“I do have more than one guest room, you know,” Nigel pointed out. He turned to his manservant, who was bringing drinks for both of them, knowing, as he did, what Jonathon’s preference was. “Asher, I am perishing. Could something be arranged?”
“I anticipated your requirement, sir, and took the liberty of having a late supper prepared for you and Mr. Hightower.” The manservant nodded in the direction of the dining room, and Nigel and his guest lost no time in settling themselves in there.
Discussion of plots continued over the Welsh rarebit, eggs, bacon, crumpets and broiled tomatoes, Nigel secretly gloating the entire time. For all that Jonathon could be an irritating fellow, he was also entertaining and the best illusionist that Nigel had ever seen. And he had a good sense of storytelling. All his suggestions were sound ones.
“Am I missing something, or have you neglected to cast a romantic male lead in this venture?” Jonathon asked, as they moved their discussion and their whiskeys back into the library, where they each took one of the comfortable Windsor chairs.
“You are not missing anything; I haven’t. I am not sure that I want to.” Nigel tapped the side of his glass thoughtfully. “There is the inevitable problem of finding a dancing partner for her if we do. How many male dancers do you know that are in variety that were trained in ballet?”
Jonathon shook his head.
“Whereas if she doesn’t have a male romantic lead as such, we can just have some of the fellows do the lifts, and maybe assist in her turns. Lads trained in the usual sort of stage dance can do that,” Nigel pointed out.
Jonathon laughed. “I can do that,” he replied.
“Well, then, I’m not at all sure we need a romantic lead for her. Might be more interesting if your magician character starts out being a villain, and then gets won over and sacrifices himself so she can get away.” He pondered. “Or at least it looks that way. You’ve always wanted to do a spectacular escape trick; how about if the Sultan takes the magician prisoner and he makes a showy escape?”
Jonathon got a wicked gleam in his eye. “Can I make the palace collapse on the Sultan and all his evil minions? Or set it on fire?”
“If you can do it under budget.” That was Arthur, being shown in by the manservant, a whiskey already in his hand.
“I’ll set it on fire. That will sell a lot of tickets,” Jonathon decided. “Besides leaving the ambiguity that maybe the magician was secretly something like Mephistopheles all along, and sent to bring his master the soul of the Sultan.”
“Good idea!” Wolf exclaimed from Arthur’s shoulder. “Makes the whole thing less sticky-sweet. I could even write music for that—”
“No arias!” All three of the humans exclaimed at once. Wolf fluffed his feathers in indignation.
“All right, that takes care of that. I think we have a pretty strong book for this, and once we know what acts we’ll be putting into it, and how often our star can perform over the course of it, we’ll know exactly what music we need.” Nigel tossed back the last of his drink and refilled it from the decanter himself. “Now, as for the other reason why you in particular are here, Jonathon, let me tell you what we know about the young lady.”
“And her cat,” Wolf added sourly. “Let’s not forget the cat. He certainly won’t let you.”
“Cat?” Jonathon looked at them all quizzically.
“Let me start at the beginning,” Nigel replied with a laugh, and did so.
When he was done, Jonathon was unexpectedly silent. After waiting for some sort of reaction, and getting nothing, Nigel finally asked, “What are you thinking?”
“That it is certainly interesting. I’m not at all familiar with the Russian Masters. Actually, I don’t think much of anyone is; we have a lot of contact with the French and Italian ones, a little less with the Spanish, but . . .” He shrugged. “It does sound as if her father must have come to an untimely end, probably at the hands of another Master. And if he left such a guardian for his daughter, that suggests he expected whoever his enemy was would come after her as well.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Arthur said quietly. Both Nigel and Jonathon grimaced a little. Arthur’s grandfather had run afoul of a bad-tempered Scottish Master, who had pursued not only the old man, but the man’s son and grandson. It was only at the death of the Scottish magician that the persecution had ceased.
