As though unable to hear the answer, I hush the band and plead through the box, “Please, if you need help, knock to say yes.”

The room’s focus is on the crate, listening for Charles. His silence infuses the air with tension.

“Monsieur?” I urge.

Folks are sitting forward in their seats.

At last comes a pound. An aggravated fist. Charles understands: this isn’t an error.

“Don’t fret. We’ll get you out.” I motion to the stagehand, the sole one nearby, but abruptly cease. “Wait…the locks. Monsieur Bouchard swallowed the keys!”

The audience is whispering, ruminating on the reminder. In my periphery, intrigue rides their faces, mouths falling agape. Public failure, you see, can summon even more attention than success, merely from the unexpected.

I pivot toward the crowd. Solemn with embarrassment, I draw on their sympathies. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you have witnessed, not every act goes precisely as intended. All escape attempts require some level of risk.”

Whereas Charles used me to capitalize on fear, I’ll shoot for fascination. And not with the shortcut of a death-defying element but with a skill they have likely never seen.

“It is therefore vital to remember,” I add while untying my scarf, “as the Great Houdini would say, there’s more than a single solution to any given problem. Finding the right one is simply a matter of belief, perseverance, and imagination.”

The cherished theorem helps steady my hands. Keeping my back to the crate, I move toward center stage. Interest clearly escalates as the burly stagehand prepares to blindfold me with my scarf. I stiffen from the darkened view yet continue, faintly aware of the suspenseful score being played by the band.

Dramatically I pull from my updo two small picks that at a distance could pass as hairpins. Feeling the stagehand’s forearm across my spine, I take a deep breath before leaning backward, arms overhead. My legs cross at the ankles, an act of modesty with my skirt toward the crowd. He lifts me with little effort and steps toward the crate. Straight as a board, I reach the first padlock.

And that’s when I begin.

Well rooted in old training, I race with my tools to navigate the lock. Through my mind’s eye, I see the mechanisms shifting and turning, until a click. The lock swings loose and clanks to the floor, dropping with the chain.

“Next.” At my order, I’m delivered to the neighboring padlock. I go to work, adrenaline and confidence accelerating my pace. Another lock and chain drop. “Done!”

On to the third.

The box suddenly shakes, pulling the lock from my hand. I recover, despite more knocks from Charles. He thinks I’m making him look the fool—he’s wrong, but I can’t worry about that now.

“Next!” Fingers working robotically, I sprint through the fourth, the fifth. In the wake of the sixth, applause breaks out.