a grand balcony to workers managing the lighting. Others were moving about, carrying crates and such, some inspecting and cleaning seats in the audience, others gathered around a crate table, sharing a quick cup of coffee and a few cantankerous laughs.

  Police presence was everywhere, with uniformed men inspecting rows of auditorium seating in front of them. Irina slipped into a seat in the back row, waving her on. “Go, Wren. Dream chase down that aisle.”

  Wren nodded and strode down the aisle, trying to look as though she belonged right where she was. She kept her head held high, though, in truth, her insides were closer to mush.

  What if Houdini wasn’t here? Worse yet—what if he didn’t remember her?

  Wren had been dressed as a shoe-shine boy at the time. In the years since, she’d grown into a young woman. A tall and lanky, trouser-wearing entertainer, but still a young woman. Chances were the famous illusionist had seen so many faces in the crowd in his lifetime, and possibly handed his business card to numerous other fans, that he mightn’t remember a young redheaded scamp from the streets of Piccadilly.

  She drew in a steadying breath and advanced to the edge of the stage.

  A young woman of about Wren’s age, wrapped in a flowy gauze dress and sporting a Gibson Girl bouffant, practiced a pirouette on the front corner of the stage. She continued her twirling, balancing a hand on the back of a wooden chair, unaware that Wren stood just beneath her.

  Wren waited, seeing the beautiful costume and the young dancer’s porcelain skin and dark hair. Her beauty was breathtaking—quite opposite from what Wren’s was with gangly limbs, a splash of freckles, and flaming hair. She owned no flowing gauze dresses. Hers was a suitcase full of gentlemen’s trousers and shirts—the costume she’d donned in secret for years. And now, despite disapproving looks and proper women who gasped everywhere she went, Wren had fused the getup to her offstage persona by wearing it every day.

  In contrast, this dancer looked as though she’d been born to decorate a stage. She was lovely and practiced, graceful in each controlled movement she made.

  “Excuse me?” Wren asked.

  The young woman halted in her steps, looking down with winded breaths. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Houdini.”

  Concentration broken, she reached for a towel from the nearby chair and dabbed it to her neck. “He’s not taking visitors just now. If you have a delivery, you should leave it at the front desk. This area’s for crew only.”

  “I do have a delivery, but this one needs to go into Mr. Houdini’s hand.”

  The young woman stood over her with attitude in a cocked hip, her glare boring into Wren’s figure from above.

  “You’d jolly-well listen then, because we don’t take deliveries back here. And if that suitcase means you’ve got aspirations that you’ll be staying on, you best turn right around and scoot back out those doors. We don’t take drifter types around here either. We’re serious performers.”

  Wren slammed her suitcase to the floor at her feet, the loud echo drawing attention from several workers nearby. They paused, curious, but went back to work. She stood tall under the onslaught of the dancer’s glare, but refusing to be intimidated, Wren straightened her spine and narrowed her own eyes in response.

  “Good. Because that’s what I am.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And I’m not leaving until I speak with Mr. Houdini.”

  “Sure about that?” Something flashed in her eyes. Anger? Respect even? Whatever it was, it stayed on as she used her pinky fingers to make a shrill whistle, drawing the attention of a couple of men on the stage crew. She tipped her head in Wren’s direction.

  “What is it, Amberley?”

  “Al? We’ve got a straggler here with pants and a sour disposition. Seems unable to find the door on her own.”

  “What’s this?”

  Wren looked up, her attention drawn stageside.

  And there he was, Harry Houdini himself.

  He’d simply walked onstage, as unassuming as a man could be in a white shirt and work trousers, clipboard in hand. He connected eyes with the dancer first, asked the question, then turned to Wren for an answer.

  The man named Al started trotting over, but Mr. Houdini raised a hand to halt him.

  Wren actually stopped breathing for a moment. Then the cadence of the inhale-exhale hitched in her chest. Would they send her packing straightaway?

  “This girl says she has a delivery for you, sir.” The dancer eyed Wren, a knowing superiority in her tone. “Al here was just about to show her to the stage door. But she claims she’s not leaving. One of those stubborn Brits we’ve heard so much about.”

  He glanced down at the suitcase on the floor by her feet. “Thank you, Miss Green. You may leave this one to me. I’ll help this young lady find where she’s supposed to be. You and Al see what mischief needs cleaning up with the backstage props.”

  The dancer nodded to him and, without another word, padded off in her
stockings to the hidden places somewhere behind the stage curtain.

