“Thank you,” she managed in a whisper between sobs. “Get me out of here, please, before I throw up.” I noticed that the accent belied her delicate, china-doll appearance. It was pure Brooklyn.

I left the stage, supporting Mrs. Houdini as I steered her through the backstage area, avoiding the usual pitfalls of a backstage: the ropes, the curtain weights, the scenery flats. Luckily I had worked as a chorus girl once while on a case involving the theater so I felt right at home there. It was good that I did because Bess Houdini was in no state to walk alone. She staggered like a drunken person, clutching my arm so tightly that her nails dug into me. “He cut her in half,” she kept on gasping. “All that blood!”

“I know. It was truly awful, but there’s nothing you or I can do for her, and you’re going to be just fine when you lie down.”

We found the Houdinis’ dressing room at last at the end of a long hallway. It had a star on the door but inside it was nothing fancy. Clearly this Houdini fellow was not going to be treated like someone who entertained kings and emperors in his own country. There was a plain horsehair couch in one corner and I helped Bess onto this. “There,” I said, and covered her with a knitted afghan.

“My smelling salts,” she gasped. “On the dressing table.”

I found them among the usual paraphernalia of the theater—sticks of greasepaint, cotton wool, cold cream, and various patent medicines designed to calm the nerves and restore vitality. She held the little bottle up to her nose, coughed, and then handed it back to me. “That’s better,” she said in a more ordinary voice.

Really I’ve never seen what women want with smelling salts. Horrible stuff. But then I’ve never worn a corset so I’ve not been in the habit of swooning that often.

“I’ll be all right now. Thanks again, Miss—?”

“Murphy,” I said. “Molly Murphy.”

She looked up at me and smiled. She really was a sweet, delicate little thing. Fragile as a china doll. “Thank you for your help. You’re most kind. Do you work here in the theater?”

“No, I was in the audience with my intended who is a policeman, so naturally he rushed straight to the stage when he saw what had happened.”

She shuddered and wrapped the blanket more tightly around her. “It’s too terrible to think about, isn’t it? That could have been me. And my Harry risks his life every night onstage. Every single night.”

“I know they are only illusions,” she continued, “but they have to have that touch of danger or the public wouldn’t come. When we do the stunt we call the Metamorphosis, I’m always secretly afraid that I’ll suffocate in that trunk if I can’t get out one night.”