The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  His voice was in her head. “I’ll always be waiting. If you want me to.”

  Wren pulled her wrists in a violent battle against the handcuffs. Her legs, too, warred with the restraints. But fighting wasn’t enough.

  Not this time.

  If her body had craved oxygen after the one-minute mark, now ticking nearer to two minutes, her lungs were screaming now.

  There were no illusions in that instant.

  It was the first time Wren could feel the shock of death creeping in, both terrifying and real.

  Wren’s mouth sought air, and almost without her control, she gasped, finding a punishing intake of water to burn her insides. Though chained, she kicked her legs furiously and her arms seemed to twitch on their own. And as the watercolor world of the audience melted into a subdued blackness that enveloped like a curtain, Wren’s eyelids fluttered, then finally closed.

  She barely heard the deep crack of an ax shattering glass . . .

  FEBRUARY 12, 1927

  CHERRY HILL

  CANTON, MASS.

  The near miss onstage had shaken Wren’s nerves to the point she could no longer stay away from the oversized brick building in Cherry Hill, and the one person she’d hidden away within its walls.

  Not when she’d come so close to disaster.

  One second Wren had been fighting a watery grave, and in the next, she’d been pulled from the tank with a rush of spilling water, coughing and sputtering, with the feel of the hardwood stage to catch her tumble. She learned later that Elliot had been there, standing watch in the wings of the stage. And in the instant she’d given up hope, he tore onto the scene and ripped the ax from the stage handler’s grip, then swung it down to slice into the glass.

  It was impossible to think of anything else—how a hand had patted her cheek, and when her eyelids fluttered open, she’d found Elliot’s look of intense concern fade to relief. The fear she’d seen staring back at her couldn’t have been masked. Not when he was there, bracing a hand at the small of her back while she doubled over in a fit of coughing as the curtain came together in front of them. Not as he helped her stand but held back from sweeping her up, somehow knowing she’d need to walk off the stage on her own two feet.

  That kind of momentary security shouldn’t have found its way behind her carefully drawn defenses. But it had scared her enough that she needed an escape. A trip fifteen miles south of the city on a dusky evening could almost guarantee her anonymity—especially when she’d opted to leave any costume of Wren Lockhart’s at home.

  That night she could only be Jenny.

  The wind kicked up as she hurried down the sidewalk.

  A swift gust fled through the grove of trees, rustling their bare limbs, carrying with it the scent of rain. The light rumble of thunder filled the night behind her as whisper-soft pricks of raindrops dusted her cheek.

  It was lucky she’d just missed the rain.

  Wren eased her fingertips around the iron scrollwork to push the gate wide and step through.

  No more water. Not tonight.

  “Wren—wait.”

  At the whisper of her name she spun. “I knew someone was following me.”

  “I know you did.” Elliot shook his head. “You kept doubling back and I had some time keeping up.”

  Wren ran her hands down to smooth her coat, needing a few long seconds to ease her nerves. Relief washed over her that it was a friend instead of an enemy who’d trailed behind, especially since she’d just been through a car chase and a jail break, and now a near miss with drowning in her own stage show. Thank goodness she still had enough wits about her to recognize a shadow when she had one.

  “What on earth are you doing here, Elliot? And why do you keep sneaking up on me?” She breathed out, then frowned once her faculties of clear thought returned.

  “You got out of a car two blocks back when you know you shouldn’t be out alone—” Elliot stopped midsentence and stared, suddenly incredulous.

  Wren saw the fast work of understanding descend over his face as she straightened her hat. Finally, he’d noticed what was different—that she was quite different close up, and it blasted her with vulnerability she hadn’t prepared for.

  Gone was the heavy stage makeup.

