Illusions Page 2
“What is your name?” he asked once I was up on my feet.
O his voice! A thick accent coated his words, and each syllable danced around my ears, sweet and melodic, as though he were singing rather than merely speaking. There I go again, as if I were sitting down to write another one of my poems rather than scribbling about the goings-on of my day in a journal.
“Thomas,” I forced out in what was only incrementally louder than a whisper.
“Thomas,” he repeated. It sounded so…right, when he said it.
He looked back down at Neville’s soiled suit and cloak, and he smirked, the cigarette never faltering for a second. “That is quite the outfit.” His eyes met mine once again. “I’m sure it looks bello… No, no. Fetching? This is the word you Englishmen use, yes? I’m sure it looks fetching on you—or it would have, anyway.”
A surge of warmth shot through my face. Personally, I preferred the term “bello.” Embarrassed, I was quick to admit that the clothing did not belong to me but to my master—which I then quickly switched to “mentor.” That word still didn’t feel right when describing Neville, because that would imply he’s actually taught me something. But still, master makes it seem too much like I am his slave, rather than the young man who is about to either make or break his entire career.
He asked me who my mentor was and what sort of apprentice I am. I explained that I was working for “Neville Wighton the Great.” Though it sounded foolish coming out of my mouth, those dark eyes of his widened.
“Oh, I do love magic,” he said. “Always so confounding. Do a trick for us, won’t you?” His female companions were quick to agree, urging me to do an impromptu performance, right in the square.
I mumbled something about how I couldn’t possibly and that I did not have the proper materials. I am not even entirely sure what I said and how much of it consisted of actual words, but it worked, for they relented. The boy shot me one last thoughtful smile, shrugged, then walked off, the girls trotting eagerly behind.
It is only now as I sit here that I am lamenting and cursing myself for being such a fool. He asked for my name and yet I never bothered to ask for his. Now he remains a nameless stranger, one I will likely never see again.
All I wish to do is to continue writing about him for the rest of the day, but I must be off. I promised Amelia I would accompany her to lunch—more specifically, Mother made me promise after our last two meetings were arranged by her. Both Mother and Father think it improper, since it gives the appearance that she is the one courting me and not the other way around.
I shall do my best to be decent company, but my mind is still in Manchester Square.
…
Lunch with Amelia was fine. That is how all activities are with her. Just…fine.
Amelia Ashdown is a lovely girl, to be certain. I have never once denied that. But after my encounter with the handsome stranger, I know what it is to truly admire someone’s features rather than simply appreciate them, as I do with Amelia. Amelia’s beauty, while apparent, has never made me desire to be close to her. Today, with that boy, I felt the urge to be close enough that if I were to reach out, my fingers could trace his cheekbone down to his sharp jaw. As he walked away, an odd, immediate sense of loneliness rushed through me.
Oh what does it matter, anyway? It is not as if I could do anything about these strange feelings. Even if I had thought to ask him for his name, even if I knew exactly where in the city to find him at this very moment, saints. Even if I were able to muster up the courage—everyone says it is a sin. Each one of my thoughts about him more sinful than the next. I mean…just look at what happened to Wilde. I am already an “other”—something to be feared. The last thing I need is another secret. Another reason for the people of London to want to persecute me.
But is it so naive of me to want the type of passion I so often read about? Is it foolish to want a love that is so wholly consuming it causes me to ache? Fate is cruel that way, showing you exactly what you want even when it cannot be yours.
Passion or no, I shall continue to court Amelia, taking her out for tea and to lunches, for that is what is expected of me and what is proper.
SAVERIO
October 09, 1898
Something marvelous happened today.
I went against my own rule and put a name to one of the faces I met today. Thomas. It was in some square that I spotted him, just across town, near a café where I had successfully charmed two girls—sisters, if you can believe it. These Londoners are not as repressed as I figured. We were making our way to somewhere a little more private when a blur of ash-blond curls, pale skin, and elegant eyes fell toward the earth in an excitable fashion.
Even in his state, he was pleasant looking: slender, big gray eyes framed by those bouncing curls. He was clearly younger, though, even if only by a couple of years, and therefore not quite my type. I would have simply kept moving were it not for the articles of clothing he had dropped around him.
At first glance, they would have seemed like a simple black vest, tailcoat, and cloak, but the cloak and vest were each lined with a dark-blue fabric that had been embroidered with gold thread in such a way that the pattern looked like the night sky. No ordinary boy would be in possession of garments such as these.
And so I reached out a helping hand.
As it happens, the boy is also an apprentice a magician’s apprentice. And he works for none other than Neville Wighton the Great.
It was a grand coincidence, surely. But could it be anything more than that? The more I have been thinking on it, the more I am certain: this is no mere coincidence; this is an opportunity.
You see, I have been waiting an eternity for Paolo to reveal his secrets to me. But I might now be able to claim something of my own, something Paolo wants so much that he will finally stop teasing me.
