He heads toward the back of the theater. The seats around me start to fill over the next few minutes, with a good quarter of the spectators holding hammers and nails.
Eventually, a harried-looking man pushes the door open. He looks around and disappears again. A minute or so later, he comes back out holding a small pad of paper.
“I see a lot more hammers than we expected. Mr. Houdini would be delighted to have each and ever’ one of you pound in a nail or two, but I think the local fire brigade might advise against a mob on the stage. So we’ll take an even dozen.”
Hands fly up. Some of the volunteers, all of them men, stand. Several look like they might be professional wrestlers, if they even have those in 1905. I wave my hand fervently, but the stage manager doesn’t see me. He hands a little slip of paper to six or seven men, clearly going for the biggest and brawniest.
The fact that I’m a head or two shorter than everyone around me isn’t helping. Although the chair doesn’t look especially sturdy, it should hold my weight, so I yank the seat down and climb up. Once I catch my balance, I wave the handbag. “Pick me!”
Several people around me start to laugh. A few jeers are mixed in as well.
“You’ve picked only men.” I’m suddenly conscious of my American accent in the sea of Brits and the fact that everyone is staring. “I think they’re in on the game—you’re paying them. Why not give a girl a chance?”
The manager rolls his eyes. “Sorry, miss, already picked my dozen—”
“So make it a baker’s dozen,” someone yells from the back.
“Bet she can’t hit the bloody nail anyway. Give us somethin’ to laugh at.” That voice is clearly Kiernan’s, and most of the men chuckle.
A woman near the front throws a dirty look in Kiernan’s direction. “Twelve men and no women hardly seems fair.”
Another man calls out, “I say give ’em the hammer and maybe they’ll quit yappin’ about wantin’ the vote.”
I’m thinking that give ’em the hammer could be taken two ways. Apparently the woman who asked for a bit of gender equity agrees, because her mouth tightens.
The stage manager shrugs. “Fine, we’ll make it unlucky thirteen. If anything happens to Mr. Houdini, it’ll be on your conscience, lady.” He rips off another scrap of paper and hands it to me. “Now get down offa the chair an’ behave.”
He glances around at the others he selected. “The challenge comes at the end of the show. When they bring out the crate, you’ll come onstage. Houdini’ll most likely joke around a bit, then he’ll climb in, and we’ll close the lid. Each of you steps forward in turn. Two nails each—we ain’t got all night.”
He slips back through the stage door, and I sink down into my chair.
Kiernan comes back about ten minutes later and takes his seat. “Good work.”
I snort. “Don’t give me that. I heard you back there.”
“Just seeding the crowd. A time-honored practice among showmen and politicians alike. When you get up there, make sure you’re at the front of the line, before they close the crate. I slipped a few bob to the guy at the back and told him to yell out ‘Ladies first,’ so I’m guessing it won’t be a problem.” He runs his eyes over me quickly and then pauses to give my breasts a longer look. There’s no lechery involved, however—it’s like he’s debating their effect. “Take off the cape thing and leave it here.”
I give him a scathing look and then reach behind me to unclasp the lace bolero. Once it’s off, I fling it into his lap. “Happy now?” I ask.
His mouth tweaks upward slightly, and I can’t help but think that this new Kiernan would give Charlayne’s friend Bensen some competition as the master of understated facial expressions. In Bensen’s case, I had the sense that it was just his nature. Kiernan, on the other hand, has rarely tried to hide his feelings from me—good or bad, mutual or not. Or if he’s tried,
Eventually, a harried-looking man pushes the door open. He looks around and disappears again. A minute or so later, he comes back out holding a small pad of paper.
“I see a lot more hammers than we expected. Mr. Houdini would be delighted to have each and ever’ one of you pound in a nail or two, but I think the local fire brigade might advise against a mob on the stage. So we’ll take an even dozen.”
Hands fly up. Some of the volunteers, all of them men, stand. Several look like they might be professional wrestlers, if they even have those in 1905. I wave my hand fervently, but the stage manager doesn’t see me. He hands a little slip of paper to six or seven men, clearly going for the biggest and brawniest.
The fact that I’m a head or two shorter than everyone around me isn’t helping. Although the chair doesn’t look especially sturdy, it should hold my weight, so I yank the seat down and climb up. Once I catch my balance, I wave the handbag. “Pick me!”
Several people around me start to laugh. A few jeers are mixed in as well.
“You’ve picked only men.” I’m suddenly conscious of my American accent in the sea of Brits and the fact that everyone is staring. “I think they’re in on the game—you’re paying them. Why not give a girl a chance?”
The manager rolls his eyes. “Sorry, miss, already picked my dozen—”
“So make it a baker’s dozen,” someone yells from the back.
“Bet she can’t hit the bloody nail anyway. Give us somethin’ to laugh at.” That voice is clearly Kiernan’s, and most of the men chuckle.
A woman near the front throws a dirty look in Kiernan’s direction. “Twelve men and no women hardly seems fair.”
Another man calls out, “I say give ’em the hammer and maybe they’ll quit yappin’ about wantin’ the vote.”
I’m thinking that give ’em the hammer could be taken two ways. Apparently the woman who asked for a bit of gender equity agrees, because her mouth tightens.
The stage manager shrugs. “Fine, we’ll make it unlucky thirteen. If anything happens to Mr. Houdini, it’ll be on your conscience, lady.” He rips off another scrap of paper and hands it to me. “Now get down offa the chair an’ behave.”
He glances around at the others he selected. “The challenge comes at the end of the show. When they bring out the crate, you’ll come onstage. Houdini’ll most likely joke around a bit, then he’ll climb in, and we’ll close the lid. Each of you steps forward in turn. Two nails each—we ain’t got all night.”
He slips back through the stage door, and I sink down into my chair.
Kiernan comes back about ten minutes later and takes his seat. “Good work.”
I snort. “Don’t give me that. I heard you back there.”
“Just seeding the crowd. A time-honored practice among showmen and politicians alike. When you get up there, make sure you’re at the front of the line, before they close the crate. I slipped a few bob to the guy at the back and told him to yell out ‘Ladies first,’ so I’m guessing it won’t be a problem.” He runs his eyes over me quickly and then pauses to give my breasts a longer look. There’s no lechery involved, however—it’s like he’s debating their effect. “Take off the cape thing and leave it here.”
I give him a scathing look and then reach behind me to unclasp the lace bolero. Once it’s off, I fling it into his lap. “Happy now?” I ask.
His mouth tweaks upward slightly, and I can’t help but think that this new Kiernan would give Charlayne’s friend Bensen some competition as the master of understated facial expressions. In Bensen’s case, I had the sense that it was just his nature. Kiernan, on the other hand, has rarely tried to hide his feelings from me—good or bad, mutual or not. Or if he’s tried,
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