Now with her school out for the summer, my shows can run through the weekdays and farther from home, allowing her to experience more of the country. The expanded ticket sales are rather nice too, of course. A female escape artist is quite the novelty, they say, and rumors explaining my wartime gap from the industry have upped the intrigue. Most commonly, word has it I served as a spy in Europe for Churchill himself. My code name? Fox.

Fitting if rather on the nose.

I’ve been tempted to put all the conjecture to rest. But inspired by Houdini and Hutton, both public-relations masters, I merely respond, “That’s quite an interesting theory.” And I smile coyly, spurring reporters to scribble on their pads.

After all, what would a proper illusionist be without a healthy dose of mystery?

A triplet of knocks reaches my ears. I twist toward the door.

“Yes?”

The assistant stage manager peeks in with his mop of ginger hair. He speaks around the small bulge of chewing tobacco in his lower cheek. “Fifteen minutes, Madame Vos.”

“Is my team in place?”

“They sure are, ma’am.”

I envision my two assistants in the wings, finishing their assigned preparations with a stagehand. Long enamored with magic, the sprightly gals are identical twins—which crowds do love—and the daughters of wealthy socialites, so they ask only that their expenses are covered and costumes supplied, all of which I design to be practical and elegant and far from scanty. Same as mine.

The fellow adds, “Got close to another full house, by the way.” He crosses the room toward me. “Also, an admirer just left this for you. He was real insistent you have it before the show.”

I accept the white palm-size box with skepticism. It’s not the first time a gentleman caller has boasted a token of affection to be swoon worthy.

A card protrudes from the ribbon. FOR LUCK, it reads. No signature.

“You ready to work?” the assistant manager asks.

I glance up to answer, only to find he’s speaking to Evelien, who pops onto her feet as if loaded on springs.

“Ready as ever!”

I call over to remind her, “You pay keen attention, now. I’m counting on you.”

She offers quick, assertive nods, then scuttles off in her overalls—her “work clothes,” she calls them—and trails the man toward the stage.

Left alone, I open the box and remove the protective tissue. At the sight of the handkerchief, lilac-hued and made of silk, my gaze cuts back to the card. FOR LUCK.

I’d cited that very reason when gifting a similar kerchief to Charles. The revelation of his presence jolts me. I clutch the silky square and hustle out the door. I look left, opposite the path to the stage. But there’s no one.