Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  She was relieved. Her singular act of rebellion had almost robbed her of speech.

  When the curtains parted once more, Abby was glad to see no sign of Hilda, to whom she had taken an instant and unaccountable dislike. Lord Merlyn, having exchanged his red-lined cape for a blue one during the interval, now addressed the audience directly and performed several card tricks that involved the participation of volunteers, tricks that dumbfounded her comprehension.

  “How could he know which card that lady held?” she asked after the magician selected a designated card from a deck spread facedown on the table. Philip did not answer, only snorted his disgust.

  And then, all too soon for Abby ‘s taste, it was time for the final portion of the program. After correctly guessing a number of personal objects held by audience participants while blindfolded, Lord Merlyn removed the hood and said, “For my last exhibition, I shall need two volunteers whom I have never before met and who will tell me their darkest secrets through their thoughts alone.”

  “Rubbish,” Philip said under his breath.

  As though hearing him, Lord Merlyn turned in Philip’s direction, his gaze searching the area behind the pit, his cloak swirling and shimmering in the candlelight.

  “You,” he said, pointing to Philip. “And you.”

  Abby’s breath caught in her throat. He was staring at her.

  A lantern-boy hurried down the aisle and shined his light on their faces. As he did, Philip shook his head angrily, and for once Abby agreed with him. She did not want to go onstage. Her green velvet dress was three years old, and there were shiny places in it. Moreover, the ribbons in her hair did not match it precisely, and though Grandmother had insisted the hues were close enough, she knew they clashed.

  Most of all, she was afraid to stand so near Lord Merlyn. It was not impossible she would faint if placed in such a position.

  “Ho, Philip!” called a voice from one of the boxes. “Onward, and upward and into the breach!”

  “You’re not afraid, are you Philip, old boy?” cried another from the balcony.

  Setting his jaw grimly, Philip clasped Abby’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “This is on your head. You wanted to stay, remember?”

  There was a smattering of applause as the pair ascended the steps to the stage. Abby thought her legs had turned to stone; she could not feel her feet when her slippers met the floor.

  Lord Merlyn seemed aware of her discomfiture and gestured toward the chairs, which he had aligned side by side. She sat in one while Philip settled into the other, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering into the darkness that cloaked the crowd.

  But the spectators were not entirely hidden, Abby saw as her eyes adjusted to the glare of the candles at her feet. The orchestra and the first few rows were visible; beyond that, the presence of the multitude could be sensed, if not seen. It was more than the little sounds of shuffling feet, throat clearings, and whispers that reached her ears. She could almost hear their hearts beating.

  But perhaps it was only her own heart she heard; it was hammering so hard, she half-expected it to pound its way through her bodice and fall onto her lap.

  Lord Merlyn smiled at her reassuringly, and she was distracted for a moment from the worst of her stage fright. Abby wondered if the rest of his face matched the beauty of his smile. She wished he would remove his mask.

  The conjurer walked a few paces away and turned so that both they and the spectators could see him. Addressing Abby, he asked, “Have we ever met before this moment, miss?”

  “No, we have not,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded clear and steady.

  He faced Philip. “And you, sir?”

  “No,” Philip answered. He moistened his lips. “To be truthful, I have no desire to meet you now.”

  Surprised laughter greeted this sally. Abby was relieved to see the magician also laughed as he walked closer to her companion. “An unwilling volunteer, I see. Well then, we shall shorten your agony and begin with you instead of the lady.”

  Lord Merlyn began to pace as he spoke to the audience. “You have perhaps noted that there is nothing so personal as the human touch. One can learn much about someone from the most ordinary exchanges, even a man’s handshake. His strength, for example, or lack of it. The state of his nerves, and perhaps … his character.” He returned to Philip. “And now, if the gentleman will be so kind as to shake hands with me, I will reveal the secrets I learn.”

