by Teri Brown
My heart stops. For a moment, I can’t breathe or move. Finally, I look into Cole’s eyes, which are edged with worry and something else I can’t identify.
“There are others?” I whisper.
He looks away. “Yes.”
I’m not alone.
Relief, sweet and liberating, overwhelms me and I slump back in my chair. There were times growing up when I thought I was a lunatic, imagining things. But all along, there were others. It’s not that I haven’t suspected it. There are too many books on the subject of psychical phenomena to be a coincidence, but to have it actually confirmed. . . .
“Who?” My voice comes from a lost, lonely place deep inside.
Cole hands me his handkerchief. “I can’t tell you,” he says softly.
I stop dabbing at my eyes. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you that either. Not right now.” And even though his voice is laced with regret, I know he means what he says.
“When can you tell me?”
He shrugs, his mouth tight. Hurt edged with desperation radiates through my chest. I snatch up his hand, concentrating hard, trying to get a read on him. It’s blocked.
I don’t know why I feel so betrayed. I barely know Cole. I just . . . A sudden thought comes to mind. “When I asked you why you came to the States, you said it was to meet me. What did you mean?”
“That I can tell you. I came to find other Sensitives. You’re the first real one I’ve located.” His eyes, dark with concern, search my face.
My head spins trying to connect all the dots. “That’s what you do when you leave the house all day? Look for Sensitives?”
He nods.
“And that’s what you were doing in the slums the night I was lost?”
He nods again. “I go to see fortune-tellers, mediums, et cetera. There are a lot of charlatans in the business, but you never can tell.”
“That’s why you introduced yourself to Jacques. To get an invitation to our séance.”
“After I met you in the hallway, I knew.”
My heart dips in disappointment. And here I thought it was because he wanted to get to know me. But he wasn’t interested in me, just my abilities. “Why are you looking for people like me?”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head for a moment. “Look, this isn’t really my secret to tell. There are other people . . .”
I clench my hands in frustration. “Why say anything at all if you can’t explain yourself?”
He shakes his head. “I told them I would make a mess of this.”
“Told who?” At the look on his face I stand up. “No, don’t say it. You can’t tell me.”
I turn on my heel and walk away.
“Anna, wait. Please, you have to trust me.” I hear the pleading in his voice, but I have nothing to say. I just want to get as far away from him as possible. He gets up to follow and I put my hand out. “Not. Right. Now.”
He looks in my eyes and gives a short nod.
My jaw clenched, I walk out into the frigid morning, not quite sure whether the tumult of emotions inside stems from anger, disappointment, or heartbreak.
Sixteen
The anger roiling inside keeps me warm as I march past the El stop and on down the street.
How dare he tell me things about myself that I’ve always wanted to know, and then refuse to give me any details. To leave me hanging with little bits and pieces of information and nothing more?
“Trust me,” I mutter, dodging people on the busy sidewalk. How can I trust him? I don’t trust anyone. I stop.
Maybe I’m more like my mother than I ever imagined.
I continue walking, trying to sort all the thoughts whirling in my mind like confetti caught in a whirlwind. There are others like me. Others who can control their abilities. Turn them off, maybe? Live a normal life? I yearn for that. To be able to turn off my “gifts” and be like everyone else.
And Cole is the only one who can teach me. Cole, who vacillates between aloof and caring faster than a magician can say “Abracadabra.”
I stop for a moment as another thought strikes me. My vision. If his presence makes my abilities stronger, that may explain why I’m suddenly having multiple visions concerning my own life.
My anger dissolves, leaving me alone like a child who, having found her way to the center of a maze, realizes she has no way out.
I consider jumping on a streetcar but decide the crisp air will help clear my mind and chase away the last vestiges of anger. I have hours before I have to get ready to go to the theater. Besides, it’s a beautiful day in spite of the cold. The sun makes the pristine marble facades of the older buildings gleam as I walk past them.
I continue walking along Sixth Avenue, through the sky-high buildings that make me feel as if I’m at the bottom of a steep canyon. The walking calms me as I try to put my conversation with Cole out of my mind.
I must have walked for more than an hour when I suddenly stop, stunned by a large sign hanging on a storefront across the street.
THE MARTINKA-HORNMANN MAGIC CO.
I gaze at the sign, excitement replacing confusion. Who cares about my personal life when the most famous magic shop in the entire world lies before me? Like any other magician worth her salt, I know that the Martinka brothers started their shop in the 1860s and ran it for forty years before selling it to Carter the Great, who then sold it to Harry Houdini. After several years, Houdini sold it to another famous magician, Otto Hornmann.
And it’s right there in front of me. I glance around. Is it serendipity that brought me here right after my talk with Cole? Or something else? I pause but feel nothing but the hammering of my own heart.
I barely miss being run down by a taxi as I rush across the busy street. Just before opening the door, I pause and take a deep breath. At this moment, I’m not a girl with an overbearing mother. I’m not a girl who likes a boy who’s only interested in her strange abilities. At this moment, I am a magician.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim indoor lighting, but once I do I gasp. The store is stocked with floor-to-ceiling shelves and filled with so much clutter that it makes Mr. Darby’s workshop look orderly.
