by Lam, Laura
Her whole charade must be. It also means she might suspect what you can do. Which is . . . not good.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, as she took another bite of her sandwich.
I had no idea what to do. Should we confront Lily? But then, that would be playing our hand just as much as if I’d confronted Pozzi at his home the other day.
Drystan looked between us, clearly guessing we were speaking to each other. I reached out to him and Cyan, unsure if he’d be able to hear me: We’ll do nothing for now. But soon, I want to find out what she’s really up to.
One side of his mouth quirked in agreement.
Lily Verre spoke with Maske, laying her hand on his arm and looking up into his face, hopefully unaware that we knew she was a viper in our nest.
That afternoon, we scrubbed the theatre to prepare for the first magic show since my illness.
‘We really need to convince Maske to hire cleaners,’ I puffed as we mopped the stage floor.
‘Agreed,’ Cyan said, her face pink.
When we were finished, the place shone like the jewel it was. I changed into my performance suit for the first time in weeks, and it felt comfortable and right. I couldn’t wait to be back out on that stage, seeing the audience hanging on to our every move. The stage was my home, just as much as the actual building of the Kymri Theatre. It was somewhere I could be myself, in a strange way, despite the magician persona I adopted.
That night, Maske and his Marionettes returned to the stage.
Cyril agreed to man the ticket booth for us and do some of the easier stagehand tricks, as now we did not have Oli to help us. I checked on my brother a few times, and he smiled and laughed as he passed out the tickets and took in the coins. I knew it was a charade. Underneath he was worried about Mother, and about me. Helping out like this was good for him, and helped distract him from his worries.
I was performing tonight alongside Maske and Cyan, who would be Maske’s assistant. We would be swapping roles often now that we regularly performed – sometimes it would be Drystan and Maske, or Cyan and Maske, or all three or four of us. But Maske always performed. He was the big name, and he hadn’t been allowed to perform for fifteen years, and so the Maske of Magic was in each show no matter what.
Behind the stage, Drystan set the gramophone playing. This moment still filled me with a thrill – the violin, the piano, the deep thump of the drums, and the expectant silence of the audience. The pause, the breath before the show began. The magic appeared.
We told a story through our illusions. It helped string the acts together and created a thread for the audience to follow. Some ended up being more autobiographical than we realized, sitting around the battered kitchen table, nursing warm drinks as we plotted and planned. The finale we had beaten Taliesin in had been the story of Maske, letting his hubris overwhelm him and having to pay for it before ultimately finding redemption again.
Before going onto the stage, I turned on the Glamour I wore around my neck. With the flick of a tiny switch it altered my appearance, changing the colour of my hair and eyes. We’d been pretending to be Elladans raised abroad in Southern Temne. I’d still not grown used to wearing a different Elladan face and clothing from a culture that was not my own, and I never would. It was not for me to use a costume. Cyan taught us more of Temnian ways to ensure we did not make fools of ourselves, and I enjoyed learning. I could hold a basic conversation in Temri now. Both Drystan and I had to wear Glamours as we were considered fugitives, still hiding from the Policiers. If only we could appear on the stage as ourselves.
Standing in the centre of the stage, I took deep breaths as Maske launched into his introductory patter. He claimed a Seer had given him power when he gifted him this very theatre. Maske now shared the magic with me, one of his trusted students.
Maske held out his hands, and blue light emanated from them. I looked away. Even though it was only an illusion – a simple flare of chemicals – the light still reminded me of the night I had run away from the circus and used Penglass as a weapon when the glass glowed under the full Penmoon. I’d blinded those circus folk pursuing us, and while none of them had been friends, they hadn’t been enemies, not even the ones who had played cruel pranks on me when I had been the circus’s newest performer.
On the stage, I recovered from my flinch and held out my own hands so that they glowed green. The audience gasped with delight as the chime of bells and strings rose from the gramophone.
Maske and I moved to either side of the stage, gesturing to the centre at a screen painted with cranes and clouds. Maske said that, though the Seer claimed to be the most powerful magician in the land, we had recently been challenged by a Temnian princess, who agreed to show her powers here tonight. We would see which magic was the stronger.
