by Teri Brown
Please stay safe. H— sends his regards.
L—
My heart aches as I return the letter to its envelope. If Cole did trust me, he certainly doesn’t now. Does he think I might have snatched the letter to give to their enemy, whoever he is? And why is Cole still here if he’s in danger? What does it all mean, and does Dr. Bennett know about any of this? Why did Dr. Bennett really leave the Society? As always, I have more questions than answers.
Twenty-three
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to this?” Jacques asks that evening as we get ready for our performance. Anxiety lines his face—even his mustache looks nervous. I send out a silver ribbon like Cole and I had practiced but come back empty-handed. Even though I’ve been working on controlling my abilities on my own, I still can’t pick up on Jacques’s emotions.
“Yes, darling, are you sure you’re okay? Owen is out front in the audience. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind spelling you for another show.”
I snort. Mother’s true intentions come through loud and clear—even without using my abilities.
“Owen isn’t nearly as talented or experienced as Anna,” Jacques snaps. “People look forward to seeing her. We don’t want to disappoint them further.”
I don’t know who is more surprised, me or my mother. From the look on her face, I’m betting on Mother. Jacques is oblivious to her, however, and leaves after wishing us luck.
“Is this the kind of life you want?” Mother asks suddenly.
I turn from the mirror, where I’ve been trying to hide my fading bruises.
“What do you mean?”
She gives a slight smile. “You’re almost an adult. I don’t think I’ve ever given a thought as to what you might want for your own life.” She stands and stares into the mirror, smoothing her already smooth hair. “Now that things are so much better for us, perhaps you want to give up the show—get married, have children. Live a more normal life.”
My chest aches. Mother’s capacity to surprise never lessens. But is she sincere? Or is she just trying to maneuver me out of the show? I send out a strand, but it wavers and fades before it reaches her. Maybe my own emotions are tangling things up, or maybe I don’t really want to know how she feels.
There’s a knock on the door—the signal that the show is starting—and I follow her to the stage. I stand in the wings, excitement making my pulse race. No matter how bad things are or how complicated my life is, performing is always a joyous thing for me.
Perhaps it’s because my mother and I are both emotional, or maybe it’s in the stars, but the show is going well.
Being in front of an audience, listening to their gasps and laughter—it feels so right. Mother’s question sits in the back of my mind as I perform. Do I want to settle down? Do I want respectability? Or do I want this?
Why can’t you have both? a little voice inside me whispers.
Why can’t I be both a wife and a magician? A mother and a performer? Mother did it. But then again, Mother isn’t really the best role model.
Toward the end of the show a sense of déjà vu creeps over me. A tingling sensation in my stomach spreads to my chest and I miss a cue as the overpowering scent of burned sugar assails my nose. My breath quickens as I smile, stupidly. Painful red lights flash before my eyes and soon the audience, the stage, and even my mother fade from view. Then, in the dark place where the visions come, the images appear. My mother, bound and gagged. Bruises mark her face, and her eyes show both terror and defiance. But not for herself. She’s afraid for me. I feel the enormity of her despair as if it were my own. A dark, hulking figure moves into the picture and chills run down my spine. He’s coming for me.
For the first time during a vision, I try watching it as if it were a picture show, to separate my mind from the terror running through my body. I stare at the figure moving toward me, desperately trying to see who it is. Who is after me? Who is holding my mother prisoner? But the image shifts and I’m underwater, my lungs burning. Nausea rises up and the image spins away like a top.
The theater snaps into sharp focus; and for a fraction of a second, I see the audience watching, puzzled, as my mother calls out to me. Then the room spins, faster and faster. The last thing I hear before the room goes dark is my mother screaming my name.
I awake sometime later on the couch in our dressing room. A stranger with a large, sandy-colored mustache is bending over me. I let out a strangled noise and push him away.
My mother rushes to my side. “It’s all right, darling, he’s a doctor.”
“I’m just checking your pupils. Bright light,” he warns before shining a light into my eyes. “Again.”
I blink and he presses lightly on the sides of my throat. “How do you feel?”
I take a mental catalog of all my body parts. I’m still bruised from the abduction, but that’s nothing new. “I feel fine.”
“Can you sit up?”
I nod and he slips his arm behind me and helps me up to a sitting position. My mother hands me a glass of water. I take a careful sip, remembering the nausea I felt before everything went black.
“What on earth happened?” she demands. “You were fine, and then all of a sudden you weren’t responding.”
I close my eyes, too disappointed and heartsick to come up with an excuse. My brain is too scattered for coherent thought. “That’s pretty much what happened,” I tell her. I try to put the vision out of my mind, but it replays itself over and over in my head. What does it mean?
“She’s probably having a delayed reaction to her experience the other night. I bet she’s just exhausted,” says Owen from the other side of the dressing room.
I shift uncomfortably. What is Owen doing here?
The doctor packs up his black bag. “I would say exhaustion is a very good guess. How many shows do you do a week?”
