by Teri Brown
He leans toward me, his eyes gleaming, and I shift away, disappointment tightening my throat. I briefly wonder how much of the flask he “nipped” before picking me up.
“No, actually I didn’t.”
“That must have been tough on you. Have you seen him since you got to the city?”
I stand. “You know, the walk here tired me out more than I thought it would. I don’t think I’ve fully recovered yet.”
Owen isn’t the first person to poke and prod me about my father once they heard the rumors that I was Houdini’s daughter. I’m just frustrated that he seems as interested in my parentage as he is in me.
Or maybe underneath it all, I’m just too preoccupied by Cole to appreciate Owen’s company.
Owen’s handsome features fall into lines of disappointment, but then his face brightens. “Well, don’t worry. If you’re not feeling up to it, I can do the show tomorrow. Your mother seems to think it’s working out really well.”
I just bet she does. “I’m sure I’ll be fine by then,” I tell him firmly, and this time I brush past him, ignoring the arm he offers.
By the next morning, I’ve fully recovered from my collapse and am impatient to get the talk with Cole over with. Mother fusses over me, ignoring my surly attitude. She’s feeling generous now that she has what she wants. I’m having none of it. Years of benign neglect lend steel to my spine. Besides, just because I would do anything to protect her doesn’t mean I don’t want to wring her neck.
I flick through one of Mother’s magazines, hoping she’ll soon tire of playing this particular role and run off to lunch with someone. With Mrs. Lindsay out of the picture, my worries about her have abated somewhat. I haven’t had a vision since Mrs. Lindsay was taken away. I hear Mother moving through the back bedrooms, occasionally making a comment about this or that, but I ignore her.
Suddenly, anger slams into me and I turn to see my mother standing in the doorway, a book in her hand. Her mouth is set, and her eyes are shooting dark sparks of fury. “What is this?”
Shock waves run through my body and I bolt upright. “What?”
She holds out the book mutely. A Magician Among the Spirits.
I gulp and remain silent. What am I to say?
“You’ve seen him?” Her tone sounds conversational, almost normal. Unless you’ve spent a lifetime studying the nuances and timbre of that voice. Then you’d realize just how loaded the question is.
I force my eyes to meet hers and incline my head ever so slightly. She moves closer and I stand. Kam Lee once told me never to meet an opponent sitting down, and, God help me, I feel as if I’m entering into battle. Against my own mother.
She opens the book and I wait. “‘To Anna, best wishes, Harry Houdini.’” Her voice drips with caramel and arsenic.
The seeds of anger I’ve been carrying around sprout. The roots dig deep into soil that has been tilled and ready for more than a decade. Then it shoots upward, spreading through my chest.
I wait, my breath calm and measured. I will not let her see that my heart is racing. That my skin has suddenly grown clammy with dread. I must not show any sign of weakness.
“How dare you.”
The words skim across my skin like the quiet breath of a snake ready to strike. I keep my face still, showing just a hint of scorn by widening my eyes ever so slightly and raising one brow.
Actually, it’s one of my mother’s looks I’m borrowing.
“How dare you,” she repeats, louder this time.
I fight to keep my face unmoving, but my expression wavers and then fails. For a moment I look to the floor, unable to meet her eyes. Then my anger flares and I meet her gaze again. “How dare I what?” With effort I keep my voice composed. “Go to see my father? Why shouldn’t I?”
Her eyes cloud for a moment before hardening again. “You know why. He could ruin us.”
“Ruin us? Or expose you?”
Her eyes never waver. I lick my lips. “Is Harry Houdini really my father?” The moment the words are out of my mouth I want to take them back. It’s a question I can’t afford to have answered.
Her eyes sweep away and then back. “Of course he is,” she snaps.
I want to believe her. Want to believe the only parent I have would never raise her only daughter with an elaborate lie to gain some kind of disreputable fame.
But there it is.
I carefully set down the magazine I’d been strangling in my hand. “You don’t even know the color of his eyes,” I say quietly. Without another word, I get my coat from the closet and walk out the door, leaving her alone with the monstrosity of her lies.
Twenty-four
I stare up at the four-story building, the icy wind whipping in my face. I give up trying to keep my cloche on my head and stuff it in my pocket. It’ll never be the same.
But then again, neither will I.
When I left the flat, I never thought I would end up in front of Houdini’s house. The card he gave me at the magic shop was still in the pocket of my coat, but I didn’t need it. I’d already memorized the address. There’s no movement inside and I wonder if he’s already left on another tour.
I’ve left my mother behind, in more ways than one, and here I stand in front of my father’s house. But in reality, he’s as removed from me as my mother is.
I think I had some vague notion of confronting him, but now, faced with the reality of his four-story brownstone mansion, the notion dies a cold death. As far as I know, my mother never told him he had a daughter.
My breath catches as the truth settles more deeply into my heart.
If I were really Houdini’s daughter, my mother would have moved heaven and hell to make sure he knew it. She always made sure to let the rumor of my paternity slip wherever we went, so would she really give up the financial and social advantages that such a connection to Houdini would produce?
