The Glass Magician

by Caroline Stevermer

  Slowly, the bustle of the city restored Thalia’s good temper. She was able to ignore the encounter with Ryker and focus on her own situation. She was out of work, yes. But she was not out of opportunities. At that very moment, Nutall was working some angle with Madame Ostrova. Things were sure to improve.

  Thalia didn’t even have to crane her neck to look for the next train. It was already in view and coming in fast, making a racket like a million saucepans rattling at once.

  The oldest of the four children, a boy of about six, was watching her wide-eyed. “Are you a nice lady?”

  “No.” Thalia believed if one absolutely had to deal with children, it was vital to be honest. “I’m a stage magician.” To prove it, she did a French drop, concealing the coin in her hand until she reached in to pull a penny out of the boy’s ear. She handed the coin to him as the train drew up.

  “You can’t be a magician.” As he gazed at the coin, the boy was a picture of scandalized delight. “You’re a lady.”

  “Don’t be so sure about who can do what.” As the carriage doors opened and passengers emerged, Thalia reached out and extracted her penny from his sticky hand.

  “Hey!” The boy’s face puckered in dismay.

  “I am not a nice lady.” Thalia tossed the coin back to him. As she turned to board the last car in the train, she called back to him, “The moral of this story is don’t talk to strangers.”

  * * *

  Back at the boardinghouse, Thalia just had time to take care of the doves, confirm the snake was still alive and not yet ready for its next meal, and get in a bit of practice before Nutall tapped at her door to signal his return.

  “Walk with me,” Nutall said. “Not far. We’re only going around the block.”

  Thalia put on her hat and gloves and followed him out, ostensibly for a pleasant afternoon stroll. In truth, the walls of the boardinghouse were thin. If one wished to speak privately, it made sense to go elsewhere.

  The day was still pleasantly sunny and relatively calm and uncrowded. When they reached a stretch of sidewalk with no one in earshot, Thalia spoke. “Thanks for cutting me loose. What did you and Madame Ostrova have to discuss that you couldn’t talk about with me there?”

  “Madame Ostrova would never compromise her professional ethics by discussing one magician in the presence of another. She disapproves of Von Faber but he is still a stage magician, and so are you.”

  “But she talked to you.” Thalia lifted her skirts and took a long step to avoid a puddle on the pavement.

  “I may be your stage manager, but I am not a stage magician and never will be. Madame Ostrova was willing to speak frankly to me.”

  “And?”

  Nutall was silent as they walked past a newsstand. In the clear space beyond, he stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and looked up at the sky as if judging the weather. “In Madame Ostrova’s opinion, legal recourse would be a waste of time and money.”

  “But the rifle! What if we can prove he stole the Bullet Catch from us?”

  “Madame Ostrova says that Von Faber has something on the head of the Cadwallader Syndicate. That’s why he has a noncompete clause. It actually costs the syndicate money, shutting down acts that Von Faber says are copying him. They wouldn’t do that unless he knows something the head of the syndicate wants to keep a secret.”

  “But—that’s blackmail.”

  “It is,” Nutall agreed. “But Madame Ostrova seemed quite sure of her facts.”

  “Right. Good.” Thalia set forth walking again, this time at a faster pace. “There are other syndicates. We’ll get a contract with one of them.”

  “We could do that.” Calmly, Nutall kept up with Thalia. “In Madame Ostrova’s opinion, however, we should simply change our act so that it doesn’t have anything in common with Von Faber’s.”

  “How will we know what Von Faber’s act is going to be? All he has to do is copy us again, and we’re back where we started.”

  “We will go see Von Faber’s famous headlining act,” Nutall said soothingly. “If necessary, we will use some of the tricks in storage to mount an act that doesn’t use any of Von Faber’s current tricks. In the unlikely event Von Faber decides to change his act to copy us, then we will go to the authorities and charge him with stealing our rifle.”

  The tricks in storage had not inspired Thalia. “What about your idea that Madame Ostrova will give us credit for a new trick to make up for the theft from our inventory?”

