And there was one thing all the write-ups and reviews seemed to agree with, one idea that made itself known in every piece or blurb printed about the mysterious magician: Emperor was so good that it appeared, even to the experts, that his magic was real.

Pete stared at the ticket, imagining Roman Emperor walking into his bedroom, crouching beside his bed, telling him that it was true. That his magic was real. Then the man proved it, and Pete watched as his bedroom became a chamber of spells, the box from which all the impossible things were pulled.

Pete read on, ignoring the chill he’d felt at his vision. The horrible reality of how frightening it would be if it were true; if Roman Emperor had dabbled in dirty magic, and was able to do…anything he wanted to.

“How awful,” Pete said, without realizing he had spoken.

How different, how awful, the man might seem, if Pete were to discover, somehow, that his magic was real.

He pulled his blanket over his shoulders and read on, subconsciously shaking these thoughts away, until the idea was in pieces, floating to the corners of his room, no strings involved, an unseen magic trick of his own.

7

Emperor’s magic was real.

8

As a child, walking the sandy streets of the marketplace with his father, Roman Emperor was frightened by a man in rags who leapt out of the shadows with a cold grin.

Don’t worry, Father said. A street performer.

But as Roman’s father made to step around him, the man in rags leapt in front of the child once again.

Excuse us, Father said, gripping young Roman by the wrist.

But the stranger pulled out a playing card and flashed its face for the father and son to see. It was the ten of hearts.

You see it? You see it? the man in rags asked.

Yes, Roman said. I see it.

The man in rags let out a small cry of happiness. The child was interested. From his tattered shirt he produced a whole stack of cards, many more than a single deck, Roman thought. The man slid the ten of hearts into the middle of the stack. To Roman it looked like a knife slicing skin.

The man in rags shuffled the cards. To Roman, this shuffling was as graceful as a dance; it looked to him like the man was pouring cream from palm to palm. Satisfied, he fanned the cards out just inches from young Roman’s face. The boy’s dark countenance intensified. He was confused.

Go on, Roman, Father said. Take one.

Roman thought hard. He could only pick one? He wanted it to represent him somehow.

Go ahead, Roman.

Roman took the one at the far right side of the fan. The man in rags smiled. Emperor’s father bent down and flipped the card over for his son.

Ten of hearts.

Bravo, Father said, only partially impressed. Then he took Roman’s wrist again.