The story alluded to our recent magic duel, and tied a little into the current problems with the Kashura Foresters. After we won against Taliesin and his grandsons, we had decided to work our acrobatic skills into the illusions. That had meant long hours of physical work, oiling away the rust that had gathered in our joints and muscles since Drystan and I left R. H. Ragona’s Circus of Magic and Cyan had left the rival circus, Riley and Batheo’s Circus of Curiosities.
Cyan stood in the middle of the stage, wearing a Temnian sarong and introducing herself as Madame Damselfly. Her face was decorated with glittering silver paint, swirling at the corner of her eyes and across one cheek. She raised her arms above her head and rose from the floor, aided by hidden cables, until she hovered six inches above the stage. Like us, her hands sparked with false magic, and her colour was red. She lowered back to the floor, throwing us a challenging look.
Maske took his place at the head of the stage, bowing out of the performance to preside over our small duel, a pale echo of the one that had changed our fate so completely.
Cyan and I squared off from each other.
One, two . . . three! she counted in my head.
The unseen wires raised us above the audience. Behind stage, Drystan and Cyril helped us fly.
The crowd below us craned their necks, some of them open-mouthed. We’d used the best-quality wires, so even those squinting their hardest shouldn’t be able to see the thin supports in the dim lights. We swung towards each other and away. At one point, our faces nearly touched, and our hands sparked with ersatz magic. Behind stage, Drystan handed Cyan’s wire controls to Cyril before climbing to the gridiron above, dropping down two silken sashes that reached the stage’s wooden planks. Slyly, Cyan and I unlatched our wires, which slid back up to the gridiron, before reaching out to grab the sashes, wrapping them around the arches of our feet and ankles as makeshift footholds. We reached out, letting our fingers alight again, red and green meeting in the middle in another shower of sparks. We flipped upside down, our bodies forming mirrored crescent moons, and confetti and glitter fell from our hands.
The audience applauded, and I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. Our circus lives and our new illusionists’ lives melded into something new. Each swing reminded me sharply of Aenea. She had taught me the trapeze; taught me how to fly. High above the stage, it was as if the performance honoured her.
But Cyan was across from me, not Aenea, and the show painted us as rivals, not partners. The music from the gramophone rose. Untwining ourselves from the silken sashes, we continued our magic duel. Cyan put a small pile of white feathers on a table, shrouded it for a moment with a silken scarf, then pulled the silk away to reveal a white dove. The bird cooed as she set it on her shoulder and bowed. Paix, the dove, then flew up to the gridiron, where Drystan had a treat ready and his cage.
I responded to Cyan’s challenge by flipping through the air and showering her with paper blossoms that appeared from mid-air. She brushed them out of her hair impatiently and took out a bow and arrow. Cyan jumped into a handstand, her skirts bunching up to reveal the loose pantaloons favoured by Kymri women. Using her feet, she aimed the bow and arrow at me, suspended above her. The audience held their brea
th as she took final aim and then let the arrow fly.
The audience gasped. The arrow thunked into the target a few inches from my head. Scattered applause broke out, and I bowed to the crowd. Up above, Drystan unhooked the support and I fell to the floor in a flurry of sparks. I struggled to my feet and a large, red piece of silk emerged from my sleeve. After draping her in the silk and pulling it away, Cyan was gone. The audience gasped again, and before them, I stood tall, the proud victor.
Cyan reattached her wire and dropped down from the gridiron to land on my shoulders. We held our arms out and bowed as one.
But during the pause just before the applause, we heard a loud boom.
It was close enough that the entire theatre shook, dust falling from the ceiling.
Silence.
There were a few scattered claps before they trailed away, realizing it wasn’t part of the act.
Then the wail of sirens.
Boom.
The theatre shook again. Cracks appeared in the walls of the auditorium. Smoke trickled in through the windows. Just in case there was a fire, I ran to the side of the stage and pressed the emergency lever. The sprinklers in the ceiling began to rain, and within moments, everyone was drenched.
