Teri Brown: Born of Deception

Acircle of children surround me, their bright faces turned upward, as if eagerly awaiting the cascading lights of a fireworks show. They’re not, of course. The stuffy, proper salon of the Rex would never allow something as gaudy as fireworks to invade its gilded interior. The impromptu magic show I’m performing is probably as garish a display as the ship has ever seen.

“What’s up your sleeve today, miss?” The little boy’s British accent reminds me of Cole, and I smile.

I’d been heading to the upper deck to catch my first glimpse of England when I was waylaid by a mob of beribboned, curly-headed girls and freckle-faced little boys in short pants. It had begun the first day aboard ship, when I’d shown a sobbing child a simple magic trick to help her harried mother. From that moment on, I’d been like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, followed by children wherever I went. They seemed to communicate by some unseen network of signals because they would appear out of nowhere, demanding tricks. I didn’t mind. Performing simple tricks for children is a joy.

The parents adore me only marginally less than their children for keeping their tots so occupied.

“Do another!” demands a little dumpling of a girl, as imperious as Marie Antoinette.

I hesitate, wanting nothing more than to reach the deck of the ship so I can look out toward the land where Cole will be waiting. Racking my brain for something that will appease them, I feel around in the pocket of my winter coat until I locate a rubber hair band. I widen my eyes at them theatrically. “Would you like to see a hair band jump?”

The children clamor their assent and I kneel to their level while their parents look on indulgently.

“Watch carefully,” I instruct.

I slide the band around the base of my pinky and ring fingers. With my other hand, I insert the tips of my pinky, ring, index, and middle fingers into it as well, until all four fingers on the first hand are resting inside . . . from the children’s vantage point it looks exactly the same. When I straighten my fingers, the band appears to jump from the last two fingers to the first two.

They clap, delighted, and my heart warms as I perform the trick several more times. I show them how it’s done and bid them to go practice so they can amaze their friends back home. The children disperse as they run to their parents, begging for hair bands, and I slip away, pleased by the success of my diversionary tactics.

Once on deck, a shiver runs through me, as much from anticipation as from the cold. For the last six days, I’ve been stuck aboard this aging though still beautiful ocean liner, battling an onslaught of emotions as bright and varied as circus juggling pins. The steady rumble and throb of the ship’s steam engines is louder on deck and the sound of the crew working behind me adds to my exhilaration.

The RMS Rex had once been considered equaled in beauty only by the Titanic , whose sinking I’d foreseen in a vision, days before it actually happened . . . not a memory that makes for particularly restful nights aboard ship. And exhaustion hasn’t helped the nerves that have plagued me for the past week.

Brimming with exhilaration and anxiety, I bounce from foot to foot as I spot the bleak British shoreline. It’s been two months since Cole and I have seen one another. Two months since I’ve felt the physical connection that draws us to each other whenever we’re in close proximity.

And two months since I’d felt the telepathic link that we have together as fellow psychics, or Sensitives, as he calls us.

We’d exchanged letters, of course, sometimes two a week, and I imagined them passing one another, quite literally, as two ships that pass in the night. But it’s hard to keep a strong bond that way and at times it felt as if our connection had grown as thin as the paper we wrote on. Cole has a difficult enough time expressing his feelings in person, let alone writing them down. There were times his rather stilted language made me feel as if I were his favorite sister instead of the girl he loved and had kissed breathless on more than one occasion. I need to look into his dark eyes and fall into their velvety warmth. I need to feel the psychic link that makes Cole different from anyone else.

The cold January wind gusts off the ocean and I’m coated with a fine spray of icy salt water. Only a few passengers have braved the frigid weather to look for the the entrance to the River Thames. Maybe like me, they’re novices at luxurious ocean travel and don’t want to miss a single experience. This isn’t my first crossing, but considering the fact that the last time I was traveling in my mother’s womb, everything is new to me.

I draw a deep breath of the frigid, salty air into my lungs, shoring up my resolve. Cole isn’t the only thing waiting for me in England. I’m starting a whole new life, one away from my mother and her husband, Jacques. A life where I’ll be performing my magic onstage in some of the most famous theaters in Europe. I pray that my new boss, Louie Larkin, a man famous for having a nose for talent, will like me.

A young man joins me at the rail. I give him a curious glance, my attention caught by the trilby hat set at a jaunty angle on his head. He turns and my breath catches. I’m only a few feet away from the most handsome man I have ever seen. He looks to be in his early twenties, with eyes so blue they could make the sky jealous. The slow smile he bestows on me lights up his face.

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” he says in a western drawl as leisurely as his smile.

My mouth shuts with a snap and I nod, unable to speak. Then I nearly jump out of my skin as the ship’s horn blows a one-hour warning until landing. His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Excuse me,” I mumble, and flee, the iciness of my cheeks melting from the heat of humiliation.

When will I stop being so awkward around handsome young men? I wonder as I hurry to my cabin. My first meeting with Cole had been equally uncomfortable, only worse because I had never encountered another Sensitive before. The invisible charge that occurred when we shook hands was alarming, to say the least. Of course, as someone who’d mostly been raised on vaudeville circuits, boys as handsome as Cole and the stranger on deck are a rarity for me. Growing up, most of the men I knew well were considered circus freaks or oddities by normal folks. No wonder I’m so clumsy.

I finish packing my things and the porters soon come by to take my luggage. I fret as they wheel away the gleaming wooden trunk with the curved top that nearly reaches my waist. It’s the one I keep my magic props in and a million times more important than the one containing my clothes. I’m sure I could find decent props in London, but it would take too much time and I already have much to do before formal rehearsals start. Deep in the ship’s belly, the levitation table and the iron maiden that Mr. Darby, my dear old neighbor, had made just for me will be taken directly to the theater.

I pull my cloche further down on my head and wrap a scarf around my neck. I hate meeting Cole looking like an Eskimo, but better an Eskimo than an ice block. I gather up my beaded handbag and a small satchel, and then, taking a deep breath, follow the rest of the passengers to the lower deck where we’ll be disembarking.

I tiptoe and squint, trying to spot Cole in the crowd of wildly waving people below the ship, but all I can see are a sea of black bowlers dotted by the occasional bright cloche. Even though I don’t see him, my heart speeds up, knowing he’s there. I had paid extra attention to my appearance that morning, using more than my usual amount of face powder, rouge, and kohl. I bite my lip and wonder if he will greet me with a kiss or if he’ll retreat into reserved shyness as he often does when his emotions get the better of him.