  “How may I help you, miss?”

  Wren stood tall, stretching out to hand the business card to him. “I brought this.”

  Seconds ticked by, Wren’s arm feeling horribly weighted against the time for him to make a decision to take the card or not. Finally, he stepped over to the wooden chair the young woman had been using for balance and set his clipboard on the seat. He then stooped, taking the card from her hand.

  His eyes lightened when he read the name printed on its center. He turned the worn edges over in his fingertips. “This is one of my cards from years ago.” He looked down at her. “Wherever did you get it?”

  “You gave it to me, sir. In Piccadilly. Six years ago.”

  His eyebrows ticked up with what she hoped was recollection.

  “Six years ago, you say? And you kept it all this time?”

  In the years she’d traveled with her uncle, from Paris to sites across England and finally back to Boston, the card always stayed with her. It represented more than a job or a future. To Wren, it was evidence that she hadn’t dreamt it all up. That she’d actually crossed paths with the world’s most famous illusionist one sunny afternoon in Piccadilly. And if she wanted that dream badly enough, she had an open invitation to claim it now.

  “Yes, sir. You told me to find you when I turned sixteen, that you’d have a job waiting for me. My birthday was a couple of weeks back, but nevertheless, here I am.”

  “You’re after a job?”

  “I am, sir. On the stage. I won’t accept anything less.” She looked him dead in the eyes, projecting every ounce of confidence she possessed.

  He stood still for a moment, considering. “And your skills?”

  “I’m an illusionist and escapologist. I can free myself from handcuffs. A locked door. Even a jail cell, though I’ve only tried it once. I’m a crack hand at cards and a thimblerig, but I’d like to learn and be more. I haven’t a vanishing act just yet, but I’m still working it out.”

  “You’re young. You have no family?” He looked at the auditorium seating behind her. “Shouldn’t you have someone here with you?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir. I was alone on the streets of London at ten years old. I hardly think I should have a guardian tagging along after me at sixteen.” She half turned, gesturing over her shoulder. “I’ve come as a professional. My manager is in the back, and she’s ready to discuss my terms for a contract.”

  He smiled outright. “Alright. So you have a manager. That means something, I suppose. But how do I know I can trust you? Plenty of reporters would love to get backstage at a Harry Houdini show and reveal all the secrets of our illusions to the world. Why should we suppose you are who you say you are?”

  She took a step toward the stage. “I want an honest wage for honest work. I know you to be a performer of integrity, and I won’t work for anyone who’s less than. No tricks or cons. And no magic—only top-notch entertainment. And as a matter of advice, Mr. Houdini, I’d put someone with more competence at the auditorium door out there. The gentleman who questioned me didn’t dig very deep into my story. He believed whatever I told him, and I walked straight back here as a result.”

  His eyes twinkled, amusement she hoped signaled that he remembered a long ago meeting in Piccadilly.

  “Well, miss. I never forget an introduction. If I truly gave you this card, then I’ll remember your name.”

  Wren thought it over, recalling the details of their first meeting so many years ago. He’d asked for her name then, too, which she’d given. But he’d cautioned her that vaudeville was about more than a stage story—a showman’s world was wrapped up living the illusion at all times. And it was he who’d said to come back with a name all her own.

  A new name for a new life.

  She drew from her gumption, stating with a clear voice, “My name is Wren Lockhart, and I’m an illusionist—” She stopped. “Apprentice with the Harry Houdini traveling show.”

  His face registered nothing right away. Not hesitation or, worse, distrust. But he didn’t show signs of recollection either.

  Everything she’d hoped and wished for over the past six years was wrapped up in this one moment. And the one man who could change the course of her life wasn’t giving any sign as to whether he’d turn her away or welcome her into the world she was determined to make her home.

  “Jennifer Charles,” he said at last, a smile spreading wide across his face. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  Harry handed the card back, then left his hand extended, offering a handshake.

  She stretched out to accept it, though she was screaming inside. He might have picked up on her excitement with the slight tremble of her hand in his, but he said nothing of it. Just stood again, picked up his clipboard, and addressed her the final time for that day.

  “It’s nice to be seen, sir. And the other name—” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’d just assume we keep that quiet, if you don’t mind. I’m Wren Lockhart now, no one else.”

  “Very well, Ms. Lockhart. We can accommodate you. Amberley Green, the dancer you just met, is a stage assistant and performer. She’ll be backstage with one of our crewmen, Al. They will show you the ropes. The crew meets for a dress rehearsal at five o’clock sharp. If you found us by reading the papers, then you know we’re performing for President Wilson and the First Lady tomorrow, and we’d best be on our toes. With that in mind, I see I must remind our security staff about the importance of screening guests in a stricter fashion.”