  Nutall looked chagrined. “I didn’t get as far with that as I’d hoped. If we had the money to commission a new trick, she agreed to give us ten percent off the cost. That’s the best I could do.”

  “Ten percent.” Thalia shook her head. “Even if we had the plans for a new trick today, which we don’t, that’s a lot of money to tie up when we’re out of work.”

  “Not to mention the time it would take,” said Nutall. “The Ostrovas cut no corners.”

  Thalia uttered a heartfelt sigh. “So we need money.”

  “As usual,” Nutall agreed.

  “But we need tickets to see Von Faber’s act at the Imperial.”

  “We need to see Von Faber’s act,” agreed Nutall. “Under no circumstances will we pay for tickets. I have a friend who works at the Imperial. I’ll see if he can provide us with passes.”

  “Do you think we can go tonight?”

  “It might be rather short notice.”

  In fact, the projected trip to the Imperial Theater had to be delayed. When Nutall and Thalia returned to the boardinghouse, Mrs. Morris told them that a message had arrived for Thalia. “The messenger is in the front room, waiting for a reply.”

  Addressed to “the elusive Miss Cutler,” the message proved to be from Nathaniel Ryker.

  “How does he know where I’m staying?” wondered Thalia.

  “I imagine that has something to do with the fact that he gave me a lift back here from Ostrova’s.” Nutall watched with interest as Thalia read the letter. “Not to be inquisitive, my dear, but what does the Trader have to say for himself?”

  Thalia frowned at Nutall. “Didn’t you warn me about strangers?”

  “As if you ever pay the slightest attention to the advice I give you. What does Mr. Ryker say?”

  “See for yourself.” Thalia handed over the expensive sheet of paper.

  “An invitation—extended to both of us—very proper of the lad—to dine with him this evening. At Delmonico’s. I like this young man, Thalia. He knows the way to an old showman’s heart.” He folded the letter and handed it back.

  “Which lies through his stomach,” Thalia finished. “I thought we were going to the Imperial tonight.”

  “We may certainly do so if you insist.”

  “But you’re saying that you want me to accept this invitation.” Thalia tapped Nutall’s chest with the letter. “You think we could enlist Ryker as a backer, don’t you?”

  “All I am saying is, dinner at Delmonico’s.”

  Thalia turned the letter over, ready to write her acceptance on the back. “To which I say, lend me your pencil.”

  Chapter Six

  Thalia suspected that going somewhere as fancy as Delmonico’s in her Lady of the Lake gown could make it look as if she’d wandered in wearing her stage costume. Still, the white brocade gown was the closest thing to a formal evening gown Thalia owned, and she knew it suited her to perfection.

  Its hanging sleeves were tight from shoulder to elbow, then fell free past her knees, points swaying dramatically thanks to a tiny lead drapery weight sewn into the hem of each sleeve. Without her hidden dove cage, Thalia had laced the sides of her gown tightly to show off her corseted figure, then accentuated her small waistline with the gold brocade sash that tied in front and then fell nearly to the floor. The crown she wore onstage would have looked absurd, so she wore a fine lace shawl, another expensive thing she’d inherited from her mother, instead.

  In the high style of Delmonico’s, Thalia’s medieval stage
splendor didn’t seem unusual. Still, she took great care as she walked. Those weighted sleeves wanted to swing and sway as she moved. They could easily catch small unmoored objects and knock them to the floor. Thalia wanted to make a grand entrance, not to destroy property.

  Mr. Nathaniel Ryker and Delmonico’s majordomo led the way into the main dining room, en route to the private dining room their Trader host had engaged for the meal. Nutall was Thalia’s escort. She held his arm and let him steer while she kept her treacherous sleeves out of trouble.

  Despite her concentration, Thalia took note of those already in the main dining room. She recognized people she’d read about in Scene about Town, the Solitaire gossip column in The New York Herald. The bored white Trader lady in pink silk had to be Miss Onderdonk, heiress to the Onderdonk family trust and publishing fortune. She had two worried-looking chaperones and three attentive young Trader gentlemen at the table with her.