Paolo shifted our entire tour just so he could come witness this one illusion that Neville is claiming to be “unlike anything the world has ever seen.” There is more to Paolo’s curiosity than he is letting on—he knows something that we do not. But if it is true, and this illusion is unlike any performed before it, then how easy it would be to unlock its mystery with the aid of a certain magician’s apprentice.
I could very easily have Thomas in the palm of my hand. From the look in his eager, shining eyes, and from the way he could barely form his words when I asked for something as simple as his name, it was clear I mesmerized him. It was sweet. And convenient for me. Just another coincidence working in my favor.
I’ve never actually used such methods to get what I want. Sharing my bed has only ever been a temporary cure for lingering loneliness. But as someone who considers himself a student in the intimate arts, would it not be appropriate to put what I have learned so far to good use? And I can think of no better use than positioning myself for greatness. Then many will adore me—and permanently, rather than by a single temporary bedfellow who is gone come morning light.
This plotting is likely all for nothing anyway. Perhaps Wighton’s great trick is one that has already been done many different times with many different iterations. Paolo may simply be overreacting. All the same, I shall keep my eyes on this Thomas—keep him close, in case Paolo’s hunch is all too real and this illusion is a prize just waiting to be won.
And even if Paolo is not wrong about this mysterious trick, what if I am wrong about the boy’s feelings? It was only one chance encounter, after all. There was something in the way he stared, the way he fumbled for words (when he was even able to string some together). I have always considered myself a decent judge when it comes to the attraction, or lack thereof, of others. But what if the nervousness he was exhibiting was simply how he interacts with any new person he meets?
This is silly; of course it was attraction. It had to be. I am simply getting in my own head. I never usually analyze signals so closely, but then again, I suppose none of
my other conquests ever really had any stakes. I’ve never had to worry much about whether or not the interest was reciprocated. Good Lord, is this what normal people go through with courtship? How can anyone stand such feelings of anxiety and insecurity on a consistent basis?
Ah, well. If he is indeed enamored with me, then the task will be an easy one. If he is not, well, then it will simply require more effort on my end. It will not be the first time I’ve built something from nothing.
I do feel a bit of remorse for what I may do. Then again, I did not set the rules; I am merely a player in the game.
All’s fair in love and magic.
THOMAS
October 11, 1898
Mr. Wighton’s temper is something I have grown accustomed to while apprenticing for him over the past month. Why, after showing him the damage done to his specialty garments, I thought he would damage his vocal cords permanently. Screaming I can handle. Insults I can handle. Even the constant degradation—I have taken it all in stride. It was not until today that his abuse switched from verbal to physical.
Though he may be reckless, Neville is not an unintelligent man. Getting splayed across a row of chairs once was enough to change his methods when it came to practicing our grand finale. Rather than leaping out over the audience, he has been simply leaping stage left—a concept I am still struggling with. After five failed attempts, I was expecting his usual chorus of name-calling as he searched for new and creative ways to describe my uselessness, but he was silent. Dead silent.
Without even looking at me, he moved offstage to where he had been keeping his props. He reached out for a cane that is incorporated in an act toward the beginning of the performance and gestured for me to come closer.
I remained where I stood, but still he did not yell. After an elongated exhale, Neville crossed the stage and, in one swift motion, he struck me. The cracking sound of the wood connecting with my shoulder blade resonated in my ears and set off something within me. Something I cannot explain, but even if I could, it would be far too complicated to write out here.
Most of the lights in the auditorium were dimmed, since our rehearsals take place after hours. But as soon as Neville pulled the cane away, winding back to deal another blow, a surge of white light illuminated the entire theatre. The blinding light swathed the auditorium for a second or two then began to flicker as a candle would, but it had a distinctive rhythm. The room dimmed and brightened in a pattern resembling a pulse. It was my pulse. Each small surge of light matched each beat of my heart perfectly.
My pulse was already more rapid than usual after the shock of Neville’s outburst, but when I realized what was happening, my pulse quickened even more as fear took hold of me. It had been years since I had lost control like this. Usually, I am good at keeping my emotions at bay. But in that moment, a storm raged and roared inside me.
Faster and faster the light flickered, on and off, on and off. When I could take it no longer, the room went black. I could not see what was happening, but I did hear it. A sudden whirring filled my ears like wind, followed by the sound of two things crashing to the stage floor. The first was light but sharp, the second was heavy, more of a thud. Slowly, the gas lamps in the auditorium were brought back to life, and I saw what I had done with the thing that Neville so often likes to tell me is a “gift.”
Neville was on his back and his cane was discarded, just a few feet away. Every instinct in my body told me to act, to flee, to do…something. In that moment, I was certain I had killed the man. My life fell apart around me as I tried to contemplate my options, but just as I was trying to calculate how much money I would need for a ticket on a ship leaving for New York, he arose.
I braced myself. If he had reacted violently because of my failure, I could only imagine what kind of reaction this little outburst was going to elicit.
