good to keep out in the crowd,” Chandresh says. “She simply must have her own tent. We’ll put the seats in a ring or something, keep the audience right in the middle of the action.”
“Yes, sir,” Marco says, fiddling with his notebook, running his fingers over the pages that had been wings only minutes before.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” Chandresh asks. “You’re white as a sheet.” His voice echoes through the empty theater as they stand alone on the stage, Mme. Padva having whisked Miss Bowen off, peppering her with questions about gowns and hairstyles.
“I am fine, sir,” Marco says.
“You look awful,” Chandresh says, puffing on his cigar. “Go home.”
Marco looks up at him, surprised. “Sir, there is paperwork that needs to be done,” he protests.
“Do it tomorrow, plenty of time for such things. Tante Padva and I will take Miss Bowen back to the house for tea and we can sort out the particulars and paperwork later. Get some rest or have yourself a drink or whatever it is you do.” Chandresh waves a hand at him absently, the smoke from his cigar trailing in bobbing waves.
“If you insist, sir.”
“I do insist! And get rid of the rest of those fellows in the lobby. No need to see a bunch of suits with capes when we’ve already found something far more interesting. Quite attractive, too, I should think, if one’s predilections run in that direction.”
“Indeed, sir,” Marco says, a blush creeping into his pallor. “Until tomorrow then.” He nods his head in something almost like a bow before turning gracefully on his heel and heading out to the lobby.
“Didn’t take you to be the easily spooked type, Marco,” Chandresh calls after him, but Marco does not turn.
Marco politely dismisses the illusionists in the lobby, explaining that the position has been filled and thanking them for their time. None of them notice that his hands are shaking, or that he is clutching the pen in his hand so tightly that his knuckles are white. Nor do they notice when it snaps in two within his fist, black ink seeping down his wrist.
After the illusionists have departed, Marco gathers his things, wiping his ink-covered hand on his black coat. He puts on his bowler hat before he exits the theater.
With every step, he grows more visibly distressed. People move out of his way on the crowded pavement.
When he reaches his flat, Marco drops his bag to the floor, leaning against the door with a heavy sigh.
“What’s wrong?” Isobel asks from a chair next to the empty fireplace. She conceals the length of hair she has been braiding in her pocket, scowling as she knows she will have to rebraid the entire piece because her concentration was broken. It is the part she still has the most difficulty with, the concentration and focus.
For now, she abandons it and watches Marco as he crosses the room to reach the bookcases lining the wall.
“I know who my opponent is,” Marco says, pulling armfuls of books down from their shelves and spreading them out haphazardly over tables, leaving several in messy piles on the floor. Those remaining on the shelves collapse, a few volumes falling, but Marco does not seem to notice.
“Is it that Japanese woman you were so curious about?” Isobel asks, watching as Marco’s impeccable filing system falls into chaos. The flat has always been kept in perfect order, and she finds the sudden upheaval disquieting.
“No,” Marco says as he flips through pages. “It’s Prospero’s daughter.”
Isobel picks up a potted violet that has toppled in the wake of the falling books and places it back upon its shelf.
“Prospero?” she asks. “The magician, the one you saw in Paris?”
Marco nods.
“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” she says.
“I was unaware of that fact, myself,” Marco says, discarding one book and picking up another. “Chandresh just hired her to be the illusionist for the circus.”
“Really?” Isobel asks. Marco does not
“Yes, sir,” Marco says, fiddling with his notebook, running his fingers over the pages that had been wings only minutes before.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” Chandresh asks. “You’re white as a sheet.” His voice echoes through the empty theater as they stand alone on the stage, Mme. Padva having whisked Miss Bowen off, peppering her with questions about gowns and hairstyles.
“I am fine, sir,” Marco says.
“You look awful,” Chandresh says, puffing on his cigar. “Go home.”
Marco looks up at him, surprised. “Sir, there is paperwork that needs to be done,” he protests.
“Do it tomorrow, plenty of time for such things. Tante Padva and I will take Miss Bowen back to the house for tea and we can sort out the particulars and paperwork later. Get some rest or have yourself a drink or whatever it is you do.” Chandresh waves a hand at him absently, the smoke from his cigar trailing in bobbing waves.
“If you insist, sir.”
“I do insist! And get rid of the rest of those fellows in the lobby. No need to see a bunch of suits with capes when we’ve already found something far more interesting. Quite attractive, too, I should think, if one’s predilections run in that direction.”
“Indeed, sir,” Marco says, a blush creeping into his pallor. “Until tomorrow then.” He nods his head in something almost like a bow before turning gracefully on his heel and heading out to the lobby.
“Didn’t take you to be the easily spooked type, Marco,” Chandresh calls after him, but Marco does not turn.
Marco politely dismisses the illusionists in the lobby, explaining that the position has been filled and thanking them for their time. None of them notice that his hands are shaking, or that he is clutching the pen in his hand so tightly that his knuckles are white. Nor do they notice when it snaps in two within his fist, black ink seeping down his wrist.
After the illusionists have departed, Marco gathers his things, wiping his ink-covered hand on his black coat. He puts on his bowler hat before he exits the theater.
With every step, he grows more visibly distressed. People move out of his way on the crowded pavement.
When he reaches his flat, Marco drops his bag to the floor, leaning against the door with a heavy sigh.
“What’s wrong?” Isobel asks from a chair next to the empty fireplace. She conceals the length of hair she has been braiding in her pocket, scowling as she knows she will have to rebraid the entire piece because her concentration was broken. It is the part she still has the most difficulty with, the concentration and focus.
For now, she abandons it and watches Marco as he crosses the room to reach the bookcases lining the wall.
“I know who my opponent is,” Marco says, pulling armfuls of books down from their shelves and spreading them out haphazardly over tables, leaving several in messy piles on the floor. Those remaining on the shelves collapse, a few volumes falling, but Marco does not seem to notice.
“Is it that Japanese woman you were so curious about?” Isobel asks, watching as Marco’s impeccable filing system falls into chaos. The flat has always been kept in perfect order, and she finds the sudden upheaval disquieting.
“No,” Marco says as he flips through pages. “It’s Prospero’s daughter.”
Isobel picks up a potted violet that has toppled in the wake of the falling books and places it back upon its shelf.
“Prospero?” she asks. “The magician, the one you saw in Paris?”
Marco nods.
“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” she says.
“I was unaware of that fact, myself,” Marco says, discarding one book and picking up another. “Chandresh just hired her to be the illusionist for the circus.”
“Really?” Isobel asks. Marco does not
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