His eyes snap open, and he jumps forward, landing in his pile of cards, making them bounce off the ground. Only they don’t come back down. They float upward toward his splayed fingers as his hands rise, pulling them with invisible strings until they fly over his head like a gambler’s personal storm cloud. Lifting his face toward them, he blows, and they shift with his breath, taking shape, forming wings.

Building a butterfly. Spades and clubs, hearts and diamonds, separate to create patterned wings.

Now I move forward, holding a hand out underneath it, feeling for the gusts of air that must be keeping it afloat. Nothing. My hair blows gently from the beating wings.

The magician gives me a cocky grin.

Strings, then. I look for the hundreds of wisp-thin threads you’d need to pull this off.

He shakes his head, still grinning. He pushes his lips together and blows again, and it moves, drifting out and over the heads of the audience. Some of them grasp for it, but it flies just out of reach. Their mouths gape, but I turn from their faces to watch him.

With the audience’s focus on the butterfly, his smile vanishes like one of his cards. His lips are set, and his eyes narrow like those of something feral, a cat kicked one too many times. I recognize the look as one of my own.

“Do you like me now?” he asks them. There’s a sharpness in the question. He turns to me and the look disappears, replaced in an instant with bland amusement.

The audience claps. He bows for them a few times before raising a hand for silence. They obey his every command. He has them now, and the smile on his face turns genuine as he brings his hands together in one loud clap. The butterfly explodes. Cards rain on upturned faces, and the people roar, rising to their feet with applause. My skin vibrates with the noise. My hands sweat, and I wipe them against my jeans. He’s done it—given me that moment when every wild thought feels possible. It feels like home.

Forgotten by the audience, I back toward the stairs of the stage, but he sees me and straightens, lifting one hand out to me. “My lovely assistant,” he croons. “I’m not done with you quite yet.” The audience stills and settles back. He glides toward me, and I struggle to stop myself from stumbling down the stairs before he gets to me.

Facing me, he holds out a hand, and when I don’t reach for it, he takes my hand from my side and pulls me a step back toward the center.