Teri Brown: Born of Deception

I lower my eyes for a moment and then nod. I get the feeling that this man values honesty and transparency above all else. “My mother and I were involved in activities that were less than legitimate. Caution was always valued.”

He nods. “I grew up on the streets of Bombay. My parents left me at the door of an orphanage when I was three. I hated it there and ran away. It was so overcrowded no one bothered to look. I stole for my supper, so being mistrustful was a way of life.”

He relates these facts in the calmest voice imaginable, and my heart goes out to him. “You seem very forthright now,” I tell him.

He gives me a slight smile. “Because I know you are someone I can trust,” he says simply. “Mr. Gamel is teaching me how to control my abilities.”

We pull up and park in front of a brick building before I can ask him what those abilities are.

Pratik opens the door to the motorcar and climbs out.

“It was very nice to meet you, Anna. I will see you at the Society.” He bows his head and, after a little wave, disappears into the building.

“He seems very sad,” I murmur, watching him go.

“He is, but he’s getting better. Mr. Gamel found him in an asylum in Bombay. Can you imagine having your abilities and being completely alone?”

I turn back to Cole, whose dark eyes are pensive. My mother couldn’t nurture a houseplant, but at least she didn’t abandon me at an orphanage. “What are his abilities?”

Cole shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain. He can see the essence or spirit of different people. That’s about as close as I can come to understanding it. But not everyone’s and not all the time. He says they’re like colored smoke or fog around people’s heads. The different colors of smoke mean different things.”

I frown. “And I thought my abilities were odd.”

Cole laughs. “Enough about Pratik. Come here.” His arm snakes around me and pulls me close. “I have been waiting for this since the moment I saw you,” he whispers. Then his mouth comes down on mine and I can hardly think or breathe because my heart is so very full of Cole. As the kiss deepens and my lips part, our psychic connection is so open and clear, it’s as if we are sharing the same soul. It’s like melting into ribbons of chocolate—decadent, lovely, and infinitely sweet. He breaks away and chuckles. “I cannot believe how much I missed you.”

I sit back and smile as he pulls away from the curb. I forgive him for bringing someone to our reunion and for not kissing me the moment he saw me. And as I remember how very far I’ve come from cheating people out of money at my mother’s command and worrying about where our next meal was going to come from, I feel as if I’m about to burst. I’m in London with Cole and will soon be performing my magic onstage.

It is an absolutely perfect moment.

And the perfect moments continue. After settling me in the shabby hotel that will be my home while in the city, Cole and I spend the rest of the afternoon driving around London so I can get acclimated. I gape out my window as we pass iconic sights such as Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and Big Ben.

“Aren’t we going to stop anywhere?” I ask, my nose pressed to the glass.

“Too many tourists,” Cole sniffs.

I slap him playfully on the arm. “I am a tourist!”

“Another time. I want to show you something special.” He grins at me.

The streets are packed with both people and motorcars, and it’s odd to see Cole driving so confidently through the chaos. Though he’s always been self-assured, there had been something tentative about the way he approached New York and you never forgot he was living in a foreign city. Here in London, a city that feels so alien to me, he’s more comfortable than I’ve ever seen him. He’s at home and I’m the stranger.

The thought unsettles me and I fall silent until Cole parks on a small cobbled street that seems as remote from big city London as a medieval village. “Where are we?” I ask as he opens my door.

“Wanstead. It’s still in London, but on the River Roding. We’re on Nightingale Lane, to be precise.”

That tells me little, but I love the name. “Nightingale Lane,” I murmur, relishing the sound. Would New York have a little street tucked away that looks as if it were straight out of Shakespeare? I wouldn’t think so. The thin winter sun is lowering on the horizon, casting a chilly, enchanted air over the gables and leaded windows predominant in this ancient neighborhood. I follow Cole across uneven cobblestones into a building on the corner. A wooden sign hanging over the door reads Mob’s Hole in fancy script .

I suck in a delighted breath as my eyes adjust to the dim interior. We’re in a large and spacious pub with heavy wooden tables and low, dark timbers on the ceiling. An enormous stone fireplace in one corner looks as if it were made for large cast-iron pots of simmering stew, while I imagine the long bar against the opposite wall has seen thousands of pints slide across its age-polished top. The gleaming wood stairs to the left of the front door even have dips in the middle of each tread from the countless steps of countless weary travelers. The scents of age, grease, and burning wood lie as heavy in the room as the smoke curling off the pipes of the old men playing chess in the corner.

“It’s not much,” Cole says as we take a seat near the crackling fire, “but they have the best chips in London.”

I detect the concern in his voice. “It’s wonderful,” I assure him.

He gives me a relieved smile. “I love this place. I was worried that maybe you would have rather gone to some fancy club to dance or something.”

I shake my head. “This is perfect. I’d rather you showed me places that are important to you.”

Cole looks down, tracing a knot on the table with his fingers. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I planned to bring you here, but when I saw you standing on the dock, looking so lovely and American modern, I started doubting myself.”

Tenderness fills my heart. Why had I been so worried? Cole’s reserve is how he masks his painful shyness around most women. Only with me does he let down his guard. I reach out and touch his fingers.

He looks up and his sudden smile softens the dignified planes of his face. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he says softly before the waitress reaches our table.

He says it again before kissing me good night outside my hotel. I nod in assent, but as I make my way up to my room I realize that happy doesn’t even come close to describing how I feel.

Blissful. I feel blissful.

The next morning, I walk into the dilapidated theater that will be the troupe’s home base for the next several months. It’s small and, if the number of days it’s available for rehearsal is any indication, only marginally successful, which makes it perfect for our needs. We can store our props here even when we’re not using it.

The floors of the theater are its original wood and have long lost their luster. They squeak as I tiptoe down the aisle and sit on one of the stained brown seats. A dozen or so people are gathered in knots in front of the stage, no doubt introducing themselves, though if the level of camaraderie is any indication, many of them already know one another.

I feel awkward joining them—most of them are older and have more experience than I do. I’d received a list of participating acts when I signed my contract, and I study the people before me, wondering who is in which act. Some of them are easy. . . . I’ve seen pictures of Jeanne Hart, the redheaded songstress. She’s our headliner and well regarded worldwide. I guess that the three men with similar features are the Woodruff brothers, who are both classical musicians and blackface performers. I’m not sure who the rest are, but I know I’ll have them sorted out before too long. We’ll be spending a lot of time together the next couple of months. I’m so engrossed in watching the others that I don’t notice that someone is next to me until he sits down. I startle and look up into the familiar deep cerulean blue of the most amazing eyes I have ever seen. It’s the man from the ship.