  “Good.” She smiled back. “Because I have a mind to talk to the president about women’s rights. Maybe seeing a progressive Brit in trousers will inspire support for the Yankee girls’ right to the vote.”

  The myth of a man turned, ready to get back to work. “Welcome aboard, Wren Lockhart. And to your manager as well,” he called over his shoulder before disappearing behind his stage curtain once again. “Come on back.”

  Wren turned, beaming.

  Irina swept up the aisle and met her, nodding approval. “And you thought I was a cool talker. Wren, that was marvelous.”

  She whisked up Wren’s suitcase for her, then they climbed the stairs together and swept behind the curtain after the stage legend.

  Wren’s world of secrets gained another player, and another door.

  Wren felt oddly at home, lingering in the shadows. Silently absorbing the tail end of Amberley’s interrogation with the FBI. From the moment Connor had slipped out of the kitchen and returned to the parlor, their socialite’s irritation had grown and now had evolved into a one-sided shouting match.

  Wren could have told them it would end up that way.

  It had been little more than twenty-four hours after the party at the Statler Hotel, yet it felt like years had passed since then. And here she was, haunting the doorway of the seaside cottage, watching the stern flex of Elliot’s profile outlined by the same firelight from the night before. He drummed a pencil on the armrest of his chair while he waited for Amberley to answer their questions.

  Connor stood back. Watching and waiting. Honestly, Wren couldn’t have guessed what he was thinking at the moment.

  “You have my answer, gentlemen.” Amberley jumped to her feet. “Now, if you intend to keep me here under house arrest, I would like to go to my own room.” She eyed Connor. “Preferably with a door that locks from the inside.” She stormed from the room, her heels echoing down the hall.

  Connor shoved his hands in his pockets, his frustration apparent. His early interest in the socialite had been obvious. But once she figured out their little trick at the Bureau office, she made it known she wanted nothing to do with him.

  “Guess I’ll be taking first watch,” he mumbled to Elliot and turned to leave.

  He noticed Wren then and tipped his head on his way out.

  It wasn’t a common gesture for her to smile, but Wren couldn’t help it. Under the circumstances, she figured a genuine s
how of support might soften the blows Amberley had landed. Connor was a might outspoken and a little rough around the edges, but he was a complement to Elliot in that they both sought truth at their core. That made the emotions he did show in the moment quite believable.

  The floorboards creaked as he ducked out and Elliot turned, the firelight casting a warm glow on the side of his face. He moved to stand at her entrance.

  She stilled him with a lifted palm. “Don’t get up.” Wren crossed over to the settee opposite him, then eased onto the cushion, tucking her legs under her.

  “One guess says Connor’s idea of a first watch is to post himself outside Amberley’s door and wait until he catches her trying to escape.”

  “From what I heard I hate to ask, but did she say anything useful?”

  “Some. Not enough to turn the case one direction or another. At least not yet,” Elliot answered, though his eyes said he was holding something back. He didn’t look right at her, instead seemed lost in the depths of the fire dance.

  “But Amberley agreed to talk?”

  He nodded. “She’s proving a bit of a reluctant informant. But once I get the prosecutor to agree and a judge to guarantee her immunity, then yes. I think she’ll talk. Until then, I’m not sure what we have. I’m betting on the fact it’s enough to keep Stapleton behind bars and to find out who’s responsible for that wounded shoulder of yours.”

  Wren braced a hand at her brow, frustrated with the jumble of puzzle pieces.

  “Did she explain the rumors surrounding her when she worked on vaudeville?”

  “She did, though she didn’t much take to the fact you’d alluded to a former beau who left vaudeville and promptly died in a farm accident when she was a hundred miles away.”

  “I didn’t say she did it—only that there were suspicions.”

  “Well, we’re looking into it. The only man who fits that description is a former member of Houdini’s stage crew—an Al Gruner. Do you remember him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “And that’s about all we’ve unearthed so far. There are rumors that he died in an accident on his brother’s farm, or that he met an untimely end at the hands of a socialite in a big city. Problem is, the trail stops there. It stops with Amberley, unfortunately.” Elliot raised his eyebrow. “Add questions of her character and a swift marriage to the very wealthy Stanley Dover, and you’ve got the makings of a good mystery novel.”