With that, Roman reached behind himself and felt for the handle. The woman’s magnified eyes watched, smiling, as his fingers found the knob then slipped from it. Yes, horrified as he was, Roman wanted to hear what she had to say.

Thatta boy, the woman said. Then she coughed and more flies poured forth. She swatted them away with a wrinkled hand, and for a moment Roman saw the hand had impossibly long nails that curled in upon themselves. Then those nails were gone and in their stead were shadows of Roman’s one plant upon the wall.

“Help me!” he screamed.

But he didn’t want help. Not from anyone outside this room.

That’s what I’m here for, kid, the woman said, stepping closer yet. Her eyes were no longer smiling. Roman saw fingers in her hair, keeping it in a bun. You need help. Boy do you need help.

What do I need to do? Roman asked. The words sounded disgusting; syllables of a defeated artist.

The woman nodded and crushed a flyer for one of Roman’s shows with the heel of her right shoe.

You need a gimmick. An act. A bit. You got no ruse, kid. No artifice. And in your line of work, artifice goes a long way. And yet…

What? WHAT?

She held up an open palm and Roman spotted hair there.

How about no trick at all? How about…She was suddenly standing so close that Roman could smell her perfume. Dead wolf. How about real magic?

When the promoter embraced him, all the terror ceased. Roman’s frantic (but wide open; as if he were holding the doors) mind was flooded with pictures of himself performing, doing things he would never have imagined possible. Not for himself.

He saw a crowd as large as the ones Don Deanie performed for. He saw legitimate awe in the eyes of the crowd.

He heard applause.

You see it? she asked him, looking up into his eyes. Roman saw bones dancing in hers. Ah yes, you see it. Keep seeing it, kid.

Then she buried her face in his chest and the fingers in her bun touched Roman’s chin.

And he kept seeing.

The audience applause died to a palpable tension, the kind of silence that meant the people wanted to see more. Roman marveled at his own tricks; he was playing with time and space until natural law was rent, until he could smell the unmistakable odor of the supernatural. A vehicle could be crushed with a gesture, the audience could be lifted with a glance. Roman moaned. Buried under all these incredible accomplishments was a young thin man challenging his father to a game of chess. With these powers he could—

He looked down again to the terrible thing holding him.

She pulled back from him and Roman saw she had a man’s face now, harder features behind the big glasses, under a bun wig, testing the seams of the blouse.