  She had no dark lines to rim the corners of her eyes. No enhanced lashes, perfectly painted lips, or circles of rouge dotting her cheeks. She didn’t wear the tailored gentleman’s attire everyone had come to expect from her. Instead, she wore a ladies’ day coat and frock that bathed her legs in shades of nude gauze and blush-pink silk. A beige cloche hid the pin-tucked curls she’d swept back at her nape. Only gentle wisps had freed themselves in the wind and stirred at the base of her neck.

  Elliot was mere inches away this time, looking down at her the way she’d not allowed anyone to see. Without her mask. Without a single guard or defense in place. He’d stopped, taking in what she’d always fought to keep hidden, and that terrified her.

  “Wren? You’re—” He wrinkled his brow. Even took a step back. “Is that you?”

  She cleared her throat and lifted her chin a touch higher. “What are you doing here? We’re miles away from the city.”

  “I know we are.” He shook his head and held out her book, safe in his outstretched hand. “I promised to give you this after the show. I had to drop it for a moment when . . . Well, the point is, I have it now. And I’m returning it to you, as promised.”

  She took it in hand and wrapped the book under her arm in a protective manner. “How did you know where to find me?”

  He looked down on her as the rain-laden wind caught up his hair and tossed it upon his brow. “After what happened, I only wanted to check on things to make sure you were safe. I hadn’t thought to come so far as to catch up to you unless I had to.”

  “And when you did catch me? What then?”

  Elliot seemed to be weighing if words would help his cause in explanation, or push her away again.

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  She shook her head, turning away.

  Elliot reached out, his hand connecting with hers. But this was a graze, the softness of his fingers entreating her to turn back to him as his grip slid down to cover her gloved hand. His thumb brushed against her palm in a gentle tug, turning her around to face him.

  The streetlamp illuminated his face. His was a look that said the hand still grasping hers was intentional.

  Unable to think, she slipped her hand from his. “Elliot, you . . . kissed me tonight.”

  “I did, didn’t I? That changes things, for me anyway. Especially when you could have died out there on that stage. Is it always so dangerous, this vaudeville life of yours?”

  She shrugged. “Only since I teamed up with you, it seems. But it was nothing. A lock got switched somehow. It shouldn’t happen, but my shoulder kept me from being able to open a new one I hadn’t planned for. I could have done it, if I wasn’t still healing.”

  “Do you plan everything?”

  “I try to. When I can.”

  “Forgive me for saying it flat out, but you seem bent on finding new ways of killing yourself since I’ve known you. And believe me, if that were to happen, I’d be very upset. Please try to plan a quiet evening at home for a change.”

  “But you see, tonight reminded me that I don’t need anyone to save me. Or protect me. That will never change in my eyes. If you hadn’t broken that glass, it would have only taken me seconds more to be free. I could have done it on my own. And I still walked off that stage under my own volition.”

  “Only because I knew that’s what you’d want, so I let you do it.”

  “And if you only wanted to check on the state of affairs at my home, you’re quite far away from the city at the moment.”

  He shook his head. “Please don’t be angry with me for caring, Wren. I wanted to check on the state of affairs with you,” he whispered, a smile tempering the corners of his mouth. “Can’t have my partner drop out now. You’
re too important to this investigation.”

  Elliot tilted his head to the engraved wood sign beyond the gate. Rock Creek Manor. Est. 1862. “Not a new lead in the case, is it?”

  Wren shook her head. “I wish it was.”

  “Then what are you doing here? If it’s not too much to ask. You left your car a few blocks back and you’re not dressed for—” He faltered, shifting tracks in his words. “I assume this isn’t a performance for Wren Lockhart since you’re trying to sneak about unnoticed. Which isn’t smart, I might add, given the state of things.”

  Wren gazed up at the elaborate brick manor, with long window-lined wings branching out on both sides, the soft glow of electric lights from the arched windows cutting through the quick fall of darkness.

  The sky echoed with thunder, mingling with the growing scatter of breezes.

  The promise of rain had her cinch the collar of the day coat up higher round the neck.