No one is at the front counter and the shop looks empty, but the murmur of voices from the back room assures me I’m not alone. My eyes are drawn to the merchandise stacked haphazardly on every available surface. On one shelf, decks of cards perch precariously. On another, scarves stream down in brightly colored waterfalls. In the back of the shop, I spot magic cupboards and boxes of all kinds. Every bit of wall not covered with shelves is decorated with posters and handbills of famous magicians. I pick out several of Houdini right away.
I sniff deeply at the musty scent of wood, old books, and card-fanning powder.
My hands are drawn to a deck of cards lying open close to me, and I shuffle and reshuffle. The deck is beautiful, with wands and swords intricately drawn on the back. With the cards in hand, I wander over to a display of burnished wood boxes with undetectable false bottoms.
“May I help you?”
Startled, I turn to find an older gentleman with thick glasses poking his head out the doorway to the back room.
“I’m just looking, thank you.”
His eyebrows draw together curiously, but then he nods and his head disappears again.
“It’s just some girl, looking around,” I hear him say.
Just some girl. I shuffle a single card through my fingers several times, pop it in the air, and catch it in the middle of the deck. Then I do a one-handed cut, a flip back, and then, for flourish, a long spring.
Some girl indeed.
“Very nice.”
My heart shoots up to my throat as I find myself looking into Harry Houdini’s cool gaze. I glance down at the floor. This is the most famous magic shop in the world. Of course he would be here.
Maybe deep down I hoped he would be?
“Thank you,” I murmur, heat rising in my face. Maybe he doesn’t remembe
r me. He must have signed hundreds of books the other day.
“You like cards, Anna?”
I shiver at the way he says my name. With his Hungarian accent, he pronounces it with exactly the same intonation as my mother. Ahnah.
I bite my lip. “Yes. I like magic.”
His brows rise. “Ah, an aficionado.”
I look him right in the eye. “No, a magician.”
His brows rise again.
“Do you perform?”
I want to bite back the words. Why don’t I just paint a target on my mother’s back? Instead of answering, I start doing flips with my cards. In response, he picks up another deck of cards and begins manipulating them. He’s good, but there’s no question that I’m better.
“I had a feeling I would see you again,” he says, his eyes on his cards.
My blood chills. Does he mean that in a normal, I-had-a-feeling way or in an I-can-see-the-future way? Many people, Sherlock Holmes author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle among them, believe Houdini has psychical powers—a claim Houdini aggressively denies.
“And here I thought you weren’t a mentalist,” I say boldly, setting down my cards.
Houdini follows suit. “I’m not. It was purely instinctive.”
“Good instincts.”
He smiles slightly. “So tell me, Anna the magician, is our meeting accidental or on purpose?”
Nervous now, I move over to another display. “You mean, am I following you?” I pick up a box and open the false bottom, not meeting his eyes. I hadn’t been following him, so why do I feel so guilty?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shrug. “It’s happened before.”
Of course it has. With his fame, it would be surprising if it hadn’t. “Well, I’m not.” I replace the box and move to the juggling balls. Picking up a set, I give them a few experimental spins in the air.
He folds his arms, crinkling the sleeves of his suit jacket, making him look even shorter than he is. “You juggle and do card flourishes quite well, but those are circus antics. Not magic.”
“Not like your escape tricks, you mean?” Defensiveness creeps into my voice. Show him, the magician in me urges. Get out! my survival instincts scream back.
“Trick is the operative word there.” His mouth twists wryly. “Now Adrian Mons and Robert Houdin, they did real magic.”
“Real magic?” I grin, and he returns the smile. Emboldened, I push on. “But you dedicated an entire book to exposing Robert Houdin.”
He shrugs. “I was young and impetuous.” He cocks his head to one side, his eyes narrowing as if considering something before reaching into his pocket and drawing out a card.
“My personal business card. I think the world could use more talented female magicians. My own wife is quite adept. You’re more than welcome to come and show me your act. Perhaps I can give you some pointers?”
I juggle the balls a few more times before sitting them down. Taking the card slowly as if it might explode in my face, I drop it into my pocket. The temptation to show him what I can do is stronger than my common sense. “Perhaps I can show you something now?”
His pointy eyebrows shoot up in amusement.
I covertly palm a picklock from my handbag. “Have any handcuffs?”
“And what would you know about handcuffs?”
My pulse quickens and I give him an impudent smile. “Try me.”
His own smile deepens as he moves behind the cluttered counter. Bending, he rummages around and comes up holding a pair of Lovell handcuffs.
I don’t show my relief. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to trick me with a pair of Giant Bean handcuffs. I don’t have an extender on my pick and would have had to admit defeat. But these, these I can get out of.
He locks me firmly into the cuffs, not seeing the picklock in the sleeve of my coat. Then he spins me around to face him.
“Turn around.”
Unlike Mr. Darby, he doesn’t ask why. Houdini does most of his escapes behind a curtain.
For a moment, I just stare at the set of his neck and the way his shoulders fill out his jacket. He and I are the exact same height.
