Disclaimer: Tom and the world of Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling. Cora and the Majestic belong to me. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringement is intended.

The Illusionist's Daughter

Chapter Five

Secrets and Scars

York, August 1939

Cora winced as he drew the blade across her hand yet again. This was the fifth time. And indeed, there were four thin pink scars beside this new wound welling a bright red. She fought back a whimper and felt tears stinging her eyes.

"Again," he ordered absently, wiping the blade on a rust-stained cloth. "Faster, this time."

She focused all her concentration on the searing pain, gritted her teeth and pushed. The raw edges of the cut tingled. Slowly the skin began to knit itself back together until only an angry red line remained. The red faded to a pink identical to the parallell scars. She huffed a sigh of relief. It was getting easier.

Her father drew her palm forward to inspect it. "Good," he approved. Their new act was going well. Too well and the crowds hungered for more. The Baron was pleased, but never satisfied. The envelope always needed a push. Success was to her litterally a double edged sword.

Merely practicing her magic was no longer adequate. She needed to master it. And to master it, her father had assured her, she must not hold back. There must be no fear left. No fear of failure. No fear of pain. So he had devised a new method to hone her skills. She couldn't pretend to enjoy their lessons together, but she couldn't deny that she was surpassing even what she thought was possible.

He took the blade to her outstretched palm again. The railyards had been littered with the carcasses of dead and dying circuses, sideshows and carnivals. The Majestic was one of the few traveling shows holding on through a depression that stretched its emaciated fingers deeper and deeper with each passing year. No one had denied the fact that Barconi the Magnificent and his apprentice's act had saved them from being sold off like scrap as so many circuses had.

But to keep the tattered, worn circus together, Cora had to wow an ever more jaded crowd. Depression and now war on the horizon. Hitler and the new nationalism that was sweeping Europe was all anyone could talk about. There seemed precious little time for frivolities as visits to the circus. Cora didn't understand any of it, but she did understand that a hushed nervousness hummed around the tents and train cars with each new broadcast on the radio. Each morning quiet groups huddled around the paper, staring at headlines she could not make out. She had asked her father a few days ago what the fuss was about but he had brushed her off. There were more important things she should be focused on. Like putting food in their bellies.

The cold sting of the blade made her jump and earned her a scolding look from him. She closed her eyes and pushed harder than ever. They were working on a daring new feat, a sure bet that was going to knock the audience's socks off. She had worn out her staples: turning old, dead flowers into pretty, ever-changing bouquets; moving objects and levitating them; turning one thing into something else. But one essential illusion still eluded her. She could not make an object disappear. And she didn't merely want to make any old thing disappear...she wanted to make herself disappear!

Her hand healed once more, and this in record time, she presented her palm once more to her father for inspection. He frowned and regarded her coldly. "Other hand," he pronounced. Her shoulders fell and reluctantly she held up the yet unblemished palm of her other hand. She braced herself for the first cut. It would be more sensitive and hurt more, she knew. The skin of the other hand had become callous and conditioned to the pain. She couldn't help but cry out as he sliced the unmarredd flesh. She thought she saw him smile a little.

She deserved these new, more brutal, lessons, she supposed. The Baron had flipped the script of their act after that night. The night with the bird and the boy. That night had been terrifying. There were rumors flying amongst the performers that more cuts would be made that night. And for months now she understood that cutting an act cost the unfortunate soul more than their job. The Baron, or more acurately his lackey, Marco, would deliver the bad news with a knife to the throat and leave the unlucky one on the garbage heep as they left town. Authorities assumed what they wanted, whatever involved less paperwork. And the act was never missed.

That night Frank had been so drunk he could barely hold himself upright. He forgot half of the props in their car. When he reached for the toy rabbit hidden in his hat, there was nothing. He was too blottered to recover the act, so she had done what she thought she had to do to save him. She took over and had revealed the truth behind their act. She was the talent and he was the fraud. Frank had never forgiven her.

The Baron was so enraptured with this discovery, her true talents, that he grudgingly forgave Frank and rewrote their act. She was to be the precocious and gifted student, he the bumbling idiot of a teacher. And now the Baron was never satissfied. Knowing what he knew of her talents, he expected more. She dutifully closed the wound on her hand and presented it to her father. He glanced at it and sliced again. She watched his face as he turned away from her. However much he despised her now, though, she shuddered to imagine the alternative.

That night as she prepared for bed, braiding her long hair in the meager glow of a candle stub, her fingers aching from the lessons, she heard a curious tapping. Frank had left for the pub after he had had enough practice and she had not seen him at dinner. She wreched open the heavy door to their boxcar, preparing to help her stumblig father to his cot. What awaited her, however was a curious sight. A rumpled feathery creature shot into the small room and landed in a heap on the bed, bouncing and shaking in irritation. In its beak was clasped a thick envelope. She clapped her hands and took the envelope.

"I didn't know they were training owls!" she said with glee. "Well done, you," she praised the owl, which pecked at her finger obstinately with a sharp beak. It turned once and then raised its wings and sailed off into the night. She watched it go, smile still in place. Wondering how they were going to fit owls into the show, she turned her attention to the thick envelope and studied it.

Curious writing looped on the front. She turned it over and saw that it was sealed with a fat seal of deep blue wax. A funny crest was pressed into the glob of wax, a crest divided into four sections. She squinted in the dim light. A badger or weasle, she could make out, along with a snake. There were other images she could not quite make out. A lion, maybe and some sort of bird. She pressed her lips together. Looking once more at the flowing script she shrugged her shoulders and placed the envelope on her father's pillow. It must be for him. Why ever would she recieve a letter? Everyone she knew was just a few steps and a shout away!

