She hurried into the makeshift dressing room in the hope of letting Mr Blume in on her encounter before they went onstage. Blume – or The Great Balthazar as he was known professionally – was Ilsa’s exception; the one person in the world who knew her secret. In the five years they had been working together, he’d never treated her like a monster. Ilsa recalled the matron of the orphanage’s nails drawing blood from her arm as she was dragged to her punishment, and felt a rush of affection for the once-great magician.
He was trying to straighten his ascot when she entered, but he was only making it worse. The half-empty bottle of scotch on the vanity in front of him told her why. Ilsa sighed.
“Here, sir. Let me.” She pulled up a stool in front of him and started fixing his ascot, his waistcoat, his hair. He’d had enough practice at holding his liquor. He never stumbled or swayed, and if she could make him presentable, only the slurring would give him away.
“I saw a boy disappear today,” she said as she smoothed his collar. His pale blue eyes narrowed.
“A magic trick?”
“It weren’t no magic trick I’ve ever seen,” said Ilsa, and she told him about the impossible snap change; about confronting the boy and seeing him vanish. “I was holding him by the shoulders, and then I was holding air. Just like that.” Above them, the variety show they shared the billing with was wrapping up. A comedy duo descended from the stage and Ilsa paused until they passed. “You ever seen anything like that?”
Blume must have seen hope on her face, and Ilsa saw her answer on his. He believed in real magic, for he had seen things too, but he shook his head.
Deflated, she ducked behind the screen and changed into her costume. As a twelve-year-old, she had worn little trousers with a red tailcoat and top hat, like a miniature ringmaster in a circus. But as she’d turned into a woman, Mr Johnston had insisted on tighter, shorter, more provocative attire: a satin bodice, with a bead skirt barely touching her thighs, and a plume of red feathers hiding her bottom. It was thoroughly indecent, and Ilsa was glad. Anything to distract from what she was really doing on stage.
As she fastened her garters and helped herself to a finger of Blume’s scotch, he wondered aloud about the disappearing boy.
“To be that young,” he said. “Do you think he was born with his talents, as you were?”
“Yes. He must’ve been.” She had more questions than she did answers, but of one thing Ilsa was sure: she’d had no say in what she could do. Yes, she had practised her talents to master them, but she would never have suffered the way she did as a child if she’d been given a choice.
“In any case, he must have practised,” said Blume quietly. Below stage was beginning to fill with other performers. They were all preoccupied with shop talk and props, but Blume still lowered his voice and leaned closer – close enough that Ilsa could smell the whisky on his breath. “Perhaps with a teacher of sorts. This card trick you speak of… if you don’t mind me saying, Ilsa dear, you had no such technique at his age.”
She didn’t mind him saying. In fact, she was thinking the same thing. She had been performing magic “tricks” on the street when Blume found her, but without an ounce of the young magician’s finesse. If the boy had been trained, there had to be others. Her heart raced at the thought. “I’m gonna find him after the show. I got to.”
Blume nodded, and mumbled solemnly. Not out of drunkenness, but to spare her feelings. He knew, as did Ilsa, that in a city of millions, the odds of rediscovering one boy – one disappearing boy – were as slim as the likelihood that his debts would ever be paid off. But it was the first hint of real magic Ilsa had seen in months.
* * *
As The Great Balthazar took the stage, Ilsa slipped into the back of the auditorium, the noise of applause and the flare of the theatre lights providing cover. Not that anyone ever noticed the magician’s assistant’s entrance. Ilsa’s talent made sure of that.
“Good ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for gracing me with your patronage this evening, my fine, fine guests.” Balthazar let out a long, contented sigh, and that was the moment Ilsa realised he was a sentimental drunk tonight; the worst kind. “Almost sober” was best, of course. “Surly” gave him an enigmatic stage presence if they were lucky. But “sentimental” unsettled the crowds. It didn’t fit with the awe and mysticism they expected of a magic show. His greeting was met with a thick silence.
“I hope you have joined me tonight with an open mind. A courageous mind! For you may find yourself entertained, but you may also feel fear” – Ilsa held her breath as he conjured a flame with the gas lighter hidden in his coat sleeve, and breathed again when the trick played out safely – “trepidation” – that was Lighting’s cue to insert red filters – “and dread.” He slipped the trick knives from the hidden pockets of his tailcoat and threw one, then the other at the wheel he would later strap Ilsa to. “There is danger on this stage, be assured. But, thank God, I have only slaughtered two assistants this year.”
He was improvising, but Ilsa took that as her cue. As the audience laughed half-heartedly, she transformed. A force pressed in on her from every angle and shrank her; the pressure almost too much to bear, but over in an
