Born of Illusion

by Teri Brown

  “Thank you.” I smile and look down at my hands. Then, not knowing what else to say, I pretend to be interested in Mother and Jacques’s lively discussion about people I don’t know. My mother is quickly becoming a New Yorker, which gives me hope that we’ll stay on here, in spite of Harry Houdini’s witch hunts.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Owen says, leaning closer.

  My heart speeds up at his nearness. He smells like pomade, gin, and something sweet that I can’t quite identify. “Only a penny?”

  “Depends on the thoughts, doesn’t it?” he whispers softly, and I catch my breath. Then the car makes a sharp turn and he’s suddenly in my lap, his hat tumbling to the floor.

  I yelp and throw my hands in the air. He pops back up, his face mortified.

  “I really must stop making such a fool of myself in front of you,” he says, clapping his hat back on his head. “It’s not at all good for my ego.”

  I laugh, envious of Owen’s unassailable confidence. He moves through the world with such ease. I wish I could be more like that.

  “I bet you have many interesting thoughts,” he says, going right back to our conversation.

  “I’m actually thinking about how nice it would be to stay in New York permanently.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to see Europe? You’re a talented magician; you could do a world tour. I love New York, but I’d kill to be able to travel from city to city, performing.”

  “Really? I thought you worked at a bank.”

  “I do. But I dabble in magic a bit too.” He glances down at his hands, trying and failing to look modest.

  My eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t know that.” I knew he enjoyed magic, but I didn’t know he practiced it.

  “I started when I was in school. I’m not nearly as talented as you or your father, though.”

  Thankfully, we reach our destination before I have to reply.

  The Colony is the place sophisticated New Yorkers go to see and be seen, Owen informs me, and I can see why. The wildly striped walls catch my attention immediately, but it’s the glittering chandeliers and well-dressed patrons that hold it. The head waiter seems to know Jacques, and we’re led to a table near the center of the room. A tall man with curly hair and a black silk suit walks up to our table soon after we’re seated and introduces himself as Cornelius Vanderbilt. His eyes rove over my mother in spite of the presence of a pretty, if mousy, blonde hovering nearby.

  “My wife and I attended your opening night,” he says. “You and your daughter have a wonderful act.”

  Mother inclines her head and gives a brilliant smile that leaves both Jacques and Mr. Vanderbilt blinking. “Thank you so much, Mr. Vanderbilt.”

  “Please, call me Cornelius. And this is my wife, Rachel.”

  His wife gives a tight smile. “Nice to meet you. Really, darling, we must get back to the Goulds.”

  Little sparks of jealousy come off her like darts when she gives my hand a reluctant shake. I’m relieved when Cornelius casts my mother one last, lingering look before leaving with his possessive wife.

  Owen leans toward me. “The Vanderbilts are filthy rich. I heard they had a five-hundred-pound cake for their wedding reception.”

  I try to envision what that might look like but can’t. “I want to see the oven that could bake a five-hundred-pound cake,” I whisper back.

  Owen laughs and I relax. Jacques orders us four Colony Specials.

  “What are those?” I ask, and Owen leans in close.

  “Gin drinks. They’re pretty good if the hooch isn’t too bad.”

  I look around and notice that almost everyone is holding a cocktail. “How do they get away with it at such a high-profile restaurant?”

  “Marco Hattem is the bartender here. He keeps all the booze in a freight elevator in the back. If the feds pay a call, he sends it all up to the top floor of the building.”

  I laugh, picturing a wily bartender pushing the up button whenever trouble threatened.

  “Plus, how many feds do you think have the guts to make a raid on a restaurant that regularly serves Vanderbilts, Goulds, and Carnegies?” Owen waggles his eyebrows at me and I grin.

  The waiter delivers our drinks and we all take a careful sip. It’s strong with a hint of anise and orange. “It’s good,” I say with some surprise.

  “Let’s drink to a superior shipment!” Owen raises his glass and Mother, Jacques, and I join him in a toast.