“Four,” my mother answers. “I knew she shouldn’t have gone on tonight. She should have just rested.”
I lower my eyes so I don’t have to look at her. She sounds sincere, maternal, but she doesn’t mention that she didn’t mind me cleaning our flat this morning or making her tea.
“Can you cut it back to two?” the doctor asks.
My mother glances at Jacques, who shakes his head. “Non. We are contracted for four a week, Wednesday through Saturday. I fear we would lose our contract if we cut back.”
The doctor frowns, making his mustache even droopier. “I think this young lady should cut back to two a week for the time being. She needs to rest. She’s had a serious trauma and it takes longer than a few days to recuperate.” He tilts his head to one side, his frown so pronounced he looks like a sad walrus. “She’s young. She should be able to resume her regular schedule in a couple of weeks.”
After he leaves, the silence is deafening.
Furrows crease my mother’s forehead and her mouth purses. I want to tell her I’m fine and it won’t happen again. But how can I when I have no idea how to stop the visions? Visualizing imaginary scissors cutting an imaginary strand isn’t going to work for those. I wish I had thought to ask Cole about it.
“I’ll take her place if you want me to. We don’t want to risk making Anna worse by pushing her.” Owen glances at me sympathetically.
I glare. What stake does he have in all this? I know I’m being unfair considering how nice he’s been. I cross my arms and look away.
Jacques is frowning, and my mother lays a reassuring hand on his arm. “It’s only two nights a week for two weeks, darling. Four shows only. Surely that won’t make much of a difference in the long run?”
“I certainly hope not. I’ll talk to the venue manager.”
“Good!” Mother beams as if everything were just ducky. Of course it is. She is getting what she wanted all along. I turn my face miserably to the wall.
“Excellent! That’s settled and my poor girl can get the rest she needs.”
“I don’t want to misspeak here . . . ,” Jacques says, hesitating. I look over at
him and he is frowning at Owen. “But your tricks are not as sophisticated as Anna’s. I worry that the audience will get bored.”
My eyes fly open in surprise. I’m flattered to hear that Jacques thinks so highly of my magic.
Mother waves a hand. “That’s no problem. Anna can teach him her tricks.”
My chest tightens. My tricks? I don’t think so. Owen must have seen the look on my face because he rushes in to reassure me.
“No, not your magic tricks, I’ll refine my own. I promise you, Uncle, no one will be bored.”
I try to sense Owen’s emotions, but today he feels like his uncle—all a jumble. Leaning back against the settee, I shut my eyes, tired of all of them. None of this matters if my vision comes true and my mother and I are destined to be imprisoned and killed by a madman. But maybe the doctor is right? Maybe I’m just exhausted and that’s affecting my visions.
“We could shorten the show,” Jacques says musingly. “But Anna is getting quite a reputation for her magic.”
“But it’s me they’re coming to see,” my mother puts in quickly. “And she’ll still be doing two shows a week.”
“It’s settled then,” Jacques says.
I try to shut them out and concentrate on the vision, but the swirl of unidentifiable emotions is too thick. I need to talk to Cole so badly it’s like a physical ache. Maybe he can help me figure out what the vision means. I have to make him talk to me.
I’m tired and worn-out the next day but decide to go on my outing with Owen in spite of it. I’ve been looking forward to spending some time with him. I want to find out if that moment we shared while dancing was the beginning of something real or simply an illusion brought on by the lights, music, and excitement of the evening. Last night, he irritated me to no end, but then, everyone was irritating me. That’s what happens when you have a horrifying vision of your mother in pain.
Owen is fun and sweet and everything is so simple when I’m with him. Isn’t that the way love is supposed to be? I snatch up my coat and hurry down the hall.
“You look like the Queen of Autumn!” Owen says, referencing the burnt umber color of my wool dress. I roll my eyes and he grins.
“I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for you to go out so soon after your collapse. Don’t keep her out too long,” Jacques frets from behind us.
I raise an eyebrow. I still don’t know what he was doing that day he rushed out of here so fast, but I notice myself relaxing more in his presence.
“I just don’t want you to overdo it,” he explains. “Your first show back is tomorrow.”
“You’re worse than an old woman,” Mother drawls from where she’s lounging on the settee.
Jacques flushes and shoots her a disapproving look.
“We should go,” I tell Owen, not wanting to witness an argument. The tension that has sprung up between Mother and Jacques these last couple of days makes me uneasy. Whether I like him or not, Jacques has been good for our career. Leave it to Mother to ruin a good thing.
We’re almost down the stairs when Cole comes out of his apartment. I swallow hard as he steps aside to let us out the doorway.
“Afternoon, sport.” Owen tips his hat. Cole returns the gesture, but his eyes are focused on me. I send out a strand like he taught me and come back with worry before the block goes up. But strangely, even though Cole has a block up, I’m still feeling strong pulses of emotion. They’re just a mishmash, really, until one emotion seems to reach out before it disappears again into the mass. A feeling of . . . triumph?