“Russians are notorious for temper.” Jonathon tossed back his own drink. “On the other hand, I am not exactly weak. And Fire magic is rather well suited to combat. Unlike Air, and no slur intended, Nigel.”
“No offense taken. Air is the weakest, offensively and defensively. But when it comes to gaining information—” He shrugged. “Short of finding a way to live without breathing, you can’t shut Air Elementals out.”
“Well, don’t underestimate your ability to add to my power. Air feeds Fire and never forget it.” Jonathon set his glass down and steepled his fingers together. “Whatever might come after this young woman, I think we will be prepared for it.”
“And that is exactly why I wanted you here,” Nigel said with satisfaction. Well, there it was. The tacit agreement to make all of this a reality, and to protect Nina from whatever it was that threatened her. If Jonathon had not actually come out and said he was going to help out with this enterprise, it was certainly written between the lines. And he would not say, not yet, for a magician’s words were binding. He wanted to be sure, and Nigel could hardly blame him.
“But I want to meet her before I make any decisions,” Jonathon continued, and measured Nigel with a stern look. “No offense, Nigel, but your weakness has always been a damsel in distress. I’m not so easily gulled, and my stock-in-trade is illusion. I want to see her and this cat of hers. I want your promise that you will hold by my decision as well. Do I have it?”
Nigel shrugged. He knew Jonathon was right, and although he liked Nina Tchereslavsky quite a bit, well . . . he had to face the fact that if she was pulling some sort of deception, there were other singers and dancers he could base his endeavor around. And he had to keep reminding himself of that. She might appear to need rescue, he might want to rescue her, but there was always the possibility that it was all part of some grand confidence game. Not everyone was worth rescuing.
They are talking about you, said the cat. He sat near the door of Ninette’s room, with his head cocked to one side. She put her book down in her lap and regarded him thoughtfully.
“They? Nigel and Arthur and Wolf?” She had heard them come in, but had thought it better not to intrude, since it sounded as if they were having a discussion of business.
And someone new. Another Elemental Master. The cat was very still, staring at the door with his tail curled around his feet. A Fire Master. I think I know him, or at least, his reputation.
Another magician? “Why is he here?” she asked.
I gather Nigel asked him to come. Hmm. Well, it seems he is not only a Magician, he is an illusionist as well. Nigel wishes him for this theatrical production. He is suspicious of you. I suspect he is a very sharp gentleman.
She bit her lip. That was the last thing she needed. “What if he finds out—”
The cat shook his head. He won’t. Or at least, he will not until it no longer matters. What he expects is that you have some purpose other than dancing, perhaps that you intend to get Nigel to marry you.
She giggled. Nigel was not the sort of “rich” she expected for a protector. He was very careful with his money, and when she found someone to keep her, she wanted it to be a gentleman who liked to show his appreciation lavishly. “But could he find out I am not who I say I am?”
He is hardly an expert on either ballet or Russians. He admitted the latter, and as for the former, he seemed to be under the impression that just any ballroom dancer could partner with you for lifts and turns.
She snorted. If that was what he thought . . .
“Should I go out?” she wondered. “Face them now?”
; It would be a good idea. They are not expecting you. They think you are asleep.
She got up from the chair in which she had been sitting, reading . . . she did not read easily—it was not deemed necessary for the little ballerinas to be very proficient in ordinary school lessons—but she enjoyed it, even if it was very hard work. For some reason, Nigel had a large collection of French novels, and she was making her slow way through them when she was not practicing.
She set the book aside and smoothed down her skirt with a feeling of great satisfaction. Nigel had been more than generous in the way of clothing. Since she had none, he had arranged for the costume mistress of the theater to take her measurements and get her a good wardrobe. Ninette doubted that the woman had sewn these garments herself, but she undoubtedly had friends or relatives that were seamstresses themselves and could use the work. And the work was very fine. Not the equivalent of a boulevard atelier, much less a great fashion modiste of the sort that someone like Nina Tchereslavsky would patronize, but it was finer than anything Ninette had even seen, much less worn. Even the underthings were exquisite, with lace and ribbons and embroidery. Nor had the wardrobe mistress limited herself to Ninette’s ordinary clothing. Her practice skirts and tights were of silk tulle and knitted silk. Her pointe shoes were of the sort that the etoiles wore.