People panicked. Screams tore through the theatre, reminding me of the day in the square. They scurried over the velvet seats, desperate to leave.
‘Everyone go outside, away from walls! Stay close to each other. We don’t know quite where this blast has come from.’ Maske’s voice boomed in the stadium. Next to him, Cyan sent her awareness over the crowd, subtly urging them to leave but remain calm – no trampling, no pushing each other out of the way. Drystan used the hidden passageway underneath the stage to appear on the other end of the theatre and help guide people out.
Parents clutched their children close. Strangers lent others a hand if they stumbled. Within a few minutes, the theatre was empty.
Cyan and Maske picked their way over the puddles to join the others in the street.
‘I’m going to go upstairs and grab Anisa’s Aleph and try to find Ricket,’ I said. ‘I’ll meet you outside in a minute.’
‘This building isn’t sound, it’s dangerous,’ Maske protested. ‘We don’t know where this came from exactly. What if the Kymri Theatre was a target?’
‘It wasn’t,’ Cyan replied. ‘It happened a few blocks over, judging by the noise.’ Maske still didn’t know that his daughter could read minds.
‘I’ll be all right,’ I said, trying not to think of collapsing ceilings. ‘Go help the others, see if you can find out what happened.’
Reluctantly, they let me go. Climbing the stairs to the loft was not easy. The building seemed sound enough, but the cracks were worse on the upper levels, the hallways riddled with debris. In the loft, I stifled a sob.
Half of the roof had collapsed. All of our belongings were covered with broken shingles and dust. Stumbling and coughing from the smoke, I made it to the bedside cabinet and took Anisa’s Aleph, stuffing it into my pocket. I took one lingering look around our room, then heard a frightened little mewl.
‘Ricket,’ I said in relief, crouching down. The cat ran towards me and I scooped him up in my arms. He purred in fear, huddling against me.
Out on the street, most of the audience of the Kymri Theatre had stayed together, clustered close in the drizzling late spring rain, despite the fact that most of them were strangers. The next street over, the sky was red with the glow of flames, the sky above it black and purple with smoke. The theatre had sustained less damage than some of the other buildings on the street. A few near the end of the block were little more than precarious rubble. My neighbourhood. Our home.
Was the fire spreading? On my tiptoes, I craned my neck as if that would help me see through the buildings.
Then I realized what was burning: the Museum of Mechanical Antiquities.
‘How bad is it?’ I whispered.
Cyan closed her eyes and her awareness brushed across me. I jerked in shock. I’d never felt her reach out to others like that. I could almost see it – a delicate net of purple, blue, and green. The web of her power spread through the streets before coming back into her. She opened her eyes. It’s the museum and half the buildings on that street. She spoke in her mind only to Drystan and me.
‘No,’ I whispered out loud, horrified. Within the Museum of Mechanical Antiquities were priceless Vestige artefacts. Many of them were on loan from Doctor Pozzi’s private collection. Did he know this was happening?
‘What is it?’ Cyril asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said, too quickly. Though we lived so near to it, I hadn’t gone back to visit as the museum brought up too many memories of an afternoon spent with Aenea there. Now I could never return.
So much Vestige lost in the flames. It had to be the Kashura. The Museum contained relics from the Chimaera and the Alder. Did they distrust Vestige, too?
Closing my eyes, I tried to push away the image of the clockwork woman’s head burning. Anisa had worn a body like that, when she didn’t wish to inhabit flesh. A beautiful woman, gears and clockwork showing beneath synthetic skin. I hoped, somehow, that Vestige could not burn.
The fire isn’t spreading, Cyan thought, relief colouring her thoughts. The wind is in our favour and the firefighters are there. She sent me flashes of images from the minds of people watching the aftermath of the attack: firefighters wielding hoses, the flames hissing as the water hit. People, weak with smoke inhalation, wrapped in blankets. Ambulances at the ready to take away the injured and the dead.