Owen ushers me through the doorway and down the steps. I hear Cole’s footsteps behind us and can’t help but glance back. I want to warn him to be careful, but he turns and heads in the opposite direction.
Owen offers his arm and I link mine in his. “That limey is one wet blanket.”
My chest tightens as I remember the infectious sound of Cole’s laugh. “No, he’s just quiet. He’s actually quite nice.”
“If you say so, doll. I’ll take your word for it. He freezes me cold.”
Irritation ripples across my skin. “Don’t call me doll,” I snap.
Owen gives my arm a squeeze. “I’m sorry; it’s just habit.” He turns his blue eyes on me and I see remorse in them. I give his arm an answering squeeze. It’s not his fault I’m in a bad humor. I pause to tighten my scarf.
“Anna,” a voice behind me says.
I turn to find Dr. Bennett walking toward me. I stiffen and feel Owen start beside me. What is Dr. Bennett doing here at my home?
He takes my hand in his and tilts his head. His gray eyes are sincere. “I hope you don’t mind; I called Cynthia to find out where you lived so I could come and apologize personally for Mrs. Lindsay’s behavior the other night. I had no idea she was so unstable. I would not have brought her to meet you had I known.”
My stomach clutches as I recall the crazed look in her eyes. “You had no way of knowing. It’s not the first time I’ve had difficulties with her.”
“So I gathered. She was raving about how you and your mother had robbed her of all her clients. She kept talking about a rat?”
I shudder. So Mrs. Lindsay has been after us since the beginning. I nod but can’t speak.
He patted my arm. “Well, no need to worry anymore, my dear. The police carted her away yesterday morning, and unless I miss my guess, she is going to be sent upstate to Willard Asylum for the Insane before too long.”
I breathe a sigh of cautious relief. There are still too many unanswered questions for me to be completely satisfied that Mrs. Lindsay was responsible for my abduction and was planning on hurting my mother. But the thought that I won’t have to worry about her again is very, very good news. The smile I give Dr. Bennett is heartfelt. “Thank you so much for coming to tell me.”
He inclines his head and his eyes flick to Owen, who has remained silent through the exchange.
“I am so sorry. How rude of me. Dr. Bennett, this is my friend, Owen Winchester. Owen, this is Dr. Finneas Bennett, a lecturer at The New Church.” They shake hands and I pray Dr. Bennett doesn’t mention my abilities.
“You were on your way out. Don’t let me keep you. I just wanted to tell you the news.” He bows his head again and saunters back down the street the way he came. I watch him leave for a moment. Relief and worry war in my stomach. Did my mother and I just dodge a bullet?
With Mrs. Lindsay off the streets, could it really be over?
“You didn’t tell me about Mrs. Lindsay,” Owen says.
We pause before crossing the street and heading toward the park. “No. With everything that has happened, I didn’t think of it. Now, thankfully, it’s over.” I don’t want to talk about it. The feeling of reprieve is still too new to share.
The day is cold and gray, which somehow seems fitting, and the park looks lonely and depressed with most of the leaves gone from its trees. We walk slowly along the transverse road and I note that even Croton Reservoir looks dejected. Plans are already being made to fill it in, so perhaps it knows its days are numbered.
Owen catches my mood and the walk through the park is a somber one. He pauses in front of the museum entrance and takes out a flask. “You look cold. Here, have a nip. This will warm you right up.”
I shake my head and he takes a long pull from it. “Suit yourself. Let’s get inside before we freeze our bums off.”
The Great Hall of the museum stretches out in front of us. “Where would you like to start?” I pick up a map.
“Doesn’t matter to me. I like mostly modern stuff. You pick.”
“Then why did you suggest coming here?” I ask, exasperated.
“Because last time we went out, you got kidnapped. I figured this would at least be safe.”
I can’t help but laugh. “We could have just gone for a walk around the park.”
Owen leads me to a bench near the doors and we sit. “But you were attacked in the park, too, weren’t you?”
I shiver, remembering Mrs. Lindsay�
�s craziness. I wonder what Lisette will do without her mother and I almost feel sorry for her. “Yes, but I knew who that was.”
Owen puts his arm around me and gives me a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry about all that, Anna. I’ll keep you safe.”
His voice is tender and I can’t help but lean closer into him. With a gentle finger, he turns my face to his and traces the line of my jaw, leaving a pathway of warmth in its wake. My breath catches at how handsome he is, and the sounds of the museum fall away. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me, right here in front of God, the curators, and everyone. My heart races, but then a clear emotion of Owen’s reaches out to me. It’s an emotion that extinguishes my mood, for it’s not one of tenderness or love or even passion.
It’s regret.
I pull away and the moment is broken.
Owen clears his throat and continues the conversation as if the moment never happened. “You sure do seem to attract trouble. I wonder if it has anything to do with your father.”
I shrug, hoping he gets the hint that I don’t want to talk about Houdini.
“It’s pretty amazing that you became a magician, just like him. Did you get to see him very often growing up?”