through a gilded door on the side of the lobby, and, one by one, each returns to the lobby and exits the theater. Some last only minutes, while others remain in the theater for quite some time. Those with higher numbers shift impatiently in their seats as they wait for the man with the notebook to reappear and politely call out the number on their respective slips of paper.
The last illusionist to enter the gilded door (a rotund fellow with a top hat and flashy cape) returns to the lobby rather quickly and visibly agitated, flouncing through the exit back onto the street, letting the theater doors slam shut behind him. The sound is still echoing through the lobby when the man with the notebook reappears, nods absently at the room, and clears his throat.
“Number twenty-three,” Marco says, checking the number on his list.
All the eyes in the room turn as the girl rises from her seat and steps forward.
Marco watches her approach, confused at first but then the confusion is replaced by something else entirely.
He could tell from across the room that she was lovely, but when she is near enough to look him in the eyes the loveliness — the shape of her face, the contrast of her hair against her skin — evolves into something more.
She is radiant. For a moment, while they look at each other, he cannot remember what he is meant to be doing, or why she is handing him a piece of paper with the number twenty-three written on it in his own handwriting.
“This way, please,” he manages to say as he takes her number and holds the door open for her. She bobs the slightest of curtseys in acknowledgment and the lobby is abuzz with whispers before the door has fully closed behind them.
THE THEATER IS MASSIVE AND ORNATE, with rows upon rows of plush red velvet seats. Orchestra, mezzanine, and balcony spreading out from the empty stage in a cascade of crimson. It is empty save for two people seated approximately ten rows back from the stage. Chandresh Christophe Lefevre sits with his feet propped up on the seat in front of him. Mme. Ana Padva sits on his right, pulling a watch from her bag while she stifles a yawn.
Marco emerges from the wing of the stage with the girl in the green dress trailing close behind him. He gestures for her to move to the center of the stage, unable to take his eyes from her as he announces her to the mostly empty theater.
“Number twenty-three,” he says, before descending a small set of stairs near the proscenium and hovering by the edge of the front row, pen poised over his open notebook.
Mme. Padva looks up and smiles, tucking her watch back into her bag.
“What’s this, then?” Chandresh asks, not directing the question at anyone in particular. The girl does not respond.
“This is number twenty-three,” Marco repeats, checking his notes to make certain the number is accurate.
“We’re auditioning illusionists, my dear girl,” Chandresh says, rather loudly, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. “Magicians, conjurers, etcetera. No need for lovely assistants at this time.”
“I am an illusionist, sir,” the girl says. Her voice is calm and low. “I am here for your auditions.”
“I see,” Chandresh says, frowning as he looks the girl over slowly from head to toe. She stands perfectly still in the center of the stage, patiently, as though she has expected such a reaction.
“Is there something wrong with that?” Mme. Padva asks.
“I am not entirely sure it is appropriate,” Chandresh says, eyeing the girl thoughtfully.
“After all of your pontificating about the contortionist?”
Chandresh pauses, still looking at the girl on the stage who, while comparatively elegant, does not appear particularly unusual.
“That’s a different matter” is all he can manage as to his reasoning.
“Really, Chandresh,” Mme. Padva says. “We should at least let her show off her skills before arguing over the appropriateness of a female illusionist.”
“But she has so much more sleeve to hide things up,” he protests.
In response, the girl unbuttons her puffed-sleeve jacket and drops it unceremoniously on the stage by her feet. Her green gown is both sleeveless and strapless, leaving her shoulders and arms completely bare save for a long silver chain with what appears to be a silver locket around her neck. She then removes her gloves and tosses them one by one on the crumpled jacket as well. Mme. Padva gives Chandresh a pointed look that is met with a sigh.
“Very well,” Chandresh says. “On with it.” He gestures vaguely at Marco.
“Yes, sir,” Marco says, turning to address the girl. “We have a few preliminary questions before the practical demonstration. Your name, miss?”
“Celia Bowen.”
Marco records this in his notebook.
“And your stage name?” he asks.
“I don’t have a stage name,” Celia says. Marco notes this as well.
“Where have you performed professionally?”
“I have never performed professionally before.”
At this Chandresh moves to interrupt but Mme. Padva stops him.
“Then with whom have you studied?” Marco asks.
“With my father, Hector Bowen,” Celia answers. She pauses for a moment before adding, “Though perhaps he is better known as Prospero the Enchanter.”
Marco drops his pen.
“Prospero the Enchanter?” Chandresh removes his feet from the chair in front of him and leans forward, staring at Celia as though he is seeing a completely different person. “Your father is Prospero the Enchanter?”
“Was,” Celia clarifies. “He … passed last year.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, dear,” Mme. Padva says. “But who, pray tell, is Prospero the Enchanter?”
“Only the greatest illusionist of his generation,” Chandresh says. “Used to book him whenever I could get my hands on him, years ago now. Absolutely brilliant, completely mesmerized every audience. Never seen anyone to match him, never.”
“He would have been pleased to hear that, sir,” Celia says, her eyes briefly glancing over to the shadowed curtains at the side of the stage.
“I told him as much, though I haven’t seen him in ages. Got very drunk with him in a pub some years back and he went on about pushing the boundaries of what theater can be, inventing something more extraordinary. He probably would have loved this entire endeavor. Damned shame.” He sighs heavily, shaking his head. “Well, on with it then,” he says, leaning back in his seat and regarding Celia with a considerable amount of interest.
Marco, pen in hand once more, returns to his list of questions.
“A-are you capable of performing without a stage?”
“Yes,” Celia says.
“Can your illusions be viewed from all angles?”
Celia smiles. “You are looking for someone who can perform in the midst of a crowd?” she asks Chandresh. He nods. “I see,” Celia says. Then, so swiftly she appears not even to move, she picks up her jacket from the stage and flings it out over the seats where, instead of tumbling down, it swoops up, folding into itself. In the blink of an eye folds of silk are glossy black feathers, large beating wings, and it is impossible to pinpoint the moment when it is fully raven and no longer cloth. The raven swoops over the red velvet seats and up into the balcony where it flies in curious circles.
“Impressive,” Mme. Padva says.
“Unless she had him concealed in those gigantic sleeves,” Chandresh mutters. On the stage, Celia crosses closer to Marco.
“May I borrow that for a moment?” she asks him, indicating his notebook. He hesitates before handing it to her. “Thank you,” she says, returning to the center of the stage.
She barely glances at the list of questions in precise handwriting before tossing the notebook straight up
