He knew it was no use. Francine had apparently lived over sixty years ago, after all, so how would he possibly recognize a seventy-year-old version of her? Even as he wondered that, part of him refused to believe he’d actually traveled back in time. Because time traveling was impossible. Not only that, but everything he’d seen with Francine had been as colorful and as lively as New York City today, and everyone knew the past was supposed to be like the black-and-white photos in history textbooks or lifeless exhibits at museums—something distant and not easily relatable.
Adam tried his best to recall whether his parents had ever mentioned the magical snow globe. The only memory that came to mind was a fuzzy incident from when he was four, one year before the big accident. He had been sitting in the living room next to his mother, and had been watching his father argue with several other adults in the room. It had been a lively argument—heads shook, voices were raised, fingers stabbed the air to make a point. A man with a bushy beard kept waving his hands, while an elderly woman and Adam’s parents tried to calm him. Adam didn’t remember what the argument was about, but he did recall his father pointing to the snow globe on the bookcase.
At bedtime, his father used to tell Adam stories about faraway places, of tradesmen in Asia, wizards in Europe, and hidden treasure caves in Africa. His father had vowed on his name that the tales had been firsthand experiences from his and Adam’s mother’s travels. Magic stories.
As soon as Adam remembered this, he got an idea. He ventured upstairs to the attic again and rummaged in his parents’ box. He opened up the topmost atlas in the pile. The edges were worn, and the pages had pencil markings—notes his parents had taken. Dates of visits were scribbled above destinations. Four more atlases lay piled underneath the first.
Adam read every note throughout every atlas in the box until his eyes nearly crossed from fatigue. His parents had traveled to every single continent, across more than eighty countries. Yet there wasn’t any mention of a snow globe anywhere.
Magic stories. He went back downstairs, shaking the cobwebs and dust from his hair, feeling defeated.
CHAPTER SIXACT I, SCENE I
Unbeknownst to Adam, approximately one hundred years ago in New York City, there lived a bright magician who had no doubts whatsoever about magic. He lived and breathed magic. His name was Elbert.
Elbert Walsh.
Elbert was seventeen. From a young age, he dreamed of becoming a stage magician. He longed to join the ranks of Houdini and Thurston—men who had astounded half the world with their illusions.
Elbert’s parents, a pair of hardworking immigrants from Ireland, wished their son would pursue a more “practical” career instead. Elbert’s mother mended clothes and sold used tea leaves in the streets. His father worked the docks at the shipyard, and often came home with sunburns and bruises. Elbert and his parents lived in a crowded apartment shared with two other families, with only one bathtub and a tiny crackling stove that didn’t always work.
But Elbert refused to give up his dreams of stardom, despite his parents’ protests. Over the years, he slowly saved up pocket change for magic supplies by doing odd jobs. But most of his earnings came from street performances. For privacy, he would practice his act in the narrow alleyway behind his apartment. Then, hour after hour, he roamed the neighborhood, producing roses out of hats and making bottle caps disappear. He pushed his fluttering pet dove from his sleeves. He transformed green handkerchiefs into red ones and back again.
And he kept his eye on the Silk Hatters.
The Silk Hatters were an outstanding local group of five magicians, each with a unique ability: the Escape Artist; the Levitator; the Hypnotist; the Mind Reader; and the Vanisher. During their performances, the members each wore a signature black silk hat.
One day, word spread that the Hypnotist had fallen ill with smallpox, and the troupe was searching for a replacement. The first chance he had, Elbert signed up for an audition on the piece of parchment posted outside the theater.
On the day of his audition, he used his savings to rent a suit. He bathed, combed his hair, and, slightly nervous, entered the empty theater where the rest of the Silk Hatters were judging applicants.
The enormous theater swallowed Elbert up. He stood motionless, soaking in the scene. After his eyes adjusted to the blinding stage lights, he looked out into the vacant seats and imagined himself performing a real show in front of a full audience. Thunderous applause echoed in his mind, along with crowds chanting his name. Here he is, folks, the Magnificent Elbert!
Someone in fact was shouting from the front row.
“Hurry up and start already!” yelled one of the Silk Hatters, jolting Elbert back to reality.
He was barely two minutes into his first act before the Silk Hatters began to scoff at his performance.
“What good is a color-changing handkerchief?” clucked the Levitator, a particularly pompous middle-aged man with a cherry-red nose. “We’re looking for real talent here.”
Elbert’s magic dove act was also met with scornful laughter.
“This bores me,” shouted the Escape Artist, a round-faced man with bulging muscles. “I have seen enough doves that appear out of nowhere to last me a lifetime! Let’s cast the votes already. Gentlemen—”
“Don’t forget woman,” piped up the Mind Reader, a petite lady whose silk hat covered nearly half her face.
“—all in favor of accepting this young man into our troupe, say aye. Otherwise, say
