built a treehouse once.” I don’t add that it tilted to one side and wouldn’t have supported an overweight squirrel before Dad took over and brought it up to code. I might have confessed that to the younger Kiernan, but . . .
“Doesn’t matter. These guys understand show business. They’ll put you up front with a half dozen burly guys, just for visual effect.”
“On stage?” Just saying those two words makes my heart pound.
“No,” he says, giving me a look like I’m crazy. “Out back in the alley. Of course, on stage . Once you’re up there, just get close enough to drop this note into Houdini’s crate. And be sure your medallion is visible.”
I unfold the note. A request for a private meeting at the bar inside the Queen’s Hotel immediately after the show, above a rough sketch of the medallion. Below that is the question: What color is the light for you?
“Get this to him,” Kiernan says, “and he’ll meet with you.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Kiernan.”
In fact, I think it’s a horrible idea. I’m two steps away from a total freak-out merely contemplating stepping onto a stage. I’ve gradually reached a point where I can improvise fairly well on time jumps, but that type of performance has never petrified me like being onstage. I’ve only been on twice before—well, three times if you count the piano recital disaster when I was nine, but that wasn’t actually a stage. The first time was in fifth grade. I was forced into a speaking role in the school play when some kid came down with the flu. Three years later, at middle school graduation, I tripped on the principal’s microphone cord and fell face-first onto the stage, squashing the rolled-up diploma he’d just handed me.
I’m not inclined to admit this to Kiernan in his current mood, however. It probably wouldn’t matter anyway since he’s ignoring me. He walks to the closet and pulls out a dress. “It’s a bit large, so I doubt you’ll need a corset, but there’s one in the dresser if you do. Shoes, bonnet, and so forth, in the closet. Hairpins and a brush are over there.”
Kiernan turns to go, and I grab his arm. Julia’s warning is blinking in my head like a big neon sign, and the change in his overall attitude isn’t really helping to put me at ease.
“Wait. Could we talk first? I’d like some background going into this. I know Houdini was an escape artist and magician, but—”
“We need to get to the Hippodrome early so you’re near the front,” he says, pulling my hand away from his arm. “Get dressed. We can talk after the show.”
I glance back at the showtime listed in the article—it reads 8 p.m. “Is the theater nearby?”
“A short walk.”
Having experienced his idea of a short walk before, I know this can mean anything from three blocks to three miles. But before I can ask for clarification, he’s gone.
I sigh and examine the dress. It’s more elaborate than the 1905 outfit I wore in Boston, with yards of pale-green silk and an odd lace cape. Judging from the way it’s arranged on the hanger, the cape drapes over the shoulders and rests just above my waist in the front, dipping down into a deep V in the back. With the low-cut bodice, I kind of like the idea of the lace in front, even if it does look sort of strange.
I soon discover this dress isn’t equipped with Velcro down the back, so despite several minutes of twisting my body into a pretzel, some buttons remain unfastened.
I’m sitting on the bed trying to pull my hair back into something orderly when Kiernan walks in, not even bothering to knock. He curses softly when he sees I’m not ready and crosses over, quickly fastening the open buttons. Then he takes the brush and shifts the knot of hair to the side of my head before pinning the hat in place and tugging a few curls loose around my face.
All of this takes less than two minutes. Kiernan’s expression is flat, businesslike, as he turns me around to check
“Doesn’t matter. These guys understand show business. They’ll put you up front with a half dozen burly guys, just for visual effect.”
“On stage?” Just saying those two words makes my heart pound.
“No,” he says, giving me a look like I’m crazy. “Out back in the alley. Of course, on stage . Once you’re up there, just get close enough to drop this note into Houdini’s crate. And be sure your medallion is visible.”
I unfold the note. A request for a private meeting at the bar inside the Queen’s Hotel immediately after the show, above a rough sketch of the medallion. Below that is the question: What color is the light for you?
“Get this to him,” Kiernan says, “and he’ll meet with you.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Kiernan.”
In fact, I think it’s a horrible idea. I’m two steps away from a total freak-out merely contemplating stepping onto a stage. I’ve gradually reached a point where I can improvise fairly well on time jumps, but that type of performance has never petrified me like being onstage. I’ve only been on twice before—well, three times if you count the piano recital disaster when I was nine, but that wasn’t actually a stage. The first time was in fifth grade. I was forced into a speaking role in the school play when some kid came down with the flu. Three years later, at middle school graduation, I tripped on the principal’s microphone cord and fell face-first onto the stage, squashing the rolled-up diploma he’d just handed me.
I’m not inclined to admit this to Kiernan in his current mood, however. It probably wouldn’t matter anyway since he’s ignoring me. He walks to the closet and pulls out a dress. “It’s a bit large, so I doubt you’ll need a corset, but there’s one in the dresser if you do. Shoes, bonnet, and so forth, in the closet. Hairpins and a brush are over there.”
Kiernan turns to go, and I grab his arm. Julia’s warning is blinking in my head like a big neon sign, and the change in his overall attitude isn’t really helping to put me at ease.
“Wait. Could we talk first? I’d like some background going into this. I know Houdini was an escape artist and magician, but—”
“We need to get to the Hippodrome early so you’re near the front,” he says, pulling my hand away from his arm. “Get dressed. We can talk after the show.”
I glance back at the showtime listed in the article—it reads 8 p.m. “Is the theater nearby?”
“A short walk.”
Having experienced his idea of a short walk before, I know this can mean anything from three blocks to three miles. But before I can ask for clarification, he’s gone.
I sigh and examine the dress. It’s more elaborate than the 1905 outfit I wore in Boston, with yards of pale-green silk and an odd lace cape. Judging from the way it’s arranged on the hanger, the cape drapes over the shoulders and rests just above my waist in the front, dipping down into a deep V in the back. With the low-cut bodice, I kind of like the idea of the lace in front, even if it does look sort of strange.
I soon discover this dress isn’t equipped with Velcro down the back, so despite several minutes of twisting my body into a pretzel, some buttons remain unfastened.
I’m sitting on the bed trying to pull my hair back into something orderly when Kiernan walks in, not even bothering to knock. He curses softly when he sees I’m not ready and crosses over, quickly fastening the open buttons. Then he takes the brush and shifts the knot of hair to the side of my head before pinning the hat in place and tugging a few curls loose around my face.
All of this takes less than two minutes. Kiernan’s expression is flat, businesslike, as he turns me around to check
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