In short, ever since the cat had come into her life, things had taken such a turn for the better that she still woke up thinking it was all a dream. And she did not want to lose this. So if the cat said to face them, then face them she would.
She raised her chin, put on the mask of the great prima, and sailed out into the hallway. She followed the sound of voices to Nigel’s library. The door was ajar, which she interpreted as meaning they did not mind being disturbed. She took a deep breath, looked down at the cat at her feet, and pushed it open all the way.
Nigel, who had clearly been just about to say something, looked at her with a startled expression, his mouth hanging open for a moment. He swiftly recovered though, and stood up.
“Mademoiselle Nina, were we disturbing you?” he asked, in French.
She shook her head. “Not in the least,” she replied in the same language, and then smiled. “I ’ave been studying zee English, but it marches better when I am hearing it.” She looked around the room as if she were the one that owned this flat, and not Nigel. “You ’ave brought a friend from the theater, oui?”
“This is Jonathon Hightower, a great illusionist,” Nigel said hastily. “Hightower, this is Mademoiselle Nina Tchereslavsky.”
The stranger rose, took her hand, and bowed over it. She accepted the accolade with pleasure, but also with an air that it was only to be expected. Exactly as La Augustine would have.
And what am I, an old boot?
“And this is the cat, Thomas,” Nigel added hastily.
Hightower, who looked altogether like a modern version of Mephistopheles from the Faust opera, looked down at the cat, who had sat down regally just to Ninette’s left.
“Maybe you should make him disappear,” Wolf put in, turning one evil yellow eye on the cat.
Really now, what have I done to deserve that suggestion? The cat glared right back. That’s rather rude.
“Well, you might stop looking at me as if you were deciding how many meals you were going to get out of me,” Wolf retorted.
I am a cat. I have certain instincts. If you will insist on fluttering and setting off those instincts, you have only yourself to blame. While the parrot fluffed his feathers angrily and glared, the cat turned his attention back to the newcomer. Greetings, Fire Master. Am I to presume you are not here by chance?
“Possibly. My friend Nigel had a business proposition he wished to discuss with me.” Hightower’s expression was as bland as could be. Or rather, he had no expression whatsoever that Ninette could make out. His faintly sinister, yet decidedly handsome face made an excellent mask for whatever it was he was thinking. Ninette had seen many opera singers with superb stage presence who used their faces in exactly that way. In fact, they were never really off-stage whenever they might be seen in public.
“Perhaps it ees about zis oh-so-mysterious theatrical venture he has hinted about?” she replied archly. She took a seat, remembering to do so as if she was center stage, with all eyes on her.
“Perhaps. You seem very much recovered from your tragedy, Mademoiselle.” The abrupt change of subject might have startled her if she had not already been wary of him.
She hesitated, then sighed. “You will think very badly of me, I suppose,” she said, slowly, as if the words were being drawn from her reluctantly. “And I feel very badly for poor Nikolas. But I did not know him perhaps as well as you presume I knew him. He was an admirer, yes. And he wished to be more, yes. But many gentlemen are my admirers, and many wish to be more. I have not had—” she hesitated “—I have not had a particular friend for many months now. I wished to go to England, where the winters are not so cold as Russia, and not France, where there are dancers in plenty, nor Italy, where the audiences prefer opera. I said as much where several of my admirers would hear me, and Nikolas had his new yacht, and I allowed him to persuade me to let him take me here. But I did not allow him to persuade me to do anything else. I wished to see if his company would be something other than tedious.” She sighed, and looked down at her hands, and stole directly from La Augustine. “I am an artist. My friends are artists. When they gather in my salon, the talk is not of stocks and bonds and commodities. I have had my fill of particular friends who cannot or will not understand this talk, and demand that I give up my friends and my gatherings because such talk makes them feel stupid. I did not know that poor Nikolas was such a man. I did not know that he was not one. So taking this journey in his company was to discover if he was or was not, because I would be overjoyed never to face another angry confrontation with a man who could not see the value in things he himself did not appreciate.” She made the corners of her mouth turn down. “For many of my admirers I am exactly like a painting. If it is famous, and if others will admire it, and admire the owner for having it, then it is worth collecting. But they do not think that I am not like a painting, that I have a mind, and friends, and I do not particularly wish to be collected and put on display to excite envy in others.”
