How absurd. I’m about to remind him of his own gripes over his paltry write-up when he adds, “Course, it’s all fine ’n’ good. In the end, the longest and loudest applause tonight was still for me.” He adjusts his knotted tie. “But then, that’s what makes me the showman and you the assistant.”

I’m as stung as I am dumbfounded. “That…that’s what you think? That I’m just your assistant now?” Sure, it’s always been my title to those on the outside, but never in reality.

Not between us.

“Actually, you got a point.” He pauses from preening, and through the mirror’s reflection, he narrows his eyes at me. “Even basic assistants would climb into the crate themselves. They get sawed in half, vanish from one container to another. In fact, they do dozens of other tricks that happen to be off-limits for our show. Because, obviously, that’d be beneath you.”

I strive to be incensed but the core of the matter sends me reeling. “That is entirely untrue.”

“Yeah? Then why?” He snaps to face me, his intensity returning from the show’s end. “If I’m really your partner—your friend, least of all—how ’bout you explain it to me?”

“Explain…what?” I’m stalling now, scrambling.

“The truth,” he stresses, as if nothing could be more obvious. “You come up with all our fancy tricks. Figure out every maneuver and mechanic. Hell, you even build the props. So why? What the devil could be the issue if it’s not about being high and mighty?”

Whether sincere or rhetorical, the questions border on interrogation, hammering, chipping. Prying up my past. Once more, I hear them from the depths of my mind: a baby’s hoarse wails, hands clawing plaster, notes plunked on a piano by a child unaware.

I break from Charles’s eyes. My attention darts, seeking an escape, and snags on a glint of metal. A flask. Lid unscrewed, it sits on the vanity amid his grooming supplies.

“You’ve been drinking.” As though this alone is the cause of everything.

His brow crumples before he traces my sight line, then huffs, exasperated. “Yeah. After the show. Making it none of your business.”

“While in a theater, it’s entirely my business.” Desperate, I add, “Unless you want to find yourself a new assistant.”

He flinches at the threat and his expression deflates. Yet a moment later, his mouth becomes a hard line. “Ya know what? I might just go and do that.”

“Splendid,” I say. “And maybe I’ll snatch up some clown off the street and simply create another you.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, shame tries to pull them back in. But it’s too late. They hang between us, turning the air brittle.

“You’re welcome to try.” No sign of bluffing, no backing down.

We’ve come to a standoff after all.