Carrie Vaughn - Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand

“How do you keep people from writing you off as a nostalgia act?”

“That’s just it. Many so-called magicians these days use so many special effects, pyrotechnics, and stagecraft, or they appear more on television than not. The audience is so dazzled and distracted, they start to think of it all as special effects. Many of the people who come to see my show have never seen the classic tricks in person. Those are the people who wonder how I do it, without all the stunning effects.”

“Sleight of hand, sleight of mind?”

“Something like that. So much of this is in the mind. Optical illusion and tricks of perception.”

“Then leaving aside the question of whether or not you work real magic in your show—do you believe in real magic?”

He folded his pack of cards in a silk handkerchief and tucked the bundle in the pocket of his trousers. “What kind?”

“What kinds are there?”

“A couple. There’s wild magic, anything you might observe that seems to break the laws of physics. Things disappearing and reappearing. Sawing something in half and restoring it. Then there’s magic that requires ritual: ceremony, spells, the right tools, the right chants. For example, let’s say Jesus Christ turning water into wine is wild magic, and the Catholic miracle of transubstantiation—turning bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ—is ritual magic because it requires the Mass. Assuming you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Do you?”

“Do I believe there are things in the world that can’t be explained? Yes. My examples were perhaps a bit... simplistic. Don’t touch that—”

My wandering had brought me to the upright box, into which he’d made the nice woman disappear last night. I’d been about to touch it, to run my finger along the edge, just to feel the age of it, lured the way any old and beautiful object draws attention.

Grant’s cool poise never slipped, but he did take a step toward me. If I didn’t back off, he’d no doubt make me. “Please, that box is over a hundred years old. It’s quite fragile.”

“But you let perfect strangers climb inside every day?”

“Under controlled conditions.”

I stepped away and tucked my hands behind my back to avoid temptation. “Sorry.”

“You talk about all this on your show, don’t you?” he said and went back to rearranging the props on his table. “Magic. Whether it exists.”

“Oh, I talk about all kinds of things. Magic, weirdness, the supernatural. Stuff that’s easy to dismiss, until you end up in the middle of it. Then it helps to learn as much as you can. That’s why I do my show.”

“You believe, then?”

“Oh, yeah. I sort of have to, given what I am.”

“That’s right. The lycanthropy.”

I said, “That doesn’t mean there aren’t fakes in the world. That’s why I try to ask a lot of questions.”

“That’s usually wise.”

“Why no assistants?” I said. “If you wanted to be really classic you’d saw a woman in half, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s always struck me as being a bit Freudian.”

“You don’t like pretty girls dressed up in spangles?”

“I work alone. Now, Ms. Norville, do you have enough material for your show?”

End of interview, I guessed. “There’s never enough. But I’ve got a couple more leads. I’m trying to get a hold of someone over at the Hanging Gardens —”

“Balthasar,” he said. He stopped straightening another deck of cards and looked at me. “May I offer some advice? Avoid him. You don’t want to get involved there.”

Ooh, intrigue. “Why not? What’s going on?” Was my theory close? Was Balthasar enslaving lycanthropes?

“It’s complicated. But you really don’t want him knowing about you.”

Or maybe the two of them had some kind of magic-show rivalry? Without specifics, I didn’t feel inclined to take Grant’s advice. It only made the prospect of talking to Balthasar more interesting.

“Thanks for the advice,” I said.

I offered my hand, and he shook it. I wasn’t sure he would.

“And one more thing, Ms. Norville. The next time you think sneaking around backstage is a good idea—you might reconsider.” He turned back to his props without a second glance in my direction.

My smile froze, and once again I reflected on the nature of paranoia. I slipped out of the theater as quickly as I could.

My parents were flying in this afternoon. Ben and I were supposed to meet them for dinner at the Olympus. I rushed, worried that I was keeping them waiting. And I still hadn’t had a minute to sit by the pool with my froufrou drink. Tomorrow, before the wedding.

God, the wedding was tomorrow? I suddenly felt like I had compressed about three weeks’ worth of activities into the last two days. But if I could make it to tomorrow, I’d finally be able to relax. Ben and me both.

I shouldn’t have worried about keeping my parents waiting. When I arrived at the restaurant—after once again glancing around for glimpses of Sylvia and Boris—they were already seated, munching on appetizers. Ben was nowhere in sight. I took a moment to call him, but his phone rolled over to voice mail. I tried not to be annoyed.

I was kind of weird in that I liked my parents. Of course, the fact that I wasn’t living with them anymore might have made getting along with them a lot easier. I couldn’t help but admire them, at least a little. They’d been married thirty-five years and still held hands in public. I could only hope to be so lucky.

I slipped into one of the empty seats in the booth across from them. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

Gail Norville, my mother, beamed. “That’s all right, we went ahead and ordered something and were having a very nice chat. I hadn’t realized how much I was looking forward to this trip. I’m so glad Dr. Patel said I could come.”

Mom wore a wig. If you didn’t know you couldn’t tell, because it was the same ash-colored graying blond as her own hair, and well done. Mom was like that—tasteful and very put together, and she wasn’t going to let a little thing like cancer disturb the order of her universe. She wore a soft blue blouse and skirt and comfortable-looking sandals. Trading her usual pumps and heels for the walking sandals was the only other concession to her illness.

Right at the moment, though, she didn’t look sick. Her cheeks had color, and she was smiling at my father, Jim Norville, a tall, athletic man in late middle age. He wore a polo shirt and slacks and was beaming just as hard back at my mother.

“We came here for a weekend right after we were married. It was kind of a joke—we didn’t want to wait twenty years for a second honeymoon. We were just remembering.”

After all this time I was still learning things about my parents. Mostly things I didn’t want to know. “I feel like I’m interrupting,” I said. “You want me to go?”

She gave me her “don’t be silly” look. “The town has changed so much since then,” Mom continued. “This was before all the big theme hotels went up. It’s like a big amusement park now.”

“Where’s Ben?” my father said, glancing around like my fiancé was hiding and not like it wasn’t perfectly obvious that I’d arrived alone.

Off gambling like a two-bit hustler. “He should be here any minute,” I said instead.

“Oh, when your father and I came here we were attached at the hip. You couldn’t pry us apart for a second.” There they went, making puppy eyes at each other again.

“Well, you weren’t trying to put on a TV show at the same time,” I muttered.

“That’s true, and I’m sure the show is going to be just great. I can’t wait to see it. And how are the plans for the wedding coming together?”