Illusions Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART ONE THOMAS

  SAVERIO

  THOMAS

  SAVERIO

  THOMAS

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  THOMAS

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  SAVERIO

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  SAVERIO

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  SAVERIO

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  SAVERIO

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  SAVERIO

  THOMAS

  SAVERIO

  THOMAS

  THOMAS

  PART TWO SAVERIO

  THOMAS

  SAVERIO

  THOMAS

  SAVERIO

  THOMAS

  SAVERIO

  THOMAS

  SAVERIO

  THOMAS

  SAVERIO

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  SAVERIO

  PART THREE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  More from Entangled Teen Star-Crossed

  Keeper of the Bees

  Frequency

  Toxic

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Madeline J. Reynolds. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  [email protected]

  Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Lydia Sharp and Stephen Morgan

  Cover design by Juan Villalobos

  Cover images by

  Ana Babii/shutterstock

  AlexGate/shutterstock

  Extezy/Getty Images

  Wikimedia Commons

  Interior design by Toni Kerr

  ISBN 978-1-64063-563-0

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-64063-564-7

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition November 2018

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Eddie, who showed me that magic is not

  simply fictional (just like the cab driver said).

  PART ONE

  The Trick & the Trickster

  THOMAS

  October 03, 1898

  Twelve days. Twelve. Less than two weeks’ time and Neville Wighton the Great will premiere his grand illusion for the city of London. It is his chance to cement his legacy. All he needs is for me to wait in the wings as I do my part.

  October 04, 1898

  Neville and I had our first proper rehearsal today.

  It went about as miserably as I assumed it would.

  The wild-eyed magician kept nagging and complaining, saying that I looked foolish—which I am certain I did—and suggesting I was unfit for the stage. Ha! I could have told him that. In fact, I am certain that I have, at various points throughout this “apprenticeship.” I never had any desire to work for an illusionist.

  Where I should be is at Oxford, studying literature and writing my poems. But my parents have insisted. Given my particular gifts talents, they feel it is the safest route.

  As it is, it seems the only writing I will get to do is in here. Hence I have started keeping this journal. I have attempted to write some new poems between rehearsals, but the grueling schedule of a magician is not conducive to creativity—nor is consistently being insulted by one’s mentor.

  We are allowed access to the West London Theatre’s auditorium only after normal service hours due to a performance of Twelfth Night that is currently running up until the weekend prior to our opening.

  Having never performed on a proper stage, I kept bumping into Neville and standing in the wrong place—how was I to know which direction was meant by “upstage” or “downstage”? When he would call out “stage right!” I was never quite sure if he meant my right or his own. Needless to say, I had the same troubles with “stage left.”

  But all these other blunders were rather trivial. The real atrocity was the final act: the headlining trick sure to astound our crowds.

  Before making any attempt at it, he at least did me the courtesy of running through the mechanics of it all, step by step. He told me how he wanted it to look, where in the theatre he should appear once it was complete, even how I was to pose and smile during the moment of revelation.

  I used this discussion as one last attempt at convincing him that a properly trained assistant should really be the one to share the stage with him. Not only would such an assistant be much more appealing to the eye than my scrawny frame, but it would also keep the greatly unwanted attention off myself.

  He is convinced I need to be right by his side, seeing everything as he sees it, for the trick to go smoothly.

  And then he did it. He leaped from the stage and out over the rows of chairs where the audience would soon be sitting.

  I made an honest effort. But concentration was difficult at best, and my reaction was far too slow, causing Neville to fall onto the row of chairs below. His limbs were draped into awkward, unnatural positions, as though he were a marionette doll rather than a living, breathing man made up of bones and muscles and flesh.

  As I stood watching him groan in agony, I was certain that he had broken at least some of those bones. But after pulling himself up, he claimed to still be in one piece.

  When his eyes found me, he screamed insults and profanities, reminding me he’d seen me perform an identical feat just yesterday in his studio.

  “Sir,” I said. “Performing this trick on a small vase and performing it on a human being are two vastly different—”

  He glared at me. “If you tarnish my good name by letting such a mistake happen on opening night, I will tarnish your reputation. You will never receive work again. Not as a magician’s apprentice. Not as a street sweeper.”

  He was focused on the mistake, but what he truly did not like was my defying him.

  I hope my reaction did not betray how unaffected I was by this threat of his.