  “I’ve never been able to resist a celebration!” Cynthia Gaylord trills from behind us. “What are we celebrating?”

  “Success,” Jacques puts in quickly, raising a glass to my mother. She tilts her head slightly and smiles in response, pleased with his answer.

  The Gaylords grab chairs and squeeze in at the table while the waiter brings another round. Cynthia is at her glittering, giggling best as she, Jacques, and my mother gossip. You would never know of my mother’s contempt for her. Her husband looks on indulgently.

  Couples, glamorous in their evening finery, stop by the table to meet my mother. Word of mouth is making her a new sensation in the city. It feels strange after being run out of so many towns by the law and angry citizens. She accepts the homage as if it were her due, inclining her head and bestowing dazzling smiles. The rest of us just bask in her glow as we stuff ourselves on oysters, caviar, and blue cheese, along with rounds of The Colony’s famous toast.

  All the while, Owen continues whispering gossip in my ear, some true and some so outrageous that I know he must be making it up to entertain me. It works.

  “There’s Lois Long,” he says, indicating a gorgeous and daringly dressed brunette. “She writes scandalous columns for The New Yorker under the pseudonym Lipstick. It’s said she spends her nights drinking and dancing with New York’s finest before weaving her way to the offices at four in the morning. She writes an entire gossip column about the people she just spent the night with and then passes out at her desk.”

  I stare wide-eyed, imagining a life like that. She’s surrounded by a sparkling clique, hanging on to her every word. Then I notice a well-dressed gentleman standing on the edge of the crowd, part of the group but separate. “Who’s that man, the one who doesn’t look like he’s having a good time?”

  “That’s Vincent Astor. He inherited millions when his father went down on the Titanic.”

  Titanic. The word echoes in my mind, evoking the memory of my first vision—even though I was so little at the time, I didn’t know that’s what it was. I’d been walking through a late-spring snow with my mother, looking for a cheap boardinghouse. Fortune had frowned on us in Denver and my worn shoes were soaked through. When the first pain erupted behind my eyes, I stopped, clutching my hands to my head. My mother, oblivious, walked on for a moment before noticing. Though she asked me repeatedly what was wrong, I couldn’t answer, petrified by the images playing out in my mind. A broken ship. People running, screaming, drowning in the dark, icy water. Just before blacking out, I remember the overpowering scent of burned sugar. Though that moment was terrifying, it was nothing compared to the horror I felt when I first saw the newspaper headlines bringing my vision to life.

  “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  I jump as Cynthia, on my right, lays her hand on my arm. Through her fingers I feel snippets of concern laced with a giddy, uncomplicated happiness. Though the emotion warms me, my heart gives a wistful little tug. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that carefree.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I was daydreaming.”

  “Oh good. For a second there you looked like you’d seen a ghost.” She winks at her little joke and I give her a wan smile.

  But the word ghost reminds me that I wanted to ask her about that ghost society. “Why don’t you tell me more about the Society for Psychical Research?”

  “Oh, honey, it’s the most amazing thing. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never actually attended a meeting, but we have an English guest lecturing at our church who used to b
elong. It just sounds fascinating. Very scientific.”

  I snort. “What kind of church do you go to that has guest speakers on ghosts?”

  She laughs. “A very modern one with very old roots. It’s a Swedenborgian church called The New Church. You and your mother must come with us sometime. As mediums, you would be very welcome.”

  My mother’s mouth tightens and I know it’s because Cynthia called me a medium. “I think it’s time that we were going,” she says, rising from the table.

  Everyone gets up to leave and I grab Cynthia’s arm while Jacques helps my mother into her coat. I’m not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. If other people like me exist, I’m determined to find them. “I would love to visit your church sometime.”

  She claps her hands. “Wonderful. It’s on East Thirty-Fifth Street between Lexington and Park Avenue. We meet at eleven on Sundays, though the lectures are usually in the evenings. I’ll let you know.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promise.

  I don’t know if it was the Colony Specials or the events of the day, but I’m numb with exhaustion by the time we gather our things. I lean heavily on Owen’s arm on our way out to the car, once again relieved I don’t have to worry about how he’s feeling.