Anyway, she thought as she climbed into her nest of blankets, if it was for her she would have to wait for her father to read it to her. She had never learned to read.

She woke early, her palms itching. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she was startled to find her father staring at her from his cot. He was seated, wearing the same clothes he had gone out in the night before. For all appearances, it looked like he had just come in.

He held up the letter for her to see. She smiled brightly. So he found it. Good! She was afraid he would come home drunk as a skunk and drool on it all night.

"Where did this come from?" he asked quietly. His stare was so intense, she became alarmed.

Swallowing hard, she answered truthfully, but it sounded stupid even to her. "An owl brought it last night."

"An owl?" he frowned. He turned the paper over in his hands again and again. "And you didn't read it?"

She shook her head. "I can't read."

He looked surprised, but his shoulders were not so tight. She relaxed. Anger and confusion melted away and he adopted a bouyant air. "It seems they're trying out birds! Can you imagine?" He laughed woodenly.

She laughed too. "I think it would be fun!" she bounced in her blankets. "I love birds!"

He folded the letter and tucked it securely in his coat. "They're training 'em by teaching 'em carry letters." He looked at her fully. "If any more owls arrive with letters, will you give them to me immediately?" Smoothing out the remnants of aggitation, he added, "I have to let Peter know if they deliver them or not. You know, for the training."

She nodded enthusiastically. "Sure!" Bouncing to her feet, she stood up. "Can I go and help Peter train them?"

"No!" he shouted suddenly, startling the both of them. "No," he added again more gently. "I think it's best if we don't mention this to anyone! If things didn't go well, I'd hate to think of what the Baron will do." He winked at her chummily. "Our secret?"

She was nearly as excited to be in collusion with her father as she was at the prospect of training the birds. "Of course," she agreed, returning his wink. "I won't tell a soul."

More owls arrived over the golden stretch of August. Sometimes even two or three a day. She dutifully tucked the letters away in the pocket of her overalls and handed them over to her father as instructed. Then as August rolled into September, the letters stopped, just like that.

The letters stopped on the very same day the BBC anouncer spoke over the crackle of static and emotion. "Germany has invaded Poland this very day. War is declared!"

London, July 1943

Tom leaned against a wooden pole covered in bills advertising this and that, faded and worn by sun and rain. The night air was steamy and thick and in the distance he heard the roll of thunder. He was exiled here each summer. The thunder remined him of the bombing. Just a couple of years ago, Tom had prayed that the orphanage would be hin. Then perhaps they would let him stay at school for the summer holiday. His time would be better spent learning, planning, preparing. But, he reminded himself, we can't always have what we want. Not yet anyway.

But here he was, wasting his time under this glaring lamp, waiting in a grimy train yard just outside of the city. Waiting outside the dingy canvass decked out in red and white. Waiting for her. He kicked at a rock with his worn brown shoes. He'd almost choked at dinner last night when he heard two of the little ones chattering on about some circus. It hadn't taken him long to find her. Though it seemed miraculous enough for him. Such a relief it had been to see her again, like finding a precious treasure one thought was gone for good. Funny, he hadn't thought he'd been searching. He only now realized he'd never really given up finding her.

She'd stolen his breath when she'd walked out into the center ring, no longer the shy thing he'd remembered. Now she was dazzling, decked out in sparkles and feathers, a star act. And there was a quiet confidence about her. Where an usure and awkward little girl had stood was a beautiful and glamorous young lady! He sat a little taller.

The air was hot and still under the big top. The sweat prickled along his hairline and stuck to his plain white shirt where his suspenders pressed the cotton against his skin. The temperature ratcheted up a few degrees as he watched her. He felt such a longing, a tightness in his chest. He felt ill. Never in his life had he experienced anything like it. And he was not pleased with himself. She was just a girl.

He watched her act, his eyes never leaving her. A war raged within him-he begged for her to look his way and prayed at the same time that she wouldn't see him. He couldn't weigh which would be worse, her indifference or her scrutiny. He was ashamed that he hadn't thought to wear his nicer trousers or comb his hair as neatly as usual.

Bending low, she scooped up a handful of sawdust from the ground and turned. She raised her eyes and leveled her gaze directly at him! Her beaming smile faltered a moment before righting itself, but she did not look away. She threw the handful of sawdust into the air and the crowd gasped as the dry dust turned into swirling and sparkling snowflakes dancing on some unseen wind. The temperature plummeted and the audience was relieved from the sweltering blanket for a few blissful moments. He held out his hand and caught a perfect crystal flake in his palm. It was extraordinary magic! And she required no wand from what he could tell. He needed to know how she did it!

Before the act concluded he was on his feet and searching out her quarters. He scrawled a quick note and left it for her. And he waited. Leaning against this pole, he had been at first hopeful. Now he was losing that cool confidence he'd become known for. That had served him so well. She was not coming. Accepting defeat, at least for tonight, he shoved off of the rough wood and shuffled off down the dusty path. He was already formulating a plan.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he ambled down the road in no particular hurry. The distant rumble had quieted a little. Fat drops of rain began smacking the ground, his shoulders, his nose. He didn't pay much attention. His mind was still too full of her. Would she give up her secrets willingly, for a smile, maybe? Maybe it would take a little more persuasion. He rather liked the prospect. Where was the fun in an easy victory? He whistled lightly as he left the raucous circus noise of the circus behind and ambled off in the rain toward the city.