I remember his wife’s sweet, lively face. She’s hardly a match for my mother. I can’t see her squirreling letters away from her husband. Put that together with the fact that Mother didn’t even know what color eyes he had and the truth seems obvious.
My throat tightens. I never realized how badly I wanted him to be my father until the moment I knew he wasn’t.
I turn from the house and wipe away the tears before they have a chance to fall. If I’m not Houdini’s daughter, who am I?
I hurry down the street into Central Park, which is bleak and deserted. Not many people would choose to brave the sharp November wind. It’s a long walk home, but I don’t want to take the streetcar.
I don’t really want to go home either. Mother’s at home.
“Anna?”
I startle and turn to find Houdini arm in arm with his wife. Both are dressed against the weather in heavy woolen coats, scarves, and gloves. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold and she looks at me with friendly interest.
Houdini introduces us. “Bess, this is Anna. She is also a magician. Anna, this is my wife, Bess.”
If my appearance has shaken him, Houdini gives no sign. I take the hand Bess offers. She’s feeling simple, uncomplicated contentment. “Nice to meet you.”
She gives me a smile that takes up her entire face. “Silly men. They can never get introductions right. What is your last name, dear?”
My eyes dart back and forth. If I gave him my last name, how long would it take him to track me down? From me to my mother to our séances to ruin.
But isn’t everything ruined already?
My mother may be a liar, but I am certainly not, and the devil rises up inside of me. “Van Housen.” I smile. “Anna Van Housen.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “That sounds familiar. Are you one of the Philadelphia Van Housens?”
I shake my head, the devil spurring me on. “No. Actually, Van Housen is the name my mother took after moving here from Europe.” I smile at Bess, but my eyes are on Houdini. “Her real name is Moshe. Magali Moshe.”
For a fraction of a second, his eyes widen.
His lips and jaw tighten before smoothing back into a pleasant smile.
My heart races and my fingertips go numb. He knows that name. The ramifications of that shoot through me like an arrow. If he knows my mother’s name, maybe she hadn’t lied about knowing him. Maybe some of what she told me is the truth, and if that’s so . . . I get dizzy just thinking about it.
Bess, oblivious, just shakes her head. “No, that isn’t familiar at all, but Van Housen . . .”
Houdini takes his wife’s arm. “It’s time I got you inside, my dear. It’s getting too cold for you to be out.”
“I’m just getting over a cough,” she explains. “Harry is so overprotective.”
“You should go home as well, Anna. It’s getting dark and the park isn’t safe for young girls at night.”
His manner is calm, but his agitation ripples and snaps like a flag in the wind.
“It was nice meeting you,” Bess calls as Houdini hurries her away.
I wrap my arms around my torso, but my legs are frozen. How had he known my mother’s name? Could she have been telling the truth? I press my hands against my eyes, my mind spinning. I don’t know how long I stand that way, but slowly I realize that Houdini is right; it’s getting dark, and it isn’t safe for me to be wandering around on my own. Even if Mrs. Lindsay is no longer a threat.
The streetcar is half empty when I get on, and in no time I’m in front of my house. I linger outside in spite of the fact that I’m freezing. I don’t want to see my mother.
I finally drag myself up the stairs just as Jacques steps out the doorway.
“Anna!” His voice is disapproving. “Your mother is worried sick about you. You know the doctor said you are to rest. And it isn’t safe for you to be out alone.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “That isn’t what your mother says.”
I look up at him, my heart sinking. “What do you mean?”
“Your mother told me she isn’t at all pleased with your progress. I think twelve weeks of rest sounds a bit extreme, but she seems quite concerned.”
For the second time that day I freeze. “Twelve weeks?”
Jacques tilts his head and gives me an odd look. “That’s what your mother says. I don’t like it, though, not at all. You are a big part of the success of the show and I’m just not sure Owen can carry it.”
I swallow back my anger. “Mother’s just being a worry-wart. I’ll only do two shows a week, just like the doctor advised, and I promise to see him before I come back full- time. I’m fine, see?” I hold my arms open, trying to look as healthy—and as innocent—as possible.
His forehead wrinkles as his professional instincts struggle with the part of him that wants to please my mother. The manager within him wins and he nods. “As you say.”
He steps past me, but I latch onto the arm of his coat. “And also, I have a new illusion to try out. Don’t tell Mother yet; I want to surprise her during rehearsal. I think it will really bring the house down.”
“Excellent. I look forward to seeing it. I’ve often thought you could beef up the magic portion of the show, but your mother said you weren’t interested.”
I clench my teeth but manage a pleasant smile as Jacques goes on his way. I pause before opening my door. If Mother thinks she can get rid of me this easily, she’ll need to think again.
“We need to talk.”
“You said that already.”
Cole’s dark eyes regard me steadily. They aren’t exactly angry, but they’re not friendly either. Mr. Darby made himself scarce after ushering me through the doorway. So here I stand in the middle of his living room, my hands pressed together in front of me, more nervous than I’ve ever been before a performance.
“I read the letter.”
Cole inclines his head and waits. He’s not making it easy on me, but then, I didn’t expect him to. I press on.
