by Teri Brown
Next to me, Cole is completely involved in the movie. The organist is quite good, the music swelling and subsiding with the action. He smiles at the funny bits and tenses at the suspenseful parts.
Across from us, the baby fusses and the woman tries to calm it, jouncing it up and down. Then her anguish washes over me so clearly, I begin to tremble. I clasp my hands together in my lap and look down at the floor, but the sorrow and fear continue to lash at me like a hurricane. My shoulders hunch and I draw inward, trying to protect my heart, which feels as if it’s about to break.
Unable to bear it any longer, I leap out of my seat and scoot past a surprised Cole. Pausing only for a second, I take my emergency ten-dollar coin from my purse and toss it into the woman’s lap. She looks up, startled, but I turn away and race up the aisle.
I run through the lobby and burst out the doors in front. Only then do I pause long enough to take a breath. Moments later, Cole comes through the same door.
“Are you all right?” Worry creases his forehead.
My cheeks flush. “I’m fine. I just forgot I had to do something.”
I turn and start walking away, tears of humiliation forming in my eyes.
“Are you sure you feel well? Do you want me to come with you?”
I hear the concern in his tone but can’t face him. “Everything’s fine. I have to go,” I call over my shoulder. I hurry away through the crowd, frantic to leave Cole, Houdini, and that poor, desperate woman behind me. Then I do what the Van Housen women always do when things go wrong. I run.
Eight
The eight of spades. The eight of spades.
My legs shake as we walk down the hall to our dressing room. Mother opens the door and waves me in as if nothing has happened.
But it has. The eight of spades.
Of course, she doesn’t care. She wouldn’t have been the laughingstock of the show. My fists clench. She’d done it on purpose. Coldly, consciously, and deliberately.
The séance obviously provoked her more than she’d let on.
On her table is a bottle of the chilled French wine she likes to finish her evenings with. By the time she pours herself a glass and takes a sip, I’ve had enough.
I snatch my coat off the coat rack and wrap it around me. Facing her image in the mirror, I glare as she checks her hair and powders her nose. She avoids my eyes even though she knows I’m watching her.
“Why did you do that, Mother? To show me who’s boss?”
“Don’t be sulky, darling. I was just having a bit of fun.”
“Your fun humiliated me,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Oh, please.” Her tone is sharp. “The audience hardly even knew there was a mistake.”
It was supposed to be an easy card trick. I would “force” a card onto a volunteer, make it disappear and then reappear in the pocket of a different “random” member of the audience. It was Mother’s job to plant the correct card earlier in the show. Only tonight it didn’t work out that way.
I’m so mad, I shove aside the caution I usually use in dealing with my mother. “I gave you the eight of spades to plant, but strangely enough, I pulled out the jack of hearts. Now why is that?”
My mother’s mouth tightens. She’s not used to me calling her on the carpet. “Keep your voice down! Like I said, I was just having a bit of fun. You covered it up and it’s over.”
I place both hands on my hips as hurt and angry tears swell in my throat. “It wasn’t fun for me, Mother, and I don’t want it to happen again. Ever.”
Her face stills into an impassive mask as she finally meets my eyes. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Before I leave, I slap a card faceup on her vanity table—the eight of spades, which was still in the pocket of her dress when we came down the hall.
Stomping out, I slam the door behind me for good measure. Then I take a second to catch my breath. It’s coming out in short gasps. I’ve never given her an order like that before. I’m not sure whether to jump up and down in glee or be sick.
Had she really been so angry about the séance that she was willing to jeopardize the show for it? Attack and counterattack. Strategy and schemes. Why is my relationship with my mother more like a chess game than a family bond?
No matter how badly I want to take a taxi home and leave her to stew all by herself, I know I can’t. I lean back against the wall, shaking, and close my eyes. No matter how angry she makes me she’s still my mother, and I have to protect her if I can.
I hear voices and take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose myself.
Jacques is approaching me, accompanied by a handsome young stranger with strikingly blond hair. “Are you leaving?”
I nod. “I have a headache.” This isn’t far from the truth.
“I’m so sorry.” Jacques’s words slip from his mouth as if they’ve been lubricated. “I was hoping you would join us for dinner. We have a guest tonight.” He turns toward the young man. “Owen, this is Anna Van Housen. You saw her lively performance earlier. Anna, this is my nephew, Owen Winchester. He surprised me at the show this evening.”
“Enchanted, Miss Van Housen.” Owen takes my hand and kisses it. His blue eyes rove over me, lighting up with appreciation. My stomach gives a little responding flutter. Turns out being looked over like that is much more agreeable when the man in question is young and handsome. I feel a jumble of emotions coming from him—including nervousness and admiration. Could he be nervous about meeting me?
Owen glances at his uncle. “I’ve been in New York for several months now. I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you, but it’s taken me a bit to get settled in. Besides, you’re the one who didn’t keep in touch with the family.”