  The magician extended his hand, his eyes totally blank as he gazed down at Philip. Abby glanced back and forth between them, fearing that Philip would refuse. But after a moment’s hesitation, he thrust forth his arm and clasped Lord Merlyn’s hand.

  After the first instant of contact, a surprised look crossed Philip’s face. As the seconds ticked past, long seconds that went far beyond the length of a normal handshake, he pulled against the magician’s grip, tugging softly at first, then wresting his hand back with an angry jerk.

  Abby hardly noticed his reaction, so absorbed was she in observing Lord Merlyn. As soon as he touched Philip, his eyes had darkened to black, the pupils expanding so rapidly that only the smallest edge of blue remained. She had never seen a human’s eyes do that; only a cat’s, and she shivered as she watched. And then those strange, feral eyes turned to gaze into hers, though their expression was so remote she doubted whether he truly saw her.

  For almost a full minute after Philip withdrew his hand, Lord Merlyn’s fingers remained outstretched, seemingly paralyzed, while the color receded from his cheeks and perspiration beaded his brow. The silence was growing uncomfortable and the audience communicated it by the scraping movement of boots and many nervous coughs.

  A colorful movement backstage caught her eye, and Abby glanced toward the wings and saw Hilda. The milkmaid was now outfitted in an emerald silk gown and looking elegant as well as beautiful, but her face was worried as she gazed at the magician. And then, as Abby watched, the stage manager and another man dressed in servant’s livery came to stand beside Hilda; the three of them spoke softly while casting concerned looks toward the stage.

  This was not, Abby realized with a sudden throbbing behind her eyes, part of the act.

  Philip was growing angrier by the second, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. “Well?” he said at last, a challenge in his voice.

  The spell was broken, and Lord Merlyn slowly came back to life. Straightening his shoulders, he forced a smile and said, “Your name is Philip.”

  “You heard them calling me that in the audience,” Philip snapped.

  Lord Merlyn ignored the outburst. “Philip … Philip … something about the sea … Philip of the Sea?”

  “Philip the horse’s arse, more like!” cried a man sitting in the front box seat.

  While a querulous feminine voice screeched, “Harold!”, several hisses and guffaws were heard.

  As the noise died down, Lord Merlyn smiled tolerantly and asked, “Is your name Philip Demere?” When Philip admitted it, scowling, the conjuror continued, “And you are a gentleman farmer, is that not correct?” Again, Philip assented.

  The magician walked toward the audience as though contemplating weighty thoughts. Suddenly he whirled back, sending his cape into dramatic ripples. Pointing his finger accusingly at Philip, he approached him as a lawyer would confront a hostile witness.

  “And did you, or did you not, Philip Demere, forget a vital charge that was entrusted to you by a loved one today?”

  Philip frowned. “What are you speaking about?”

  “Did not your mother ask you to collect a certain pair of new slippers that arrived for her at Henderson’s? And didn’t you conveniently omit to fulfill this simple, reasonable request?”

  “There wasn’t enough time!” Philip exploded, his face reddening. And then, “How did you know that?”

  Several members of the audience gasped, while others laughed. A storm of applause followed, which the magician acknowledged with a bow. “Thank yo
u, Mr. Demere, for your assistance and good humor,” he said, gesturing toward the stairs.

  The irony was not lost on Philip, but there was nothing he could do but leave the stage. He did not return to his seat, however, but stood watching Abby from the darkness at the foot of the steps.

  With reluctance, she removed her gaze from Philip to the magician, who was now standing beside her. He seemed completely recovered from whatever had bothered him before, and his expression was gentle.

  “And now, fair lady,” he said, his voice soft but somehow projecting anyway, “if you would be kind enough to remove your glove.”

  Abby obeyed. When she put the glove in her lap, she lifted her hand and placed it in his. Instead of shaking it as he had Philip’s, he closed his other hand over it, enveloping her fingers. When he did, she drew in her breath sharply. A tingling sensation ran up her arm and through her body, like hundreds of tiny needles pricking her skin. It was more surprising than painful.