  I feel dreadful for what I am about to write, but being that this journal is meant for no eyes but my own…I shall confess, part of me wished that his bones truly had broken after his fall. It is terrible for me to wish injury upon the man, truly. But my dread in anticipation of this performance far outweighs any guilt plaguing my dark thoughts.

  Mother and Father have retired to their bedroom for the night, so I shall get in some more practice. I was contemplating using a vase as my subject once again, but with the risk of having it fall to the floor and shatter, it
would be best to use a small candle.

  There are two scenarios:

  One, I fail like I did in rehearsal today and make a fool of Neville.

  Or two, even worse…I succeed.

  I have to at least try to get this down. There is no reasoning with the man, and surely, if my secret does not kill me, he will.

  SAVERIO

  October 05, 1898

  West London, would that you were as inviting to me as you are to everyone else. Yet here I am. Uprooted once again to a new city, with new streets to explore, new theatres to perform in, and a sea of new faces.

  It comes with the territory. From growing up in the brothel, to doing menial labor as a stagehand, to being named apprentice to Paolo il Magnifico, I take one grueling step after another to finally improve my station.

  Paolo thinks I am merely his assistant. He says I should be grateful for the opportunity. One day, he says, he will show me his tricks. His secrets. And then I, too, can be a magician. If I just wait.

  But I am tired of waiting. All my life I’ve been waiting. I might only be nineteen, but I am meant for great things. I know it.

  Until then, I follow Paolo, acting as his shadow, learning and doing all that I can. The constant travel means I am always alone, which is probably for the best. It’s simple: no friends means not having to say goodbye once it is time to make our way to the next theatre in the next city.

  I suppose I consider Isabella a friend of sorts. As Paolo’s assistant, she is the only other familiar face I see on a consistent basis. But knowing Paolo, that likely won’t last much longer. He has achieved the amount of fame that he has by being strategic, not generous. His sharp eyes are always looking for a younger, prettier face—much like my own. Ah, but all jokes aside, it really is a shame. Isabella and I were just starting to get along.

  It is for the best. A true magician can open up to no one. But I won’t always be alone, will I? Not truly. Just like Paolo, once I am a magician, the crowd will sustain me. Their amazement, their adoration. For the time being, I find my companionship with different bedfellows.

  I offer a kiss, my bed, my body. And then, for my own trick, I disappear.

  …

  As our carriage rolled along the cobblestone streets of London town, I scanned the crowds for prospects to contain my loneliness. Things did not look too promising, though. London’s inhabitants seem about as chipper as the gray skies that hang over the city. And for some reason, they cover themselves from head to toe. No worry. I always do enjoy a challenge.

  But as we continued onward, Paolo abruptly ordered our driver to stop. We came to West London for a reason, and it seemed he’d found it.

  He exited the carriage, and Isabella gave me a knowing look—a wordless request to follow, so I did.

  We had stopped in front of some square. A large column was plastered with local advertisements and notifications from businesses looking for laborers. And there was Paolo, staring at a poster. And from his glare, I could tell he wanted to rip the paper away and let it fall to the mud-caked street below.

  Neville Wighton the Great. The whole reason we came here. We were originally supposed to perform in Munich, but while we were renting an apartment in Prague, I’d discovered a flyer for this “Neville Wighton the Great,” making the same claims as that very poster. I had moved to throw the flyer away, but Paolo had ripped it from my hands and screamed, “Don’t touch it!”

  What is odd is I’d heard scarce little of Wighton before coming across the flyer. Any professionally working illusionist makes near-identical claims about their own performances.

  A trick never before seen!

  The greatest illusion on this earth!

  Magic that will make you believe!

  Paolo is never really one to notice or care, especially when it comes to performers who are so far beneath him. Yet this one commands every ounce of his being.

  I was finally able to pry him away and usher him back into our carriage. Now we are settling comfortably into our rooms.

  Why was my mentor in such a state? The advertisements make it seem that it will be a performance like most others. All I really know of the man is that he is older, so, as a veteran of the stage, he likely will not stoop to anything so simple as mere card tricks. Through the use of mirrors, cabinets with secret compartments, trapdoors leading underneath the stage, and a young woman with tantalizing good looks and a provocative, most likely sequined, costume (much like our Isabella), the man will entertain, confound, and possibly even amaze the simple folk who hand over their money in the hopes of seeing something that they cannot explain.

  Still, this is not unlike many other illusionists performing all around the world. There is a man over in the States who refers to himself as The Alchemist who has his assistant collect simple copper pennies from volunteers in his audience and he then appears to turn the coins into gold before returning them to the delighted audience members.