I can’t help but notice the slight dimples framing his crooked smile. He’s wearing a dapper black evening suit and his blond hair’s longer on the top and slicked back in the latest fashion. My mind jumps to Cole’s neat, close-cropped curls. “Nice to meet you,” I murmur, a warm blush staining my cheeks. Whether it’s because of Owen’s obvious approval or the thought of Cole is hard to tell. I’d blushed on and off ever since my humiliating behavior at the movie theater. I wonder what Cole must think of me.
“I was thinking we could all go out for dinner,” Jacques says, interrupting my thoughts. “But if you aren’t feeling well . . .”
I hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. This young man, no matter how attractive, isn’t enough to tempt me into enduring an evening with my mother. Not after what she pulled tonight.
“That’s all right, Uncle J. I have an early morning anyway. Perhaps I could escort Miss Van Housen safely home? That way, you and her lovely mother could go directly to dinner.”
Jacques frowns. “Perhaps we should . . .”
“That would be very kind, thank you,” I say firmly, taking Owen by the arm. I’m being very forward, but I don’t care. This is Jacques’s nephew, after all. Surely Mother won’t have any objections. If she does, that’s just too bad.
Owen leads me down the dark hall and out into the night. The sidewalk in front of the theater is still packed with audience members waiting for taxis or simply chattering about the show. Usually I love this sight, but I’m not in the mood tonight.
“My car is this way,” Owen says. I follow him down the street.
He glances at me. “That was pretty bold, the way you insisted on leaving. Aren’t you afraid your mother will have kittens? We’re practically strangers.”
“My mother won’t care. I’ve been handling myself in adverse situations all my life.”
He laughs. “I certainly hope you aren’t calling me an adverse situation.”
I blush, praying it’s too dark outside for him to see the color in my cheeks. “Of course not.”
“I knew what you meant. But well done for not letting etiquette stand in your way. The old folks don’t understand that life is much different now than when they were young. Our generation has grown up faster. We’re much more mature th
an they were at our age.”
I thrill at his sophisticated, worldly tone.
“Your mother doesn’t really strike me as the old-fashioned type, though,” he continues, opening the door to a neat Model T. The scent of gin, leather, and something sweet tickles my nose as I climb in. He starts the car and I give him my address.
“No, my mother is a modern woman,” I say, going back to our conversation. “And for the most part, she’s always treated me as an adult. She’s had to.” When she’s not laying traps for me.
“What a screwy life you must have led!”
I think back to our years of travel and all the people we’d met. “Yes, but . . .” I hesitate.
“Pretty lonely, too, I bet.”
My eyes widen. “How did you know?”
“I guessed.”
We fall silent for a moment. No one else has ever noticed my loneliness, but then, no one else has been paying much attention.
“You’re sitting pretty now, though, with your new show.”
We drive in silence for a few blocks. “I have a confession to make,” he finally says.
“What’s that?”
“I told my uncle I wanted to meet the amazing Madame Marguerite Van Housen, but I was much more interested in meeting you.”
I frown. What a line.
“I wanted to know how such a beautiful young woman could also be such a talented magician.”
“Oh.” My cheeks flush a darker shade of red.
He laughs, and I’ve never felt less sophisticated.
“What kind of work do you do that you have to get up so early?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t feel up to telling him the story of my life.
“I work in a bank on Wall Street. It’s not very exciting, but the pay is good.”
It sounds exciting to me. Well, not exactly exciting. More like solid and comfortable. Which, given the harum-scarum life I’ve led, sounds pretty wonderful.
“So how about you? You happy being in the show?”
I think about it. “Sort of. But I’d rather just do magic and skip the mentalist act.”
Owen smiles. “The show is nifty, it really is, but I think it would be even better if there were more magic and less of the other stuff. I’ve always enjoyed magic.”
I snort. “Try telling my mother that.”
“Why doesn’t she want you to have a bigger part in the show? You’re good enough to do bigger illusions.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. “But Mother is the headliner.”
“Ah.” His voice is leading, but I don’t take the bait.
“So are you really Harry Houdini’s daughter?”
My breath hitches and my fists clench. I stare at them in the darkness. Counting to three, I slowly uncurl them before replying. “Where did you hear that?”
“I said something to my uncle about how talented you are, and he said you should be, since you were Houdini’s daughter.”
I stare out the windows at the dark streets, a solid mass of emotion pressing against my chest. Wherever I go, the rumors follow. I suspect Mother starts most of them herself.
“Hey,” he says, reaching across to touch my arm lightly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I think it’s pretty great.”
“It’s just not something I talk about.” I shake my head. He must think I’m a real flat tire, a bore even.
He pulls up in front of my building. “That’s okay. I can think of better things to talk to a pretty girl about.”
“And what would that be?”
“‘Of shoes and ships and sealing wax . . .’”
“‘Of cabbages and kings,’” I finish, laughing. I’ve read Through the Looking-Glass at least a dozen times.
I reach for the car door.
“No, wait. Allow me!”
