Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

Alexandria linked her arm through Quaint's, leading him to her workshop along a corridor cluttered with rolls of material, clothing rails and dusty mannequins.

'My word, Cornelius, what are you wearing?' Alexandria said. 'You would not have been seen dead in pinstripes when you and I were…' She forced herself to look away for a moment, '…in the old days, I mean. And tell me, what has happened to your hair? Not a hint of grey when we last met, and now you are…what is the English phrase…as white as a sheep?'

'It's sheet,' said Quaint.

'I know what I mean,' said Alexandria dryly. 'Please do not tell me that I have aged as poorly as you.'

'As sensitive to my feelings as ever, Alex,' said Quaint. 'The years are unkind to us all eventually. I like to think of myself as a vintage wine…I grow in value with each passing year.'

'In that case, you must be worth a fortune,' Alexandria said. 'Well, for all your chips and cracks, I am relieved to see you are still intact, Cornelius.'

'And let me take a good look at you, eh?' said Quaint, stepping back to avoid further inspection. She wore a white blouse under an embroidered waistcoat, a flowing crimson skirt, and from a wide belt around her slender waist hung an assortment of bobbins of yarn and reels of thread. 'There is no doubt about it…you are still the most ravishing woman in all of Egypt. Surely if you'd been born in the old days, you would be revered as a goddess.'

Alexandria slapped his broad chest playfully. 'The same old lines to make a lady's heart beat faster, Cornelius? Shame on you.'

'Actually, that's a brand new one just for you,' said Quaint

'I very much doubt it,' Alexandria said. 'As much as I would like it to be true, I do not believe that you came halfway around the world just to see me. So tell me, what brings you back to Egypt after all these years?'

'Just a little bit of business…of the unfinished variety,' Quaint replied, as he began a stroll around the workshop. 'You know me, Alex. Nothing changes.'

Alexandria watched him, unable to take her eyes off him for a moment.

'No…nothing changes,' she said.

Quaint brushed his hands over the array of tailored shirts, jackets, coats and dresses. The workshop was an organised mess, with reams of silks and cottons arranged how a lover of books might display their collection. A large overcoat adorning a headless mannequin caught his eye, and he beamed at it as though it were a familiar face. It was an indigo, three-quarter length, split-tailed long-coat, with wide lapels and thick cuffs. As he stepped closer to the garment, the colour seemed to dance before his eyes, changing from blue to black, like oil across water.

'One of yours I take it?' he asked.

Alexandria nodded. 'It meets with your approval?'

'It's a work of art, my dear. It belongs in a museum,' Quaint answered.

'Hmm, well…it was a special order for a Chinaman named Cho-zen Li over six months ago. If he does not send payment for it soon, it might as well hang in a museum for all the good it is doing here,' Alexandria said gloomily, casting her eyes around the workshop as if it were her prison cell, and she its captive.

Quaint spied the anxious look in her eyes, despite her utmost efforts to hide it.

'I take it business is a little slow at the moment?'

'Not just at the moment…all of the time,' Alexandria replied. 'This district is not exactly a place to notice finery and good workmanship. I rely on all my overseas clients, many of which I have you to thank for their continued custom over the years. But I get by.' She moved a large box of cotton reels and sat herself up on a bench, swinging her legs back and forth. 'You have probably noticed that there are more garments cluttering up this place than there should be. The times are hard. Despite what I said to you when you arrived, I do give discounts…sometimes more than I can afford. Joran is growing fast, and his is a big mouth to fill.'

'It certainly is,' grinned Quaint. 'So this coat…it's a bit on the large side for a Chinese, isn't it?' he asked, running his hand inside the overcoat's lapel.

'It is not my place to question my clients' measurements, Cornelius,' Alexandria said, with a quick glance at Quaint's waist. 'You have filled out with a bit of ballast of your own, I see…and you have not purchased a suit from me in over a year! Do not tell me you have defected to Savile Row?'

'And pay those vultures' prices? Certainly not! Rest assured, Alex, that I shall be a loyal customer of yours until the day I die…which I have on very good authority will be a long way off yet.' Quaint smiled to himself.

'I am glad to hear it. So…when was it that you were last here?' Alexandria asked, changing the subject with a distracted jerk of her head.

Quaint ruffled his curls. 'Hmm, now you have me. I was trying to work it out earlier myself. Eighteen forty, maybe? Forty-one?'

'That long?' Alexandria asked. 'And the last time we conversed, were you not some sort of circus magician? A man that pulls rabbits from hats, saws women in half, and escapes from chains in vats of water?'

'I'm a conjuror, Alex, and rarely dabble in escapology – unless it's on a purely personal basis. I rely on misdirection and sleight of hand, not rigged props and pretty assistants. Would you care for a little demonstration?' Quaint reached into his trouser pocket and produced a pack of playing cards.

Alexandria stared at him. 'You carry a deck of cards with you?'

'Doesn't everyone?' Quaint replied offhandedly.

'And so what is this trick all about?' Alexandria asked.

Quaint greeted her question with a terse exhalation. 'Alex, I detest the term "trick". My craft is more than mere trickery! I usually do this blindfolded, but no matter, we shall suffice. Now…observe.' He took the deck of cards and split it exactly in half, laying the two equal piles on the workbench behind him. Taking a pile in each hand, he locked his eyes into Alexandria's and shuffled the cards. She tried her best to keep up with him, but he split, shuffled and cut the cards deftly with experienced fingers at a blinding speed. Quaint stacked the cards back into a full deck, fanned them out like a peacock's tail, and offered them to Alexandria. 'Madam, would you care to pick a card?'

A curious grin on her lips, Alexandria tentatively did as she was told.

'Good. Now memorise it, but don't let me see it,' instructed Quaint.

Alexandria held the card close to her face and looked at the seven of diamonds.

'Now, place your card back in the deck,' said the conjuror. 'You will agree that I have not seen the card you selected? There are no hidden mirrors hereabouts and your choice was your own, correct?' Quaint waited for Alexandria to confirm. He relished the opportunity to step back into the shoes of a showman – he had almost forgotten what it felt like. Splaying the cards face down onto the workbench behind him, he floated his fingertips above them as if feeling for a breeze. 'I want you to think of the card in your head. Think only of the card! I will attempt to reach into your mind and pluck it from your thoughts.' Quaint's eyelids flickered as he mouthed an incantation of some sort. He flicked his eyes open and stared accusingly at the row of playing cards. 'Something's not quite right.' He licked his thumb and began counting out the cards onto the workbench, one at a time. Alexandria, meanwhile, had lost much of her interest in the impromptu display, and began picking at her fingernails. 'Just as I thought. I'm a card down!' he snapped, huffily stowing the cards back into his trouser pocket. 'It's not supposed to do that!'

'That is comforting to know,' Alexandria said, hiding her smile behind a swathe of dark hair.

'Ha-ha,' said Quaint without one ounce of humour.