But to my surprise and utter disbelief, he rose with a wide grin painted across his pale cheeks. Before then, I had not ever seen a smile on Neville Wighton’s face. It looked…wrong, like a puzzle piece that was forced into a spot where it was not meant to fit.
He was thrilled—nay, overjoyed. He confessed he had been wondering at the validity of my parents’ claims about the extent of my abilities. It was one thing to transport an object or man from one end to another. But this? This was something else. Something more.
Giddily, he paced around the theatre, clasping his hands together and, no doubt, making more and more plans for me.
For him, the incident was proof I could fulfill every dream he had of becoming the world’s greatest magician.
For me, it was a nightmare brought to life.
Now, as I sit in the safety of my own rooms, I am flooded with horrid memories of incidents not entirely different from what occurred tonight. Though in those instances, I was a mere child, and so my fear was even greater.
None of this should even be happening to me. I should be at Oxford, with other people my own age. I should be apprenticing with someone whose career I admire or, at the very least, respect. I should be learning, exploring, finding my place in the world—hell, maybe even finding someone special to spend my time with. Instead I find myself indulging the whims of an opportunistic madman for my own survival.
SAVERIO
October 11, 1898
I read somewhere that boredom is the desire for desires. I cannot seem to remember who said it—I believe he was Russian. Anyhow, my desires have gone wanting here in London. Just as I knew they would.
Paolo il Genio, in dragging Isabella and myself here the moment he caught word of this damned performance, did not seem to realize that we would have a great deal of time left idle until the actual opening.
I have tried to find ways of amusing myself but have been unsuccessful. The young men here are so repressed and close-minded. The women are pleasant enough to the eye, but few have actually captured my interests. Which is not to say that they have not tried.
I indulge their flirtations all the same, and I will continue to do so. What other choice do I have? Sit around my hotel room while Paolo obsesses over something that is most likely nothing at all? I think not.
October fifteenth cannot arrive quickly enough. One of two things will occur that night: either Mr. Wighton’s performance will be bland and ordinary and Paolo will realize he was worrying himself over nothing, or the man will premiere the most grand illusion seen by man and, with this, unveil my key to stardom. In moments of silence, I can almost hear the cheers and the whistles and the applause, but not for Wighton—for me. When I close my eyes, I can see the beaming faces of the entertained patrons. They are looking at me with adoration, with appreciation…
…with acceptance.
I have realized from experience, whether it be my mother, or potential romantic partners, or even my so-called mentor, the love of an individual is fleeting and never promised. Why waste my time on it? If I can achieve the fama and notorieta I so greatly desire, then I will have the love of an entire society—I could have the world! The history books would remember me, and people long after I have left this world will learn my name. If given the choice, I would gladly choose something as everlasting as fame over the affection of a single person. People are fickle. They change minds and they break hearts.
Does it make me a mostro, this conspiring behind Paolo’s back? My plans to usurp his place center stage? I do owe the man some loyalty. From time to time I let myself think of where I would be had I not taken up work as one of his stagehands—probably still in that brothel in Perugia.
From that moment on, it was a quick education for me, learning how the world works. One of the most important things I learned was how easily things are acquired when you have a pretty face.
Is that all my mentor sees when he looks at me? A pretty face with no actual potential? And what if it’s not just Paolo—what if all anyone ever sees is good looks and never bothers to look any further…see
what’s on the inside?
Since promoting me to be his apprentice, Paolo has told me on more than one occasion that my face was meant to be on the stage. I am not offended—on the contrary, I agree with him. The sneaking suspicion that my appearance is the only thing that earned me my position as his apprentice has simply fueled my resolve to become the greatest prestidigitator I can be. He’s slowly taught me the basics, probably assuming I care very little or that even if I do, it will not matter, for all one needs to be truly successful is a basic grasp of sleight of hand and a gorgeous face, right?
Paolo doesn’t see me in the wings, studying every move, every word, every smile during his performances. He does not realize how late I will sometimes stay awake reading volumes and journals detailing well-known secrets of the trade. Even a few of the lesser-known ones. And he does not need to know. Let him continue thinking I am some vapid, eager child blessed with striking features. One day, when I am headlining at the Palace Theatre in this very city, he will think on the days when the greatest stage magician of the century was nothing more than his smiling, empty-headed apprentice.
I am more than happy to continue on this path with patience and rigor. But if Neville Wighton and his sweet little apprentice offer me a shortcut to what is ultimately my destiny, who am I to pass up such favorable circumstances?
All will be revealed in a matter of nights.
THOMAS
October 12, 1898
Two days.
Two miserable days, which are sure to be the longest of my life.
I have been a complete and utter mess, and all the while, Neville has never been happier with me. Strange, since I still have not actually performed this grand feat he has planned out. One would think that would have him just as anxious (nay, more) as I. Or one would assume that at the very least, he would consider changing his mind.