  “You look like you were born to this way of life, doll,” he whispers.

  I give him a sleepy smile and settle back against the seat.

  My head bobs twice before he moves close. “Go ahead and put your head against my shoulder. I promise I won’t bite.”

  The offer is too good to refuse and I lay my head on his shoulder with a weary sigh.

  We don’t get home until almost one. My mother, still drunk with her success, gaily asks the men if they want to come up for a nightcap. Thankfully, both decline. Jacques cites Mother’s need for sleep as his reason and she smiles and waves a hand.

  I follow her upstairs, my feet dragging. Mr. Darby sticks his head out of his doorway and scowls as we pass by. “All this gallivanting around at night is going to make you sick, missy; mark my words!” He slams the door.

  My mother yawns. “What a strange man.”

  I give a sleepy smile. What he really meant was “Be careful, missy; I don’t want to see you sick.” It’s nice knowing someone cares about my welfare. But I don’t try explaining that to my mother.

  Twelve

  I rub my tired, gritty eyes, cursing my inability to sleep in. Even though I’d been exhausted after getting home the night before, I read Houdini’s book until my eyes crossed. At least it kept me from wondering who’d been following me and why. Three times in the past week, I’ve felt someone watching me, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because I’m irresistible. But that isn’t the only reason I can’t sleep.

  I’m afraid of having another vision.

  Why am I suddenly having visions about my own life? They’ve always been about other people or events—never about me or my mother. Perhaps they really are just dreams? I shift uneasily. But if they aren’t, shouldn’t I try to do something? Find out more? But how? My mind blanks. Perhaps the answer lies with that research society. But as much as I would like to find other people who have abilities like mine, my whole being rebels at the thought of telling anyone about my secret. How do you reveal something that you’ve guarded your entire life? Especially when you know, instinctively, that your entire survival depends on keeping it hidden?

  But what is the worst thing that could happen if it became common knowledge that I have these abilities? The question touches something raw and primal inside, setting my pulse to racing, but I force myself to think it through.

  I would never be able to live a respectable, normal life. People would want things from me; they would hound me, and all my privacy would be gone. Even my magic would be affected—people wouldn’t come to see Anna the magician; they would come to see Anna the freak. No matter that they think my mother has all these special powers, I don’t want to be the girl who can talk to the dead or have visions of the future. I don’t want to be a medium. And my mother—my breath hitches—my mother would never allow me to be the center of attention.

  I realize I’m trembling and take several deep breaths. But does any of that matter? If my mother is in some kind of danger, I have to risk it. I resolve to go to that lecture with Cynthia and find out more.

  Putting it out of my mind, I move on to the next problem: Houdini and his vendetta against mediums.

  Could our livelihood really be at risk? We’ve always had to watch for skeptics, but Houdini is making medium hunting fashionable. Being exposed has become more and more of a possibility. Can I trust Jacques to personally vouch for all the people he brings to our séances? I’ve always dreamed of giving them up and living a normal life, but can we afford to stop?

  I go over our bank book again, my heart sinking. As always, Mother lives right up to the edge of disaster and then waits for me to pull money out of a hat.

  I’m a good magician, but I’m not that good.

  According to the book, we have enough money to keep us in food and little more than that. I frown. Mother has been shopping much more than the bank statements indicate. My new dress hasn’t even been entered. Where is she getting the money? I hope she isn’t getting credit from the stores. That kind of headache I do not need.

  I slip the book back into the desk drawer and take a deep breath. With another glance toward the bedrooms, I recount my own carefully hidden stash of money. Still thirty-eight dollars. Enough to keep us from going hungry or being homeless for a little while, but not much more than that. I add a ten from our last séance and put the rest in an envelope to deposit at the bank. Hesitantly, I take out another ten and add it to my stash. Fifty-eight dollars, now. Still not enough.

  Knowing what I do about Houdini’s vendetta, I can’t share Mother’s financial optimism.