She looked up, with a melancholy little smile. “I hope that does not make me less in your eyes.”
The illusionist was unfazed. “Well, Mademoiselle, it does puzzle me that you should come from this wreck des—”
“Destitute?” She gave a bitter little laugh. “Monsieur Illusionist, you will think me foolish perhaps, but one does not trust Russian banks if one can help it. All my life I have kept my fortune with me, in the form of jewels and gold. I take it with me wherever I go. And now it has all sunk down to the bottom of the sea.”
The cat had been drilling her in this role until there were times when she wasn’t sure which of her was the real one, Nina or Ninette. She sometimes wondered if he was putting memories into her head the way he was putting languages, because she could swear she had mental images of buildings in Russia, the Imperial Palace, Theater Street, the stage of the Imperial Ballet . . . she had never even, to her knowledge, seen a sketch or a photograph of these places, and yet they were as real to her as the Eiffel Tower and the Paris Opera.
For that matter, was he slipping Russian language into her mind too? Only today, she had mis-stepped in practice and nearly twisted her ankle, and had sworn, not sacre bleu! as she had thought she would, but blin!
At any rate, with these things, these images and thoughts at the front of her mind, it was a great deal easier to “be” Nina.
The illusionist shook his head. “Tell me that you will not be doing that anymore,” he half-scolded. “It was only a matter of time before something or someone robbed you of your fortune.”
She hesitated. “It was not . . . a very big fortune,” she said after a moment, and laughed ruefully. “I am too fond of pretty gowns, jewelry,
champagne, and caviar, and I am not so very famous that merchants will give these things to me in hopes that I will tell others where I got such-and-so. It is bad of me, I know but . . .”
“But there will always be another particular friend, who will buy you these things, hmm?” The illusionist raised an eyebrow and she flushed, but raised her chin defiantly. It was Nina and Ninette together who answered him.
“And who does that harm?” she asked rhetorically, speaking of her imagined old man in a fur coat. “I make my friends happy, they make me happy. I deceive no one and no one is deceived by me. I do not pretend to love, monsieur. Love is not for my kind, and I make sure my friends understand this.”
The illusionist unexpectedly softened his voice, and a hint of understanding, faintly shadowed with cynicism, colored his words. “Then you are wise beyond your years, mademoiselle, and I am glad to hear your honesty. I believe you. So. Have you any notion just who or what your father sought to protect you from by giving you this guardian?” He nodded at the cat.
With true bewilderment she could only shake her head. “Thomas has advised me and guided me, and seldom has his advice miscarried. It was he who urged the move to England upon me.”
There was another prima ballerina at the company, the cat said, “speaking up” unexpectedly. Nina attracted attention from the wrong quarters. Shall we say, Imperial attention? Rather than end up with more than just an artistic rivalry, I advised her to remove herself to somewhere far enough away that the lady’s hand could not scratch her.
All three men chuckled, and even Wolf snorted.
“Our own prince has generated trouble of that sort himself,” Nigel said, with a shake of his head. “But that wasn’t why your Master created you.”
No, it isn’t. There was no specific threat at the time. Only the need to provide his daughter with guidance he would not be there to give.
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