  “Please. Elliot, this can’t end up in the papers. Wren Lockhart may be owned by the public, but what’s inside those walls isn’t for sale to anyone.” She glanced from the threatening sky to the haven of the manor, then back to connect with his eyes.

  “When are you going to get it through your thick head that I’m not your enemy, Wren? I’m trying to help.”

  What are you going to do, Wren?

  She tapped the toe of her shoe against the brick walkway, darting her glance from Elliot’s face back to the glow of lamplight coming from the Rock Creek Manor windows.

  Wren exhaled, trying not to think about the enormous risk she was undertaking.

  “Well, if that’s true, then you’d better come inside.”

  CHAPTER 18

  A wail reverberated from somewhere down the hall. It jarred the air, the greeting ghostly and uninviting.

  Evening was not the usual time for visitors, Elliot guessed, as the waiting area was empty. Perhaps the manor had a different feel as night drew closer. Or were there odd sounds all the time? He walked through the set of double doors behind Wren, curious to see if he was right about why she’d come. She stepped up to the desk and spoke to a nurse and he hung back, hands in his pockets, scanning the room.

  It was easy to see that Rock Creek Manor wasn’t a sanitarium of the type Elliot had visited in his aunt’s final days. An asylum, no matter how clean and respectable, had a very different air about it.

  A sanitarium was to make the sick well again; this place reminded visitors that patients rarely left the walls around them, if ever.

  Wren walked back toward Elliot, drawing his attention.

  “We can go back now.” She held a paper visitor’s pass out to him. “But we can only stay for a bit. Visiting hours are officially over, but they’ve made an exception tonight.”

  “Lead the way.” He nodded and took the pass.

  Wren turned, walked forward, and took the large door’s knob in hand at the same time Elliot had reached out to open it for her. His hand rested over hers for a long second. She looked up at him, her golden eyes piercing back, vulnerability evident. She’d removed her gloves. In the instant that Elliot could almost feel the skin of his palm burning against hers, realization washed over him.

  This was the first time Wren had brought anyone here. Not to the actual building—but to this point in her private, offstage life.

  Elliot had an idea of who they were here to see, but it had never crossed his mind that this could be the first time Wren trusted anyone enough to sweep back the curtain and reveal the depths of this part of her world. It was as if the whole of her heart was attached to that doorknob, and not just her hand. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  She nodded, her pretty face and dotting of freckles still peeking out from under the brim of her cloche. He held the side of the door, allowing her to precede him.

  The hall was distant, met by a breezeway with windows lining the right side and beyond, doors—some open, others closed—lining the left. It, too, was stark—clean, but lacking warmth. Drizzle cried down the outside of the glass, the ink-black night serving as the backdrop beyond the windows.

  “Are we going to someone’s room?”

  “Yes. We are. And if that’s too much for you, it’s okay. I won’t think ill of you if you turn around now. But I have to keep going.” Wren kept walking at his side, the book he’d given her cradled in her left arm.

  She kept her view focused on the elevator doors at the far end of the hall. And somehow, in the grand mess of the case and as they took steps together into Wren’s compartmentalized world, it felt simple and right to reach out and take her hand.

  So he laced his fingers with hers. Would she pull away or allow him the simple gift of walking alongside her?

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said again.

  Wren accepted his hand without look or spoken words.

  They walked in step as if they’d done it hundreds of times before, to the elevator and the second-floor hall, without breaking stride.

  Wren slowed and slipped her hand from his when they came to a door at the end of the hall. It had been cracked open, and she tapped her fingers against it, then pushed it wide.

  The room was larger than he expected. Still small as a bedroom, but made welcoming by a wall of windows in an angled semicircle, with cushioned benches along all sides. A grid of bars hung inside the glass, but the windows weren’t shuttered against the rain. A web of tissue paper streamers of white stars, pink flowers, and blue-and-yellow nautical flags were strewn across the ceiling on strings of twine. Soft lamplight glowed from a light fixture high overhead. Stacks of picture books were piled on a small desk. And dolls, meticulously arranged, stood guard from the bureau, adding unexpected enchantment to the space.