  Once more she saw his eyes grow black and distant and wild, as if he had flown to some faraway place that she couldn’t reach. His lips parted, and she felt his hands tighten around hers. Though she was tempted to pull back from him as Philip had, she did not.

  The moment of contact lengthened until the audience again moved restlessly. Aware of it, aware also of Philip’s impatience as he drew nearer the stairs, Abby nevertheless remained motionless as a bird caught in a cobra’s spell.

  And then Lord Merlyn’s eyes were blue again, and he released her hand and backed away. Only Abby was aware of how his fingers shook, and she watched them with an irrational fear swelling in her breast.

  When he spoke, his voice trembled momentarily, and that frightened her as well. “The young lady looks deceptively gentle,” he said at last. “But I see great strength … a royal strength that is raw and powerful.” Though Abby found his words thrilling, he uttered them without feeling, as though reading from a card. “I see the king of all power … a lion. Is your name … Lion? No, Lyons?”

  “Yes,” she said eagerly, hoping the swiftness of her response would help him. She could not fathom what troubled him, but something was wrong; the watchful figures in the wings confirmed it.

  He lifted one hand and rubbed his forehead. “And your given name … I’m sorry, it’s not clear to me. Something happy … Is your name Joy?”

  “My name is Abigail.” When the sound of disappointed whispers met her ears, she added more loudly, “My mother named me Abigail because it means source of joy.”

  He smiled a little as the discontented sounds subsided. “And, Abigail Lyons, have you recently lost something precious to you? An item of jewelry, perhaps?”

  Instantly, her fingers flew to her throat. “My locket has been missing this week or more.” The necklace contained miniatures of her deceased parents, and she had been devastated to lose it.

  “You will find it behind your dresser,” he said. “The chain has caught on a nail protruding from the back.”

  Abby stood up, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Lord Merlyn.” There was not a doubt in her mind that she would find it precisely where he said she would.

  This had been the best evening of her life. Tonight, she had discovered that magic was real.

  And if magic was real, anything was possible. Anything at all. She could find a way to free herself.

  As the audience applauded and stood to their feet, the magician took her hand and presented her to the crowd as though she had done something worthwhile. She tried to smile, but her lips trembled so much she had to stop.

  Lord Merlyn then bowed and escorted her toward the stairs.

  As the two of them neared Philip, the magician walked slower and slower until he halted. Since he still held her hand, Abby had to pause too; she was startled when he leaned toward her as if to whisper a secret. Feeling a renewed surge of fear, she watched his pupils widen a third time.

  “You must marry me,” he said in a voice so low only she could hear.

  Before she could respond, he rushed back to centerstage, bowed once more to the appreciative audience, swirled his hands in a graceful pattern, and disappeared in rolling billows of smoke.

  Chapter 2

  Backstage in the largest dressing room of the Pendragon, the magician lay motionless on the couch behind the screen. One leg was folded under him, the other hanging over the end. Both arms were gathered tightly to his chest, and his eyes were closed. A frown creased the forehead above his mask.

  Persistent knocking on the dressing room door drummed him to awareness. The door opened. He heard several young men—foxed, from the sound of them—beseeching “Hilda” to join them for a late dinner. Roast duck and brandied cherries were offered. Harriet rejected their invitation, and the gentlemen protested.

  The magician listened attentively but did not open his eyes. Francis would take care of them. A heartbeat later, he heard a deep, authoritative voice and imagined the menace the young whips saw in his valet’s tall, muscular frame. If the lads only knew it, they had more to fear from Harriet (who had never milked a cow in her life) than gentle Francis, except when his protective instincts were engaged.

  The door closed, and the room grew quiet. The magician feigned sleep as Harriet approached the couch. If only he could return to oblivion; if only the images could be forced from his mind. Yet even in the sleep of exhaustion, there had not been complete unawareness.

  He heard the rustle of silk as Harriet knelt beside him and began caressing his hair. He did not move, hoping the tenderness of her touch would throw him into dreams again, though not the ones he had seen on the stage, please God.

