To put on her greasepaint, Thalia had to jostle for room in front of a well-lit mirror. Singers, dancers, and acrobats were doing the same, but Thalia held her own against them all. She finished up her face with a dot of red beside the inner corners of her eyes and put enough kohl on her light brown eyelashes to darken them to visibility.
By the time Thalia joined Nutall in the wings, she was fully in character, head high, back straight, the genuine regal Lady of the Lake with every swoop of her sleeves. She reminded herself to keep her chin up, the better to show off the line of her throat. Thalia knew she was no Lillian Russell, but she strove for that kind of elegant self-possession.
Nutall shifted his attention from the ventriloquist act onstage to Thalia. “There you are. Ready to impress them?”
Thalia gave him her widest smile. “Ready to catch a bullet.”
“Don’t even joke about it.” Nutall squared his shoulders. The ventriloquist finished up and took his bows. The pit orchestra struck up Thalia’s music. Nutall smiled back at Thalia. “Break a leg.”
* * *
Although their act was announced as the Lady of the Lake and the Siege Perilous, Nutall ignored the mistake until it was time to replace the old trick with the new. They moved through the routine dove by dove, until it was time for the big finish.
Nutall’s voice was smooth as aged brandy and as deep as London fog, pitched to reach the last row of the seats in the highest tier of the cheapest balcony. “Tonight, for the first time on the New York stage, you will be privileged to witness the Lady of the Lake performing the most dangerous of all feats of stage magic: the Bullet Catch. First things first. Ladies and gentlemen, Solitaires, Traders, and Sylvestri, may I have a volunteer from the audience?”
The man they’d planted in the audience volunteered enthusiastically. Fortunately, the crowd was lively, so there were other members of the audience clamoring to be chosen. Nutall brought him up to the stage, where Thalia opened the case with her father’s muzzle-loading rifle. Thalia showed the weapon to the audience with great panache. Shopping the prop, as her father had called displaying an item of equipment to best advantage onstage, had been Thalia’s specialty since she’d grown old enough to go onstage as her father’s assistant.
Nutall issued his next command to the volunteer. “Please take a moment to inspect this deadly missile. Do you agree that it is a musket ball of solid lead?”
The volunteer agreed it was. At Nutall’s bidding, he scratched his initials on the surface of the ball with Nutall’s own penknife.
Thalia then made the most of the gestures it took to load the rifle—fine black powder, carefully measured out before the performance ever began; then wadding; and finally the rifle ball—then a pantomime of tamping it all down gently with the rod from beneath the rifle barrel. Thalia pretended to present the loaded rifle to their volunteer, but Nutall intervened.
“You have inspected this rifle, sir. You stand witness that the ammunition is properly loaded down to the last grain of gunpowder?”
The volunteer agreed all was as it should be.
Thalia glided across the stage to take her place on a wooden pedestal. She stepped up and struck a queenly pose, holding the enamel cup out in her most regal manner.
“It is my honor to be the man to pull the trigger,” Nutall announced. “Solitaires, Traders, and Sylvestri, prepare to witness a living wonder of the modern world. The Lady of the Lake will use her great powers to capture the rifle ball before it can pierce her breast. Her powers are great, but even the greatest stage magician can suffer a mishap.” In an aside, Nutall added, “If you have children with you, I suggest you cover their eyes.”
Thalia held her cup high.
Nutall called, “My lady, are you ready?”
Thalia, mindful of the circlet she wore, inclined her head only slightly as she nodded her consent.
Nutall commanded the pit orchestra. “Drumroll, please!”
The pit orchestra gave him his cue, a snare drumroll worthy of a firing squad.
Nutall leveled the rifle at Thalia’s breast and paused, as if to savor the moment. He took careful aim at the cup in her hands. In his top hat and evening clothes, his shoe-button-black eyes somehow appeared closer set than usual. He was the very picture of a noble English gentleman, entitled to shoot beauty in any form, whether it wore fur, feathers, or a frock.
The sleight of hand was over. Thalia already held the volunteer’s leaden rifle ball, the one marked with his initials. She had switched it for a duplicate when loading the rifle, palming the scratched original out of sight until it was time for it to reappear when she caught it in her cup.