We all looked at my pocket.
Anisa, I ventured. Will you help?
A pause. There is nothing I can do. But the firefighters will soon have the flames under control. She did not sound regretful. They were, after all, simply humans who live a short life and spark out.
Did anyone die? I asked Cyan.
She nodded imperceptibly. I wondered who, and how many. I clutched Ricket closer, feeling his warm fur against my cheek.
Was it the Kashura?
Hard to say – no one on that street saw who set the explosion. My guess is yes. Her face tightened. Yet again, I didn’t sense it. I couldn’t help.
You can’t help everyone, Cyan. Timur knows there’s someone out there who can read minds. He’ll have had the attacker wear one of those Cricket necklaces. He couldn’t hate all Vestige, if his followers used it, though perhaps he viewed it as a necessary evil. This Timur was an enigma; I wanted to know more about him, why he was so intent on harming Chimaera, what he hoped to gain. This government he wished to create would not flourish under his care. Not if he considered violence a meaningful form of protest. My hope was that these acts would drive many away from their cause, yet fear could also be excellent at clouding a person’s better judgement.
There was a lot of Vestige weaponry in the museum, wasn’t there? Cyan asked.
Yes, I said. An entire room of Vestige weaponry. It was defunct, though.
Are you sure about that? I’m betting they won’t find a lot of it in the wreckage.
My mouth fell open. Timur and his followers might have just stolen a large cache of Vestige weaponry, and set the explosion as a way to cover their tracks. And if they could somehow find a way to make the weapons work again . . . ? I shuddered.
The evening was cold. The audience dispersed, their shoulders hunched. As soon as the last of them was gone, Maske started to cry. Cyan put her arms around him, sending him comfort. Where were we meant to go? The Kymri Theatre was damaged enough that we couldn’t stay there.
The rain had soaked us all completely. None of us were wearing heavy coats.
‘We can’t go to the insurance office until tomorrow,’ Maske said, wiping his eyes. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. ‘The Kymri Theatre is safe enough to go in and get some things. We’ll spend the night at Taliesin’s old place.’
As part of the terms of winning the duel against his old rival, we’d inherited his theatre. It
had just sold, but Maske still had the keys. So we went into our ruined home and packed some clothes, our coins, whatever possessions we could fit into a carpet bag each.
Drystan let out a low whistle when he saw the ruin of our loft. The stained glass of the dragonfly was smashed into pieces on the floor.
Drystan gave me a hug. ‘Don’t worry. It can all be fixed and be just as it was.’
‘I hope so.’
We shook the dust out of our rain-sodden clothes and packed the rest of our things. Maske locked the door and we looked up at the Kymri Theatre, with most of its roof collapsed. The brand new paint on the column was smoke-stained. We would not be living here again for quite some time.
We walked the twenty minutes to Taliesin’s old theatre. Many people still roamed the streets, curious about the flames. The Policiers would soon be swarming the neighbourhoods, urging people back to their homes. There were no shouts for justice and no crowds looting. Everyone appeared sad and confused.
If the Foresters did admit responsibility, would that peaceful acceptance last, or would there be demands for retribution? Once the shock wore off, I feared there would only be more riots.
Taliesin’s old theatre, the former seat of the Spectre Shows, was dark and cold. Initially, Maske had considered keeping the theatre, opening another branch of Maske’s Marionettes and finding other magicians to fill the stage, but then dismissed the idea.
‘You are my Marionettes. My family. I need no other,’ he had said. And he wanted no more reminders of Taliesin and their long-lasting feud. Last I heard of the old magician, he had sunk further into his Lerium addiction, his health continuing to fail. He was still a rich man, but no longer a magician allowed to perform on stage. Did he miss it, as Maske had missed it all those years when he had been prevented from performing?
We found rooms to sleep in and started fires in the hearths. Ricket trotted off to sleep in Maske’s room. Drystan and I chose a small chamber with two sofas. We spread our sodden possessions in front of the fire to dry, and pushed the sofas together for a makeshift bed.