Most illusionists were relegated to music halls, playing for servants on their free days. The crowd would strain to see through the smoke that filled the halls, watching the magician's hands twist and move as he flipped through cards, summoned thin, projector-made spirits and pulled birds from his sleeves, setting them loose into the city in a ruffle of bent feathers and straining wings.
This was not the case for Stefan Kralefsky, or the Great Kralefsky, as people liked to call him. The Dream-Summoner, the Spirit-Builder, The Miracle-Caller, as well. The Church had led investigations against him twice but had never found anything to suggest Kralefsky's work was anything more than colored light and trapdoors, projected images and clockwork.
"I cannot do magic," he insisted, "True magic is not bright and spinning, it had no puffs of smoke. It cannot be shown on a stage. I will leave true magic to the witches. I am only a man and I deal in illusion."
All the same, he left his audiences astounded, buzzing with chatter, their minds whirring as they tried to figure him out. He refused to ever explain a trick, a custom that would have been familiar to any music hall patron but left high society frustrated and perplexed.
When he came to London, everyone who dared to think of themselves as important attended his performance and few forgot it.
The Royal Theater was a maze of lounges, boxes and lobbies, coated in plush, scarlet carpet, thick enough to make some clutch the wall for balance, hoping nobody saw them doing so. Throngs were pushing round, anxious to get to their seats. A buzz of talk filled the room. Reporters poised their pens over blank sheets of paper, each wanting to write the first story, the best story.
The best seat by far was an overhanging box, above the crowd but below the balcony, seating ten or twelve, with two twisting staircases coming down from either side of it. This box did not belong to anyone in particular. It was a box for visiting Indian mahjarahs, for the highest of lords, for prominent explorers, for the King's party, even occasionally for the King himself.
Marisa sat in the center seat, her diamonds pricking her skin. She kept her eyes forward but the monkey stole glances at the people around her, waiting for the box to fill, waiting for someone else to come. They both knew who to expect.
Edward placed a hand on her arm in a show of ownership, continuing to talk to the men around them. Marisa itched to add her part to the conversation, but remained quiet. She stared at the stage, marveling at its spareness. On most nights, the Royal boasted lavish sets. Tonight, the curtain had already been drawn and the stage was bare but for two wooden chairs, a table and a large mirror.
Minutes passed in a blur of chatter before the lights in the house began to fade and the stage lights brightened. Marisa heard heavy footfalls, paws, and someone slipping into the seat beside her. She smiled, satisfied.
She knew who it was.
Even as the lights went up, the stage remained empty. Minutes went by and the talk which had died down began again, the journalists scribbling wildly, their faces lit up.
It was a moment before the audience noticed the hands. Two gloved hands, unattached to a body, working in animated gestures, placing objects on the table. Then there was a pair of brilliant red wings, fluttering round the hands, helping them.
The audience nudged each other, looking forward at last.
It was arms next, covered in black tuxedo sleeves and there were a pair of thorny black legs accompanying the wings. So it went on, body, legs, neck appearing until man and daemon were almost entirely on stage, missing only their heads.
The audience let out a collective gasp, marveling at the trick while trying to mask their horror.
The man's head appeared, pale, bearded, and gaunt, along with his daemon's, a firebird. They bowed in unison.
"Stefan Kralefsky," he announced, in a deep, accented voice, putting his hand up to stop the applause.
"Not yet," he smiled, showing gleaming teeth, "Soon you will see something worth applauding for."
"Fantastic, isn't he?" marveled Edward, continuing to clap despite Kralefsky's protest. Gabriele, however, was keeping her wide eyes on the monkey, snaring her claws into his fur. She darted frequent glances at Stelmaria as well, who was watching the monkey with curious eyes.
The monkey wrenched himself out of Gabriele's grip and moved towards Stelmaria, returning her gaze.
"No," Marisa hissed.
It was too late. Edward had a wounded expression on his face before seeming to remember himself and turning his face back to the stage.
Asriel continued to stare at Marisa, his expression unchanged, full of fire. She glared at him and turned back to the performance, the monkey mimicking her.
"Now, for something more impressive," Kralefsky went on, the firebird flying in circles round his head, excited.
He held his hand out flat in front of him and began pulling at his fingers, extracting something translucent and silvery from their tips. The substance began taking the shape of fingers, long and tapered, and as Kralefsky continued to pull, hands became visible. After a moment, stopped moving but the hands did not, becoming long, slim arms. This person took the shape of a lady, pale-eyed and ethereal, a dove daemon perched on her shoulder.
Kralefsky put his hands on front of him, moving them forward and back, the firebird pushing his wings in a similar motion. The lady, marionette-like, obeyed his movements, moving wherever he wished her to.
The audience applauded and Kralefsky moved his hand in a swift, sharp motion, erasing the woman altogether.
"For the next part of the show," Kralefsky began, "I will need helpers. Two of them. Please do not volunteer, I will select you myself. And I must ask, if I happen to choose you, do not protest."
Kralefsky stepped from the stage and began moving through the aisles with an eerie, gliding grace. He and the firebird would inspect each passing face, then shake their heads in unison and move on.
He walked up the staircase to Marisa's box, stepping over the small, locked door on the outside of it. Kralefsky scanned the faces in the box without apology, making the men draw back. Their daemons attempted to claw at or bite the firebird, but he would fly higher, out of their reach. It was as though Kralefsky had seen something in them they did not like. They were not accustomed to such disrespect.
He spent a moment longer on Marisa. He had found something of interest in her face and the firebird flapped his wings with excitement at the sight of the golden monkey.
"Is this the one?" the firebird breathed.
"I think so," Kralefsky responded, motioning for Marisa to rise.
He spent another age on Lord Asriel, searching his features. Asriel, unlike the other men, remained impassive, not caring whether the illusionist left or stayed.
"How interesting," the firebird remarked.
"Very," Kralefsky responded, and waved his hand to Asriel, beckoning them both onto the stage.
Not quite knowing why, they followed.