Now, with nothing more than the force of her personality, Thalia would convince a theaterful of people that they could not trust their own eyes. She took a deep breath of sheer, delighted anticipation. This was the real magic. Traders might Trade. Sylvestri might work wonders with a forest. But no one but a stage magician could show people what it looks like to violate the laws of physics.
Thalia could smell the excitement of the audience. She knew what that meant. The stirring sight of Thalia held at gunpoint, valiant and vulnerable, spoke to something dark inside the watchers. This might be the night the trick failed. This might be the night they saw a woman shot down before them.
Thalia kept her eyes on the muzzle of the rifle Nutall held. She didn’t have to look at Nutall. Her entire attention was focused on directing her audience.
The drumroll broke off as Nutall lowered the rifle. Intent on some imaginary flaw in the sight, he inspected the gun while the crowd stirred, speculation fanned hotter by the delay.
Of all the tricks in stage magic, the Bullet Catch was the most dangerous. There was always the chance someone in the audience might join in with a firearm of their own. The spell Thalia wove with her manner and gestures, the spell Nutall wove with his voice, these were all the protection she had from such mischance.
When the drumroll resumed, Thalia kept her shoulders square and her head high. Here it comes. Make it look good. With the greatest possible delicacy, Thalia widened her eyes and flared her nostrils, permitting a flash of fear to show in her expression.
Nutall aimed the rifle again, this time with confidence, and squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot rang out; the audience gasped. Thalia mimed something striking her cup with terrific force, jerking as if her knees had tried to buckle, maintaining her balance on the pedestal with great difficulty. As Thalia’s balance changed, she made the pass that slid the volunteer’s rifle ball into the cup. She let her expression soften, fear vanquished by triumph, but did not permit herself to smile. The pit orchestra’s triumphant fanfare was short but perfectly timed.
Thalia held the cup high as she let the rifle ball roll around the interior. Smiling only slightly, she stepped down from the pedestal to permit their volunteer to peer into the so-called Holy Grail. Even though he’d been in on the act from the first moment, still he registered wonderment.
Yes, that was the mark he’d made. Yes, that was the rifle ball he’d handled. Yes, the Lady of the Lake had caught the bullet in midair. It should have struck her in the breast. The man gazed at Thalia in awe.
Thalia stepped away before the man’s admiration of her bosom crossed the line of good taste. This was vaudeville, after all, decent entertainment suitable for the whole family. Burlesque had no business at a respectable joint like the Majestic.
Thalia moved smoothly from one side of the stage to the other, offering the cup to the audience’s view. She made the bullet slide and rattle as she turned the cup.
Thalia knew to the split second when the applause peaked. Milking the audience was for performers who earned far less applause. She took her curtain call, sharing the ovation with Nutall, who bowed as she curtsied. She made her stately way into the wings just before the closing curtain would have swept her off anyway.
No one over the age of six honestly believed Thalia had caught the bullet in the cup. But no one in the audience
could tell exactly how the trick had been done. The pageantry that Thalia and Nutall had given them was easier to believe than the laws of physics. In that place between what the audience knew and what it tried to guess, that was where Thalia made her living. That was her magic. That was her power.
The Bullet Catch was just a trick. The danger, however, was completely real.
Chapter Four
Backstage, as usual, was chaos. Before Thalia’s applause had faded, a family act, with six acrobatic Cantonese Solitaire children and a well-trained terrier, had taken the stage. Thalia headed back to the dressing room, intent on getting out of her now-empty pigeon squeezer, with a muttered prayer of gratitude for having her performance before the kids and the dog. Whoever followed them on the bill was going to have a hard time getting the audience’s attention back.
When Thalia deemed herself fit for public consumption, she emerged from the shared dressing room in her tan wool walking dress, the one that buttoned right up under her chin. Her outer garment, handed down from her mother, was an opera cloak of fine black wool lined with ivory silk. The ensemble made her feel uncomfortably warm backstage, but she knew she wouldn’t be backstage much longer. With her white Lady of the Lake gown safely in its garment bag and her greasepaint already wiped away, Thalia was ready to finish for the night. She took stock.