“I don’t know what’s going on and I’m not sure it’s any of my business. I just wanted to apologize again. Taking the letter . . .” I swallow hard against the mass of tears in my throat. “Well, it had nothing to do with anyone else but me.”
He sits silently, his eyes never wavering, and I know I have to tell him why I picked his pocket in the first place. How can I explain without sounding inexperienced and awkward? That I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and could hardly move because of how close he was. My cheeks burn as I continue. “I picked your pocket because I’ve never felt the way I felt on the train that morning. About you, I mean.”
I look down at the worn gray carpet, humiliated. It isn’t much of an explanation, but it’s the best I can do.
“How did you feel?”
I raise my eyes to look at him and suck in my breath. The same way I feel right now—like I want him to kiss me more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Waves of embarrassment rush over me and I collapse in the nearest chair, covering my face with my hands. “I knew you were going to ask that!” I moan. “I don’t know!”
A long moment passes before he says quietly, “That makes two of us.”
My hands come down and I take a good look at him. His face is still, his eyes cool. What does that mean? That he doesn’t know how I felt or that he doesn’t know how he felt?
“Anna, I never believed that you taking the letter had anything to do with the problems we’re having within the Society. I just wanted to know why you did it.” He clears his throat. “I don’t understand it any more than I did before, but I do accept your apology.”
“Thank you,” I tell him simply.
An awkward silence follows before Cole rises to his feet and moves toward the door.
I’m being dismissed.
I follow him and then pause, unable to hold back any longer. “Tell me one thing, though. Are you in danger?”
Cole lifts a shoulder. “Perhaps. Or perhaps not. You were right about one thing.”
“Only one?” I make a lame attempt to joke, but there’s no answering humor in his eyes.
“It’s really not your business.”
I shiver at the coldness of his voice. He opens the door and I step outside. He doesn’t offer to see me up the stairs and my heart aches. I wish we could just go back to the way things were before.
I turn. “If you’re in danger, why haven’t you just gone back to England?”
He looks at me. “Don’t you know?”
And before I can answer, he closes the door quietly.
I pace up and down the theater hall, my chest tight. Mr. Darby promised to have the illusion set delivered an hour before the show. I told Mother I would see her at the theater and then left the flat, which didn’t raise any suspicion as we haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other in the week since our fight. She tried to stop me from performing tonight, but I insisted and eventually, she acquiesced. She gave in a bit more easily than I would have expected, which makes me wonder what she has up her sleeve. I shove that thought out of my mind. She isn’t the only one with plans.
“Miss Anna?”
I jump at the tap on my shoulder. It’s only Bart, the stagehand, who will help me cart in the props. I give myself a mental shake. If I don’t calm down, I’ll never pull this off.
He leans forward conspiratorially and I keep myself from stepping back from his garlicky breath. “The old man is out back,” he says in a loud stage whisper.
I glance around, half afraid I’ll find Jacques lurking nearby. He wasn’t happy when I told him the props wouldn’t be delivered until just before the show. Then I implied that Mother and I had already practiced the new routine. God help me, I’m getting as good at lying as she is.
I follow Bart to the back door, where Mr. Darby is waiting.
“Do we still have time to set it up?”
“I have everything ready to go.”
I give him a big hug. “You’ll be out front, won’t you?”
His eyes twinkle at me. “Of course! I wouldn’t miss this
for the world.” He shakes his head. “I built the damn thing and know how it works and I still couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“You’re a genius,” I tell him. “Thank you so much.” I pause. “Is Cole here?”
He gives my hand a squeeze. “Of course.”
Cole has been distant and reserved ever since my big apology. I really want to talk to him about my vision, but there never seems to be a good time. I wonder if there ever will be. But he did come to see the show. Maybe that’s a good sign.
Bart lugs the table up the stairs and then waits patiently while Mr. Darby puts the wheels on it. It’s absolutely perfect—it looks like an ordinary table. Once it’s set up, it’ll be covered in black velvet and no one will see underneath.
I sigh in relief when we finally get it onto the stage. Mr. Darby instructs Bart on what to do and keeps careful watch as everything gets set up.
“Do you have the time?” I ask Mr. Darby.
He pulls out a pocket watch. “Quarter to five, missy.”
“Can you finish this up?”
He looks around at the dim stage. “I’m almost done here.”
“Good, I’ll be right back.”
I dash down the hall toward the side door. Most theaters are a labyrinth of rooms and halls and this one is no exception. I’m counting on that to keep my secret safe until the moment I choose to reveal it.
Doubt churns in my stomach. This could very well be the end of my relationship with my mother. She might forgive me for seeing Houdini behind her back, but she will never forgive me for stealing the show.
But maybe that’s the point? Maybe I’ve always known this day would come. The day when I show her once and for all that I’m not hers—that I don’t belong to her. I love her and would do anything to protect her, but I won’t allow her to play me like she does her clients. If she wants a relationship with me, it’s going to have to be one of equality.
My pulse races as I reach the door. The dancers are filtering in, chattering like brightly colored birds. The show is going to start soon. “Please God, let him be here,” I pray under my breath. Then I spot him, almost blending into the shadows. “Dante,” I call, waving him in.