  Thalia noted a young black man as he brushed past her leaving the main dining room. He was a Solitaire, she thought. He wore a well-cut dark suit and carried a black slouch hat as if he’d taken it off only out of courtesy and was going to put it back on the moment he was clear of the place. He was clean-shaven, and Thalia noted a scar on his chin that must have been a serious injury at the time it had been made. He had wide-set eyes bright with mockery, and the look he gave Thalia summed her up and dismissed her. You’re one of them, that look said. His obvious dismissal of her piqued Thalia. She turned her head for a second glance at him, but he was already out the door.

  If that brisk young man had considered Thalia to be one of them, whoever that was, she told herself she must be doing well at fitting in with her plush surroundings. She put the stranger out of her mind and took another quick look around the room. Her interest was rewarded at once.

  Miss Lillian Russell herself, Solitaire of white Solitaires, majestically beautiful and corseted like the figurehead of a ship, dined at the next table. The man gazing adoringly at her from the other side of the candlesticks was Mr. Cornelius Cadwallader, white Solitaire head of his own theatrical syndicate, with a cigar in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.

  Nearby, at the best table in the room, sat the Italian Trader opera singer Enrico Caruso, happily eating oysters amid a throng of admirers. Thalia knew from the magazines her landlady read that Traders very seldom chose a life in show business or the arts. Only when the need to perfect their artistic gifts drove them to it, only then, would a Trader turn away from the luxuries of Trader society. Hard work and discipline were required to excel. Caruso’s voice was his gift to the world.

  Thalia soaked in every detail. This was the high life. Mrs. Morris would be eager to hear about her famous fellow diners. Thalia’s delight in seeing and being seen was short-lived, however. They were shown into the private dining room Ryker had engaged.

  Old money, Trader and Solitaire alike, seemed to prefer showing off in private. Thalia knew she would never be content with such discretion. Ryker, looking right at home amid all this luxury, inspected the preparations and gave the majordomo a nod of approval.

  The table was lavishly set with silver, crystal, and porcelain on spotless white linen. The centerpiece was a silver cornucopia propped up to balance on its curving tip by three tipsy-looking silver cupids. The open mouth of the horn of plenty was heaped with real fruit and flowers, purple grapes and pink roses, both wildly out of season. In the warmth of the room the hothouse grapes and roses gave off a scent that mingled with something in the very air of Delmonico’s.

  “Smells like money.” The words escaped Thalia despite herself.

  Her bluntness earned her one of Ryker’s flickering smiles. “Do you object?” He held Thalia’s chair for her. Thalia accepted his help.

  “On the contrary.” Nutall seated himself. “We share the position of many unfortunates. Money is an absolute requirement for our existence. Our means of earning it has recently been curtailed.”

  “Unfortunate.” Ryker, now seated, shook out his napkin. “Yet isn’t money an absolute requirement for everyone’s existence?” The waiters brought in the first course. A small amount of champagne was poured for Ryker’s approval.

  “Not at all.” Nutall arranged his own napkin across his lap. “There remain a few places in this world where no currency exists because none is required.”

  Ryker nodded to the wine waiter, and champagne was poured for Nutall and Thalia, then Ryker’s glass was filled. “Let me guess. These places are uninhabited.”

  “He means Sylvestri places,” Thalia said. Nutall had long since drilled Thalia’s table manners into her like military maneuvers, but no boardinghouse had ever presented her with the choices she now encountered. On either side of the plate and above it, her place setting was fortified by ranks of gleaming silverware. She worked out which fork to use by watching Nutall and Ryker. “He used to tell me the best bedtime stories, all about people who live in a forest and make their own everything.”

  “Indeed?” Ryker regarded Nutall with interest.

  “I read about it in a book once.” Except for a single sip to acknowledge his host’s toast, Nutall did not drink his champagne. However, Nutall showed no hesitation in choosing among the fruit knives and the orange spoons. He seemed not at all impressed by the splendor of Delmonico’s. “Unfortunately, we live here and now, not in Arcadia.”

  “And that takes money,” Thalia agreed.