“So what did you mean when you said that mediums would figure out new ways to trick their clients?”
I startle, almost dropping the picklock. “I meant that they will design bigger and better illusions, just as magicians do.”
My fingers fumble for a moment before I quiet my mind and allow my body to take over. My muscles remember what to do.
“How would you know anything about that?”
Instead of answering, I counter, “How do you get out of your locked trunks?”
He gives a low chuckle. “Touché.”
Moving closer to him, I whisper, “I think the secret is shorter bolts.” Then I drop the handcuffs on the counter in front of him and hightail it out the door.
As promised, Cynthia is waiting in front of the theater after the show that night. Inside, excitement wars with nerves for top billing. Part of me wants to learn all I can about the Society for Psychical Research. The other part is afraid of what I’ll find out. Namely, that premonitions can’t be stopped and the visions I’m having are going to come to pass, no matter how closely I try to watch my mother.
Anticipation lights up Cynthia’s face and she’s stunning in a lustrous coral cardigan sweater that she’d paired with a beige pleated skirt. A felt, gigolo-style beige hat sits upon her shining blond head. She looks strangely demure, much different from her usually sparkling self. I’m still in my stage clothes and feel overdressed and glittery in my bright Oriental silk dress.
“Are you excited? I’m so excited!”
I smile in assent and climb into the automobile.
The ride to the church is a quick one, with Cynthia jabbering happily next to me. It’s reassuring that she’s still the same in spite of her new look. Keeping up with her chatter distracts me from the pit in my stomach.
Instead of meeting in the sanctuary, we go to a back room that looks more like an office than an Italian villa. A dilapidated desk sits in one corner and the dark brown carpeting is worn and stained. In the center of the room, eight straight-back wooden chairs are set up in a circle.
Several people stand near the middle of the room talking when Cynthia and I come in. After the introductions are over, I sit in one of the chairs, while Cynthia continues chatting. There’s no way I can make small talk in my frame of mind. I don’t know what I expect out of this meeting, but I’m hoping for some answers. It’s not as if Cole is going to give me any.
My brow furrows. He said there were others with my abilities. Though he’d never mentioned it, I wonder if he was talking about the Society for Psychical Research? I turn the idea over in my mind. Perhaps, but spiritualist societies abound. Or maybe he was talking about a far more sinister kind of society? Like the kind Aleister Crowley or other occultists belong to. Since he won’t tell me, I have no way of knowing.
Even though I’m facing away from the door, I know the second Dr. Bennett walks into the room. His energy reaches me before he even says a chipper hello to the others. My abilities are getting stronger and sharper, just as Cole said they would. The vision leaps into my mind and I shudder.
Why do I feel like I’m running out of time?
“I’m glad you could make it, Miss Van Housen.”
Startled, I look up into Dr. Bennett’s florid features. “Er, yes. Thank you for inviting me.”
“What are you hoping to learn from this meeting?”
I’d expected a question like that and have a pat answer already in my pocket. I flash him a Cynthia Gaylord smile. “Oh, I’m just interested in any and all psychical phenomena.”
He tilts his head and considers me. I smile until my cheeks hurt. Just because I want answers doesn’t mean I trust him. Not yet.
“You have come to the right place,” he says finally. “He clasps his hands. “Shall we all take a seat?”
With his fingers interlaced over his vest
, he tells a bit of the history of the Society for Psychical Research. “It’s the longest-running psychical investigation group in the world and has included luminaries such as Dickens, Yeats, and currently, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“What do they investigate?” asked Mr. Huber, the German man I met at the lecture.
“Extrasensory perception, clairvoyance, dream theory, and of course, channeling the dead in its many forms, such as spirit writing or telekinetic activity.”
I watch Dr. Bennett carefully as he speaks. He doesn’t hesitate over his answers and speaks with authority. But then again, so does my mother.
“Has the Society for Psychical Research found incontrovertible proof that this type of activity exists?” Cynthia asks.
I look at her in surprise.
Dr. Bennett smiles. “That, my dear lady, is what the wider scientific community wishes to know. Thus far, the Society for Psychical Research has been vague about its findings so as not to alarm the general public. But I can tell you that I have been present at some of their investigations, and I have seen the proof for myself.”
There’s a rustling and murmuring among the other attendees.
“What kind of proof have you seen?” I finally ask.
“I have seen apparitions, telekinetic activity, and spirit writing. I also personally know people with a high degree of extrasensory perception.”
I cross my arms and frown. I’ve seen all those things too. Ha! I’ve created all those things.
“You look suspicious, Miss Van Housen.” He smiles as he says this, but I think he’s pegged Cynthia and me as troublemakers.
“I’m a cautious person, Doctor Bennett. Can you tell me more about the extrasensory perception?” That seems the closest to what I have. I don’t even want to think about Walter.
“Extrasensory perception is the ability to read thoughts or emotions, or foretell the future. Some of the tests I’ve seen use cards, while others are more complex and use electroencephalograms, which is a device used for reading the electrical waves within the brain and was first developed by a friend of mine, Richard Caton.”