  A young woman with auburn hair sat upon a cushioned window seat with a folded paper hat over her long waves, her nose buried in a storybook.

  Wren whispered, “Hello, my darling.”

  The young woman looked up, blank-faced for a moment, then warmed with a bright smile when she saw them. “Jenny!” She dropped her book, which slapped the linoleum floor, and then covered a reactionary giggle with her fists over her mouth.

  Wren slipped out of her coat and hat, then laid them over the foot of the bed along with The Welsh Fairy Book, then moved in and swept the young woman in an embrace.

  “Jenny, I’ve been reading about Peter Pan. And Wendy. And the boys who wear hats and crow at the moon! I was going to crow tonight too.” She glanced toward the windows, sorrow lining her features. “But the moon hides behind the storm clouds.”

  Elliot stood back from what felt like a private moment, watching Wren brush a lock of hair off the young woman’s brow. Listening as she talked of a marauder by the name of Captain Hook and a beautiful fairy called Tinker Bell, in a manner that was animated and childlike. Genuine tenderness filled Wren’s eyes, such that he’d guessed at but had never before witnessed from her.

  Wren smiled and eased the young woman around to face the spot where he stood in the doorway. “I would like for you to meet someone.” Wren presented her with an arm wrapped around the waist of her soft ivory dress. “This is my friend, Elliot. He’s come to visit.”

  The young woman’s glance darted about, apprehensive because of the stranger in their midst.

  “He won’t hurt you.” Wren nodded when the girl turned toward her, unease making her draw in ever so slightly. “He’s our friend. Okay? You can trust him.”

  Wren took a deep breath. And Elliot guessed why, because he already knew what she was about to say.

  “Elliot, this is Charlotte.” She looked up, chin lifted, adding a brave: “My sister.”

  He took a slow step forward and nodded in greeting. “It’s very nice to meet you, Charlotte.”

  Elliot had always heard of asylums. They were rumored to be horrible places, where those afflicted with lunacy lived out their days wandering halls and bellowing out from attic windows. But the room in which he stood now wasn’t horrible. It
was hushed and kept, like a child’s Neverland nursery that time couldn’t touch.

  Wren stood in the center of it, her arm around someone she loved, and looked back at him with questions in her eyes.

  Frightened as a bird, Charlotte stood still, hat in place, book on the floor in front of her. It brushed against the tip of her stocking feet.

  “My name is Elliot. May I come in and hear about your stories? Jenny just showed me her Welsh Fairy Book tonight.” He set his hat on the bed and picked up Wren’s book. “Would you like to read it?”

  Charlotte nodded, her face brightening with something akin to recollection.

  Her eyes twinkled, dancing with delight.

  She reached out with a tentative hand, cautious until she held the book, then hopped over and curled up in her window seat and began poring over the pages.

  “It’s the pictures she adores,” Wren whispered. “William Pogany’s illustrations are her favorite.”

  Wren slid down to the foot of the bed and absently wrapped her hand around one of the metal spindles at the footboard, watching her sister. Elliot sat in a rocker near the bureau. He braced his elbows on his knees, leaning in toward Wren, drawing into conversation with her through the space that separated them.

  “You must think me terrible, to hide her away like this.”

  “I’d never question a decision you make, Wren. I’m sure it was for good reason that she’s here.”

  “She’s always been with me. I promised myself I’d never send her away. But I had no choice, not after what happened the night of Amberley’s party. If she loses me, who will look after her? I moved her here from my home in Beacon Hill that morning. No one knows she’s Wren Lockhart’s sister. Here, she’s unknown. She’s safe. Whoever came after me will not find her. And the newspapers could let us alone, too, at least until this is all over. I’ve managed to keep her hidden from them for this long. What’s a few more months?”