  “Money definitely has its uses,” Ryker agreed. The small talk went on as they enjoyed their food.

  Lobster Newburg, Thalia discovered, tasted like lobster, butter, and cream. There was an edge of cayenne pepper over a treacherous undercurrent of sherry and cognac. Just as the private dining room had smelled like money, lobster Newburg tasted like money, smooth and comforting, with an exciting edge of possibility.

  Thalia ate slowly, not only to memorize the tastes and textures, but to be absolutely certain nothing spilled on her gown. Emulating Nutall, she took just one sip of champagne, purely in the interest of exploration. It was good to know how really excellent champagne tasted, but on this of all evenings, Thalia wanted to have all her wits about her. It was no time to get fuddled on fizz, however excellent.

  Nutall and Ryker discussed the horse-racing season to come at Keeneland and Saratoga Springs. Then they talked about the merits of fly-fishing. Thalia kept her place in the discussion with a question now and then, but mostly she watched Ryker.

  Lobster Newburg was nothing special to Mr. Nathaniel Ryker. Thalia could see that in the methodical neatness with which he ate each course of his meal. Nothing distracted him from his talk with Nutall.

  Lobster Newburg gave way to white asparagus, which gave way to steak and mushrooms, which gave way eventually to strawberries in cream. Strawberries in April. Thalia had all she could do to keep her astonishment to herself. She did not want to betray how impressed she was.

  Thalia knew this might be the best meal she would ever eat. She devoted herself to it with passionate attention and a complete disregard to the tightness of her stays.

  There had been some very hungry nights in Thalia’s life, and she knew there would be hungry nights yet to come. That was the price one paid for the freedom of a career in show business. Let this meal, this whole splendid night, be caught in her recollection forever, so there would always be a memory of warmth and light and the scent of grapes and roses to remind her of dinner at Delmonico’s.

  Her first dinner at Delmonico’s, Thalia promised herself. Her first, but not her last. Someday, somehow, she would find her way here again, and not as anyone’s grateful guest, either. Thalia would come as a star in her own right, able to pay for such luxuries on her own behalf. Able to invite guests of her own. Able to delight them with the splendor of Delmonico’s hospitality without counting the prodigious cost.

  Ryker laughed with Nutall. Thalia watched them and resolved that her next meal at Delmonico’s would be in the main dining room, where the whole point of the
place was to see and be seen.

  Ryker caught her eye. “Sorry to bore you, Miss Cutler.”

  “Oh, I’m never bored,” said Thalia. “It’s not in my nature.”

  “That’s true.” Nutall backed her up. “You have the rare ability to entertain yourself at all times. At your age, I risked death by ennui on a daily basis, but you seem entirely immune.” He turned to Ryker. “What about you, sir? When you were Thalia’s age, were you boisterous or bored? Or can’t you remember?”

  “It wasn’t so long ago as all that,” Ryker protested. “Once I satisfied the Board of Trade—that is, once I came out in society—I was able to complete my education at college. I considered it a grand waste of time at the age of nineteen, but now I’m glad I did it. Education is important. I trust you agree, Miss Cutler?”

  “In theory, I do. In practice, my father taught me his profession. Mr. Nutall has been kind enough to tutor me in everything else. I have no formal schooling.”

  “Show business requires one to live on the wing.” Nutall made a minute adjustment to the angle of his fork. “No schoolroom could keep up. I’ve done my best. Where I had no knowledge, for example in music, I was able to enlist the occasional tutor. Fortunately, Thalia has always been an apt pupil.”

  “Have you ever considered becoming a tutor yourself?” Ryker asked Thalia. “My sister Nell has many interests. As the Board of Trade has yet to set her ordeal, she hasn’t come out in society, so she is confined to our family home. I fear she finds that dreadfully flat. As a result, she has conceived a desire to go into show business, specifically as a stage magician.”

  “Dear me,” said Nutall.

  “Precisely.” Ryker continued. “Miss Cutler, I would pay handsomely to enlist your services as tutor for a day. To be candid, I suspect an hour would suffice.”