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The Illusionist's Daughter
Prologue
London, September 1938
The circus had come to town. The red-and-white tent sprawled across the dingy train yard just beyond London's east end slums like a sad beast, flags whipping along the spine in the autumn bluster. From the size it was evident this had once been a grand spectacle. Now it wore a down-at-the-heels weariness like the rest of the world. Depression, impending war. Life.
Act after act of tired performers marched before his scrutinizing gaze. Zombie-like, just going through the motions, smiles painted across their faces, pretending joy, laughter. He watched their eyes, emotion unguarded there. Desperation, boredom, envy, resignation. Or nothingness.
Until.
A faint smile curled the side of his tightly pressed lips. His dark eyes sparkled with glee as the juggler missed and grabbed the knife by the blade instead of the handle. The blank stare faltered, the smile slipped. Then pain. Blood. The boy smiled fully.
The acrobats: a slip here, a tumble there. Tightrope walker: a near blunder. Near disaster. Not enough to harm, just to startle and shake things up a bit. They were like puppets in his very own show. Now this was a circus!
He glanced around him. The gasps and applause. It seemed everyone else was enjoying his circus as well. Everyone, that is, except the performers. And their boss. What fun!
The hulking ringleader stepped into the ring, scowling, as the juggler hurried off cradling his bleeding hand. The next act was announced. Magic. "Show time," thought the boy with unreserved malice. A man, thin and tall, dressed in a dark suit and evening cape took a low bow in the center ring, sweeping a top hat theatrically before him. He stumbled ever so slightly. A slight little waif of a girl appeared from behind him and steadied him by the elbow. The magician looked down at her with annoyance clear upon his once-handsome, now gin-soaked, features. But when he looked up to the crowd, his face was all charm.
The man spoke, but the boy was no longer paying any attention. The girl. There was something...electric. He could feel it vibrating the air in the tent, prickling along the back of his neck. And he felt something tug. She was compelling to watch, even as she stood silently by, not moving. He found himself willing her to look up, to meet his eyes. But she would not obey, her gaze unflinchingly locked on the dusty ground.
A buzzing made him aware of the crowd and the silly illusionist pantomiming magic. It seemed the crowd was booing! He frowned. The man was blundering all on his own. Shaking his top hat upside down, it seemed what he had intended to reveal had instead vanished. He peered myopically into the black void of silk, then gave a vacant smile and shrug. The ringmaster's face turned as red as his coat. Someone threw a bag of popcorn.
The girl looked up and took one sure step forward. The crowd hushed as she picked up the greasy paper bag. Curiously, she began to fold it with nimble fingers. The boy frowned. What on earth was she doing? In a moment she had wrought a tiny origami crane and held it up on her pale palm.
Snap! Something like a jolt racked his lanky frame. He imagined it would feel similar to be struck by lightning. Blinking back stars, he shook his head to clear the buzzing. And then he could only stare. Jaw hanging open in pure and utter disbelief.
The paper crane that roosted upon her little hand flapped its wings and took flight, transforming itself into a delicate and beautiful bird. It wheeled and soared higher and higher, looping through the trapeez rigging and swooping low again over the crown. Cries of glee and wonder errupted like fireworks. Shouts and whoops of laughter rang in his ears, but he sat silently watching. Her eyes tracked the elegant bird with a quiet, serene smile. Finally the avian wonder dipped low and settled gracefully on her outstretched palm, once more a paper creation. The little girl folded the paper primly and tucked it into a pocket of her plain black frock. She looked up and locked eyes with the boy. His breath was stolen by pure wonder...and fear.
As the crowd jostled its way into the evening air, he searched. His eyes darted over the curly heads and bows and sailor hats of the other children. There, some dark hair and a pale face. But not the right girl. Another and another, but none who gave him that unmistakeable feeling. He could feel pure magic, like one could feel electricity when sticking a finger in a socket. But until today, he had only felt that feeling when he himself had done little tricks and enchantments. She, however, made him dizzy with the power of it.
And he couldn't feel it anymore. The disappointment was bitter. He scuffed his hand-me-down brown boot in the dust and kicked a rose some peddler must have dropped or some sweetheart had callously discarded. He picked up the wilted bloom, a rose that was turning from the deepest red to a decaying black at the petal's edges. As he gazed at the flower, it quivered a little as he concentrated. The blackness slowly seeped out of the petals altogether, replaced by a red the rich color of fresh blood.
He forced his gaze away as his vision wavered slightly. Dizziness. Curious, he thought. Weakness was not something he allowed himself. Ever. And then he turned. She was standing there.
They stood there for a moment, staring. Holding up the rose, he offered it to her. A whisper of a smile played at her lips. He felt a strangeness he had never felt before. He was surprised by how much pleasure it gave him when she took the rare flower with one small hand, gloved in simple white cotton. A drop of scarlet slid from one petal onto the snow of her perfect finger. She tilted her head slightly and studied the dark stain. Her other hand, tucked away in the pocket of her dress, emerged with a red and white striped object. Thin and smooth. He recognized it immediately. He reached for what she offered. She set the tiny crane in his palm. He studied its perfect lines. It was magnificent. He formed the words to say so.
When he looked up once more, she had disappeared.