  Why had he done it? Why had he allowed his brain to be receptive after all this time? He knew better. Yet on a moment’s impulse he’d opened himself to the beast again. And all because of a pair of innocent brown eyes in a beautiful, vulnerable face. He was a fool.

  He almost gave himself away when Harriet untied the domino and lifted it from him, then began stroking his cheek. The softness of her hand made him aware of the stubble already sprouting on his face.

  He could not pretend any longer. Allowing his eyes to open slowly, he encircled her wrist with his hand. “Hullo, Harry,” he whispered.

  Her lips curved upward. “Hello, Julian. It’s time you awakened.”

  He released her wrist and sat up, rubbing his fingers through his hair. “How long did I sleep?”

  “No more than a half-hour. You were out the minute your head touched the cushion.”

  Her eyes were lively with unasked questions. Not wanting to answer any of them, he looked away. At that moment, a loud knock sounded at the door, then a booming voice cried, “Lord Merlyn!”

  Immediately, the magician seized the domino from the dressing table and secured it to his face. Brushing past Harriet, he circled the screen and nodded to Francis, who opened the door.

  Cyril Tankersley, stage manager and owner of the theatre, swept into the room and clasped first the magician’s hands, then Harriet’s. “Wonderful, wonderful!” he shouted, as though still addressing the balcony. His stout form was clad in an exquisitely tailored black frock: coat, trousers, and a red waistcoat embroidered in gold. On his lapel he sported a red rose that shook with the force of his words. “Never have I seen an audience so happy! Would that I’d booked you for a week. I don’t suppose …”

  “I’m sorry,” Harriet said quickly. “Tomorrow night we are to be in Portsmouth, then Brighton. Afterwards, we have several other performances before making our way to London, where we are to perform at the Egyptian Hall on Piccadilly.”

  “And you are justly proud of such illustrious bookings, I see,” said Tankersley. Returning his attention to Julian, he added, “How I envy you. A comely assistant with a head on her shoulders—would that I had the same in my employ. Can’t get suitable help even from the young men I’ve hired. Have to do everything meself.”

  “Sometimes I think it is I who assists Harriet,” the magician said.

  Tan
kersley chuckled and lifted his chin, exposing an arc of quivering flesh. He drew in a noisy breath, his large nose wrinkling and making his curious eyes look even smaller.

  “Don’t you ever take off that mask?”

  Julian smiled. “Not often.”

  Tankersley lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Well, it’s nothing to me, though I can’t help wondering what’s behind it. If you’re marked or burned or whatever, my sympathies to you. But if you’re hiding from the law—,” he paused suddenly, as though the thought had only struck him as he put voice to it. But the stiffening postures of the three figures watching him led him to laugh uncomfortably and finish, “But of course, that cannot be.”

  “No, sir,” Francis said sternly.

  “No, I know ‘tis not possible. Why would anyone of Lord Merlyn’s talents need to indulge in criminal acts?” Tankersley glanced from one to the other of them in growing distress. “Thought I’d tell you the customers have all gone, and you’re free to move without hindrance whenever you wish.”

  “Thank you,” said the magician, continuing to smile politely.

  Tankersley looked queasy. “How—how is it you do that thing at the end?” he asked abruptly, then closed his lips with a snap.

  “You ought to know a conjuror can’t tell his secrets,” Francis admonished.

  “No, I suppose not. But for a moment I thought something was going awry, Lord Merlyn. Even your friends seemed worried. You worked your way out of it very well, but I wondered …”

  “A performer grows stale if he doesn’t vary his routine a little, Mr. Tankersley,” the magician said. “I may have caught Harriet and Francis by surprise tonight, but I assure you it’s all part of the exhibition.”

  “Is that so?” Tankersley’s expression was dubious. He squared his shoulders and returned to the doorway. “Well, it was a show worthy of the Prince. Good luck to all of you.”