  There will always be competition, there will always be new illusions being tested and even perfected, there will always be some new (or in this case, old) face that captures an audience’s eyes and hearts. I see no reason to spy on a performance that undoubtedly employs many of the same tricks or elements that Paolo currently utilizes himself.

  I tried convincing my mentor of this to calm him.

  “I have to see his trick,” was all he said back to me.

  He did not say he needed to see the performance as a whole but his trick. One singular trick. It is only now that I am remembering how the notice had advertised that Mr. Wighton will be performing a feat unlike any seen before.

  I attempted to feed his ego various lines about how any tricks that the Englishman would perform could never hold a candle to Paolo’s powers of prestidigitation. But once again, my mentor only had one response.

  “I have to see his trick. For months now that stale old fopdoddle has been hinting at how this will be the performance to change his career and thus his fortune. A little late in life for that…”

  My eyebrow shot up as I looked to my mumbling mentor. He was staring at the ground, talking more to himself than me, and only when our eyes connected did he seem to remember that I was even in the room.

  He did not speak on the subject for the rest of the night, and I was left to wonder. Months? I had not realized Neville Wighton was someone Paolo had even cared to follow, let alone that he has apparently been corresponding with the man.

  Paolo has been anything but an open book, a fact I accepted long ago. But it seems there are far more unread chapters in his story than I had originally suspected, and more characters who are integral to the plot.

  THOMAS

  October 09, 1898

  Something happened today. Something wonderful, and terrible, and exciting, and confusing…o what does it matter? I am likely making more of it than actually exists.

  And yet for something that will assuredly come to nothing…my heart—it was beating as fast as it does the only other time it beats that fast is when my gift is making itself known, coursing through my veins like electrical currents.

  This morning, Neville sent me off on errands in preparation for the opening performance, which is now only six days away. Specifically, I was to run to the tailor’s shop to pick up his vest, tailcoat, and cloak that were made special for the performance.

  Surely that was something I could not mess up…but of course, I found a way.

  As promised, the pieces were magnificent. The tailcoat was sleek and cut in a modern style. The vest was black, lined with a midnight-blue satin, as was the cloak, which was also embroidered with a gold thread that twinkled as it caught the light, as though it were fashioned after the night sky.

  Honestly, I was astonished. The idea that a man with an appearance as unruly and unkempt as Neville Wighton would have a mind for fashion was lost on me. What with his brown hair sprou
ting from his head in every which direction and graying in such a nonuniform manner, it looked as though his head were simply doused in ash. Not to mention his sharp, birdlike features, which are only hardened further by the scowl permanently fixed to his face.

  There is certainly something to be said about a man who takes such special care when it comes to showmanship, and I suppose it was shallow of me to just assume that such details of a performance were of no significance to him.

  With his costume in hand, I hurried out of the shop. I took a shortcut back to Neville’s studio, and just as I was cutting through Manchester Square, I tripped over my own feet. Everything seemed to happen slower then, moment by moment. The gorgeous night-sky cloak was the first to float to the ground, and I followed, landing atop it.

  I groaned into the lapel of the tailcoat, not ready to pull myself up and inspect the damage, when the sound of laughter pierced through the air. When I did finally look up, a pair of girls, probably not much older than myself, hung on either arm of a young man whom I’d never seen around this part of town before.

  He was beautiful. Not just handsome—I’ve seen plenty of handsome men. But this young man, he was…striking. The way his dark curls hung loosely over even darker eyes had me at a loss for words. My stomach roiled in the strangest way. Not an unpleasant feeling—not at all. Just strange…confusing…unexpected. And yet, it was also welcome—as if something wonderful could happen at any moment just as long as he stayed near.

  The girls he was with were giggling, but he seemed more contemplative than amused. He stepped forward and crouched down in front of me, then he picked up a part of the cloak and pinched it between his forefinger and thumb as he inspected it.

  A cigarette hung from the side of his lips, and with him standing so close, a cloud of smoke created a veil between us. I did not know how to react, so I just lay there, frozen, letting the scent of the tobacco mixed with a hint of lavender oil filter through my senses.

  He finally took his eyes off Neville’s ruined ensemble, stood, and reached out an arm to help me up. At that, my heart was near stopping altogether. I pulled myself up quickly, hoping that if my movements were swift, the beautiful stranger wouldn’t notice just how much I was trembling.