Thanks to Nutall, the doves were back in their travel cages and the snake was back in its basket. Thalia fed and watered them all. Then she helped Nutall, who had changed out of his elegant stage costume into equally elegant street clothes, to pack away everything involved with the act. It was a finicky process, but Thalia had learned the proper routine from her father. Time taken now would be time saved tomorrow when she was getting ready for her next performance.
“You two. Lady and Gent of the Lake.” Andy, the bossy young white Solitaire man who worked the stage door as a combination doorman and bouncer, stepped in front of them, snapped his fingers, and pointed at Nutall. “Manfred wants you.”
Nutall spread his arms wide. “My dear boy, the whole world wants us. Mr. Manfred will simply have to wait his turn.”
Andy was unimpressed. “Manfred wants to see you in his office.”
Nutall waved him away. “I’ll look in on Mr. Manfred tomorrow morning.”
“Now,” said Andy. “In his office. Just you, Laddie of the Lake.”
Thalia caught Nutall’s eye. “I’m coming with you.”
“It’s probably nothing.” Nutall led the way.
“It’s probably something. Do you want me to fascinate him? Shall I turn him to putty in my hands?”
Nutall laughed. “Perhaps some other time.”
“I don’t know why you’re laughing. I could do it.”
“I’m sure you could. Let Mr. Manfred be. There’s quite enough putty in the world as it is.”
Thalia followed Nutall up a narrow flight of stairs to the manager’s office. Nutall rapped on the door and they were called in immediately.
“About time. Have a seat.” Manfred, a white Solitaire man in his forties, was at his rolltop desk with a ledger open on the blotter before him. The office smelled of wet pipe tobacco and fennel seeds. Manfred waved at a pair of spindly chairs beside the desk. “You don’t have to be here, Lake Lady. I just need to talk to your boss.”
“I am Miss Thalia Cutler. If anything, I am Mr. Nutall’s boss.” Thalia considered herself excused from fascinating Manfred. He already looked a lot like putty.
“If you say so. Take a pew.”
Nutall and Thalia seated themselves.
“Okay. Here it comes.” Manfred lowered his voice and leaned toward them as he blotted his sweaty forehead with a stained handkerchief. “You’re canned.”
Thalia gasped indignantly, but Nutall was unperturbed. “I beg your pardon?”
“What, are you deaf?” Manfred put the handkerchief away. “I said you’re fired.”
Nutall folded his arms and settled back in his wobbly chair as if he intended to spend the night there. “My dear chap, obviously there’s been a misunderstanding. We have a contract. We’re to play here at the Majestic, evenings and matinees, for the next fortnight, with an option to renew.”
“A contract is just what you don’t have.” Manfred popped a fennel seed into his mouth. “You two were signed as Lady of the Lake and the Siege of Peril, whatever that is. Instead, you show up as Lady of the Lake Catches Bullets.”
“Surely replacing a dangerous exploit with one yet more dangerous must prove an acceptable substitute,” countered Nutall.
“The Bullet Catch,” Thalia told Manfred in her kindest tone, “is the most dangerous trick in all of stage magic.”
“Right you are, Miss Lake.” Manfred took on a kindly tone himself, as if speaking to a half-wit. “Only this theater is part of the Cadwallader Syndicate, so what the syndicate lawyers say goes. What they say is that the Imperial Theater, which even you and Mr. Lake here may have heard of, features a headliner with a special noncompete clause in his contract. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, is allowed to play any other theater in the syndicate with an act similar to his. Which, since the headliner catches bullets himself, yours is. Similar.”
“How brave he must be.” Nutall did not sound impressed. “Nevertheless, whatever the syndicate’s solicitors may have told you, we do indeed have a valid contract.”
“Watch who you accuse of soliciting.” In his indignation, Manfred’s fennel seed went down the wrong way.
“Dear me, I meant no offense.” When Manfred’s coughing had subsided, Nutall resumed. “Let me try to explain this simply. If we play this theater for the next two weeks, then the syndicate makes a lot of money. Therefore you make a lot of money.”