He hops out and rushes around the car, while I settle back, a small smile playing about my lips. Living a nice, respectable life definitely has its benefits. This is the second time in less than a week that a handsome young man has treated me like a lady instead of some sort of stage hussy. It makes me feel . . . special. Just before he reaches the door, however, Owen stumbles and falls, landing in the gutter. One moment he’s there, and the next he’s sprawled, spread eagle, on the street. I wrench on the handle and jump out, careful not to step on him.
“Are you all right?”
He springs to his feet, brushing off his suit. “Yes. But what do they say about pride going before a fall?”
I stifle a laugh. “I never understood that, myself. I always thought pride went after the fall.”
He gives me an embarrassed grin. “I can assure you, that is indeed the case.”
I smile back. “Well, thank you for the ride.”
He wipes off his hand on his trousers before taking mine and kissing it. “My pleasure, Miss Van Housen. Especially the bang-up finish.”
There’s a smudge of dirt under one of his cheekbones and I have to smile. Then he catches both my hands in his. They’re warm and gentle and to my relief, sending me no overt emotional messages. My breath hitches as his laughing blue eyes grow serious. “Would you like to go dancing with me sometime?”
“Why?” I ask, and then want to kick myself again. I can pick a lock or pocket with ease, make cards appear and disappear like a jack-in-the-box, and break in and out of small-town jails without being detected, but put me in the presence of a nice young man and I become the village idiot.
“Because I like you.”
I lower my eyes to hide my confusion. He likes me? Isn’t this all happening a little fast? I look back to his face. His dimples deepen as a smile curves his lips, and a lock of hair has fallen over his forehead. But then, maybe this is how it works. I shove the Harry Houdini comment out of my mind and answer his smile with one of my own.
“Perhaps.”
He laughs. “Perhaps?”
I nod, too embarrassed to speak.
He gives my hand a squeeze. “That’s swell, Anna. See you soon.”
I turn away to unlock the door to my building and wait until Owen’s car chugs away before letting myself look back over my shoulder. The events of the evening are catching up to me. I’m always tired after a show, but tonight, after the fight with my mother, even my bones feel fragile.
Suddenly the hair on my neck and arms prickles and foreboding brushes across my skin like a blood-dipped feather. My fingers, so adept at picking locks, fumble with the key. Like a child afraid to look under the bed, I’m terrified to peek behind me, afraid of what I might see. A thief or worse? The door falls open, and I shoot through it, giving the stoop one sweeping glance before shutting the door behind me.
Nothing.
But I can still feel something out there, lurking. And whatever it is, it isn’t going anywhere soon.
“Quit your sulking and help me choose a hat.”
I’m lying on the sofa reading an old copy of the Sphinx magazine, trying to ignore my mother, who has been hovering all morning. Being ignored is her worst nightmare and my best line of defense.
I raise an eyebrow and give her a cursory glance. She’s dressed for the day in a soft maroon worsted-wool suit that reaches just below her knees. The color sets off her creamy complexion—my mother’s proud of her skin and deplores the fashion that makes women powder their faces white. She only does it at night or for shows.
She sets two hatboxes down on the coffee table and pulls out a jade-green cloche and then a black one.
As always, I’m torn by my desire to please my mother and my survival instincts. After a brief struggle, I sigh and lay down my magazine. “The black one. It’ll go with the dress once you take your coat off.”
“Hmm. I think perhaps the green.”
Of course she does. I pick up my cards and begin shuffling.
She pins on the hat and twirls for me. “How do I look?”
“Lovely as always. Where are you going?”
“Lunch with Jacques.”
Worry pulses through me and I r
ub my temples. “And then what?”
She frowns. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Are we working tonight?” What I’m asking is whether we are doing a séance or not. The theater is closed Sunday nights to appease the churchgoers.
Mother shakes her head. “No. Jacques thinks we should only do a few séances a month. That way they’re more exclusive and we can charge more.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief and she frowns. “Have a lovely time and don’t spend too much money,” I say before she can chide me about my attitude. It works.
“Don’t worry so much about money, darling.” She gathers up her purse and gloves and I get up and follow her to the door. “We’re going to have plenty from now on.” She pats my shoulder patronizingly. “And don’t wait around for me. I’m not sure when I’ll be home. Now I really must go; Jacques is probably already downstairs. Oh, and I ordered some material for a new spirit manifestation. It’s even gauzier than what we’re using and will be perfect. Can you pick it up for me?”
I give her a small, defeated nod.
She writes the directions on a piece of paper and hands it to me before opening the door. I turn toward the window so I can watch her get into Jacques’s car.
Then her scream shatters the air.
I whirl around, expecting to see her being hauled away by an unknown enemy. Instead she is standing frozen in the doorway. I’m by her side in a heartbeat, my hands raised, wishing I had my balisong, anything, to use as a weapon. But there is no one there. Then I notice her extended finger and suck in my breath when I see what she’s pointing at. A sewer rat the size of a small cat is lying on our doorstep.
“What is that?” my mother asks, her voice raw.
I swallow, my pulse starting to slow. “It’s just a rat.”
“How did it get here and what do we do with it?” As usual, she’s completely at a loss. I touch her shoulder.