  Which means one thing: Not only do I have to continue doing our séances, but I have to make them spectacular enough to charge even more money. Something different. Something so amazing that we have people clamoring to get in, and we can charge an exorbitant amount of money. What that something is exactly, I’m not sure. But once we have more of a cushion we can quit. And hopefully, we can do it before Houdini or one of the other vigilante skeptics ruins our credibility. Because if we are publicly denounced as frauds, the Newmark Theater will cancel our contract and everything will be ruined.

  But is it right for me to continue doing something I know is wrong for my own gain? Harry Houdini’s words reverberate in my mind: It is not difficult to convince people who have recently suffered bereavement of the possibility of communicating with their loved ones. To me, the poor suffering followers, eagerly searching for relief from the heart-pain that follows the passing on of a dear one, are a sacrifice to the scavengers who make money from them.

  He’s talking about me and my mother. Scavengers.

  With a sharp sigh, I hide the money and get ready to visit Mr. Darby. Again I check the locks carefully before leaving.

  Still skittish from being chased last night, I decide to stick close to home and end up just darting into the corner bakery for sugar buns before heading back.

  Mr. Darby opens the door before I can even knock.

  “It’s about time,” he grouses. “I was getting hungry. It’s almost eleven.”

  “What did you do for breakfast before I moved here? I’m fairly certain you didn’t starve.” I eye his paunchy stomach and grin.

  “Don’t be impertinent, missy. The kettle is already on.”

  We move into the kitchen, but surprise stops me short when I see a strange girl sweeping the floor.

  She glances at me and then away. “I’m almost done in here, sir. Would you like me to take the trash to the basement?”

  “No!” he barks. “You stay out of my basement, you hear? Now, be off with you. You’ve done enough for today and I don’t want you bothering my guest.”

  Her eyes dart about, indicating her nervousness, and I note how
soft and well cared for her hands seem for a cleaning woman. She hurries out of the room with another glance at me and I set the basket on the table.

  Mr. Darby peers into the paper bag. “No croissants this morning?”

  “No, I wanted to try something different.” I hesitate. “Who’s the girl?” I ask. Something about her felt off. Though happily, it’s in a normal, run-of-the-mill, I’m-not-sure-I-like-you kind of way instead of a premonition due to my abilities.

  He shrugs and pours our tea. “She came by yesterday looking for work, and Cole took pity and hired her to come in for a bit every day to clean. I think she’s a spy.”

  “A spy?”

  “Yes. A spy for a rival inventor.”

  I laugh. “More like a spy for Cole. He’s probably going to report to your relatives what you do when he’s gone all day.”

  He snorts. “I’m more interested in what he does all day!”

  That makes two of us.

  Mr. Darby gives the sugar bun a sniff, then takes a bite. His face wrinkles in concentration as he chews. “These are good. Though not as good as croissants, mind you.”

  I’m curious about the girl, but more curious about what’s in Mr. Darby’s basement. “Would today be a good day to see your workshop?” I ask, keeping my voice nonchalant.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  The old tease, I think, eating my own roll. But I say nothing. If I show too much interest, he’ll just dangle it in front of me like a carrot.

  I keep my silence until we both finish our breakfast and tea.

  “Well, come along. I know you’re dying to get a peek.”

  As I follow him through the kitchen and down a long hallway I hear stirring above us and know my mother is up.

  Mr. Darby opens a door and pulls a string hanging from the top of the stairs. “Watch your step,” he cautions.

  The scent of grease, mildew, and burned coffee becomes stronger and stronger as we descend. When we finally reach the bottom, I take a look around and gasp. I don’t know what I was expecting, but certainly not this conglomeration of copper, steel, and wiring. My eyes don’t know where to look first. The room runs the length and width of the house and is brightly lit with bare bulbs hanging every third or fourth beam. Workbenches line one wall and hold a glorious mess of oddly shaped instruments, boxes, and spheres. In one corner stands a giant, cylindrical welder and a lathe. In the next is a huge machine I can’t identify. Mr. Darby is either a bona-fide genius or a madman.