“The syndicate already makes a lot of money, thanks. Without you two.”
“Who is the headliner?” Thalia asked. “I’ve never heard of a noncompete clause for stage magic. Who else does my Bullet Catch?”
“Von Faber the Magnificent, that’s who.”
As Manfred said Von Faber, Nutall made a noise between a cough and a curse.
“He got a noncompete clause out of Cadwallader somehow,” Manfred continued. “Von Faber always gets his way. No one messes with him anymore. Not unless they want trouble.”
Von Faber the Magnificent wasn’t famous the way the Herrmanns were, but Thalia had heard of him. The name meant more to Nutall than it did to her. On principle, she looked as bored as possible and shrugged indifferently. “Never heard of him.”
Manfred’s eyes widened. “Where’ve you been? The guy is a count or something, says he’s from a noble old Bavarian family, but he doesn’t use his title. You catch the bullet just the way he does, only his bullet is silver. Your gun is just like his, even the ramrod bit. Your whole trick is like his, only he’s a headliner and you aren’t. He has an agreement with the Cadwallader Syndicate and you don’t.”
“Faber?” Nutall bristled. “That nonentity is no more noble than I am. Less so.”
“Your parents are your business. The only big difference is, he catches the bullet with a priceless Limoges dessert plate and never even chips it.”
“Priceless Limoges poppycock.” Nutall sniffed. “The man’s a complete bounder.”
“Could be, but he packs the Imperial solid every night.” To Thalia, Manfred added, “I knew there would be trouble when Mr. Lake here called out bullets instead of perils. Only with you in that white gown, I didn’t have the heart to give you the hook. If I may be so bold, Miss Cutler, you made a beautiful Lady of the Lake.”
Thalia forced herself to smile at him. She’d had a lucky escape. Fascinating Manfred would have been all too easy. “What if we dropped the Bullet Catch from the act, Mr. Manfred? What would the syndicate lawyers say then?”
“The lawyers were very specific.” Manfred looked almost sad. “The wire came fifteen minutes ago, so someone in the audience or crew has tipped them off. Neither you nor your partner here are to work the Majestic, nor any other Cadwa
llader Syndicate theater. Which I wish you both very good luck finding a decent theater that isn’t. I risked my job just letting you stay onstage tonight.”
“Sensible of you to let us proceed,” Nutall observed. “I hate to think what the audience might have done to your theater if you’d deprived them of this evening’s star attraction.” His tone suggested uprisings and riots.
“They’re not so bad,” said Manfred. “The Majestic might not be in the same league as the Imperial, but we get a decent crowd here. They almost never rip the seat cushions or set anything on fire. They don’t even throw much rotten produce. Well, not very often. Not very rotten.”
Nutall held his line. “Yet you willingly conspire to deprive them of the very act that filled your seats to overflowing tonight.”
Manfred helped himself to another fennel seed. “My seats are filled every night.”
“Are they indeed?” Nutall lifted one eyebrow. “That’s not what the chap in the box office told me.”
Manfred’s eyes narrowed. “You calling me a liar?”
“If the shoe fits,” Nutall agreed.
“That’s it.” Manfred threw a handful of coins and crumpled bills down on the open ledger. “There’s your kill fee. Take it and get out of here. As of now, you belong elsewhere. Get gone.”
“What about our props?” Thalia gave him a long reproachful look and added the Lillian Russell lift to her chin for good measure.
After a moment, Manfred relented. “You can pick them up in the morning.”
Nutall finished counting the money and put it neatly back on the ledger. “Five dollars? Don’t be ridiculous. Our kill fee was negotiated for cancellation without performance. We’ve performed. That doubles the fee.”
Thalia took care to show no surprise. For a kill fee, five dollars was generous. Ten dollars was absurd.
“Limeys! Think you own the world.” Manfred opened a desk drawer and produced a tin cashbox. “Seven dollars.”
“Ten.” Nutall was firm.
Manfred glared at him. “Eight.”
The Glass Magician Page 3