Through it all, nonetheless, it does seem strange. He has no inkling of the history I’ve buried, of what I’ve survived, the wonder of how I survived at all. If he did, he might understand my dire need for self-reliance, why I hoard every cent I earn. Why the walls around me serve to protect not only me but those I yearn not to hurt.

“Charles…” As I angle toward him, he turns back, expectant. I prepare to share, the words stringing together like colored kerchiefs from a conjurer’s mouth.

But at the shimmer of his hair and skin—still wet from his rogue stunt—logic intervenes. While minor in the grand scheme of things, his actions were a betrayal, an exploitation of trust. And beyond that, gratuitously dangerous.

I voice only what’s relevant. “Drink again before the final curtain, and I’ll call off the show.”

His jaw sets at the ultimatum. He grabs both ends of his draped towel and half bows. “You’re the boss.” He shuts the door hard behind him. As if he’s the one with a right to be incensed.

How is that even remotely reasonable?

I twist back to the mirror, thankful I confided nothing. Relieved! And yet, I appear as worn and agitated as I suddenly feel. I long for a bath, to scrub the rouge from my face and the kohl from my eyes, along with every memory of this night. Including Charles and his parting sneer.

Although, he does…have a point.

From the get-go, I’ve been the person in charge. The one teaching, envisioning, solving. Both the composer and conductor, virtually unseen at center stage.

Perhaps someone—other than Charles—ought to be privy to that fact.

Chapter 3

This time, as the final act approaches, more than dread churns within me; it’s the stifling apprehension, I’d imagine, of releasing one’s child into the world. The worries, the hopes, the last-minute doubts over whether you’ve done enough. If you could ever truly be ready.

While purchasing fellow magicians’ tricks is a lesser-known yet common-enough practice, my personal forte has always derived from analyzing, deconstructing, and re-creating others’ works, dependably with improvement. True, for the Milk Can Escape, I altered nothing, but deliberately so, as a tribute to the Handcuff King and Master of Magic. For it was Harry Houdini who saved my life in more ways than I could measure.

The Goblet Escape, on the other hand, is mine alone. It’s a valid reason in and of itself to be wary of a public debut, let alone for such a crowd. Few seats tonight are vacant, due in part—I presume grudgingly—to our review in today’s Herald Tribune. One would think the brief yet complimentary write-up would leave Charles satisfied.