The officer complies by testing the sleeves, straps, and buckles. To reduce the awkward quiet, as well as my chance to reconsider, I muse, “I’d wager such a coat could be useful with a troublesome sailor or two.”

He smiles lightly in agreement.

“Or,” I add, “even a feisty admiral.” That one causes him to chuckle just as Charles returns to the stage. A passing of the baton.

“Merci, mademoiselle. Alors, before continuing, may I have zah keys to all six locks?”

“Why, of course.” Preplanned this time—to his seeming credit and delight—I hand over the requested ring from my visible skirt pocket. He turns to the audience and boasts of bravery and supernatural gifts and having no need for safeguards before he ingests the tiny keys, inciting gasps and groans.

The bearded stagehand reappears, forearms draped in steel chains. I picture what he’s agreed to do, what I’m about to do, and my newly purchased scarf tightens around my neck.

“Monsieur,” Charles says to the officer, extending both arms forward, “if you will be so kind.”

Per the routine, I guide the seaman in applying the backward-facing jacket with buckles running down the gap. Charles expands his chest stealthily before crisscrossing his arms, layered in a way to provide undetectable slack. As the officer and I fasten the straps, the volunteers remain engrossed and Charles provides narration.

“Once zee crate is nailed shut, plunging me into darkness, six chains will be wrapped and locked to seal my fate, lest I escape before your eyes—as no curtain or cabinet shall impede your view!”

Murmurs ramp through the crowd. Necks crane for a better look when he ascends the stepladder and carefully, without use of his arms, climbs into the crate. The musicians prepare by lifting their instruments. Charles keeps standing to make a show of worried concentration, then nods in my direction.

He’s ready.

Am I?

“Ladies,” I say, “and gentlemen…please join me…in a countdown.” Charles’s eyes light on me. In them sits a glimmer, an offer of assurance, a presumption of trust.

And I realize…

It’s not too late.

I can whisper to the stagehands, quashing our arrangement. The extra dollars I slipped them are hardly refundable, but that alone isn’t cause to go forward, to put myself on vulnerable display, to compound the risks. In an industry fraught with competition for bookings and crowds, rumors of a flop can spread faster than a wired message.

“Ten!” An impatient patron initiates the count. “Nine…” As the rest of the room follows, my admonishment of Charles circles back. On the verge now of a similarly secretive plot, I note my hypocrisy.

“Seven…six…”

But this isn’t the same, I counter. Comparatively my changes are minor. Plus, there’s no booze involved, no lives jeopardized.

“Four…”