Initially, when Philippa heard a new girl had been hired, she was excited. She wasn’t the only female resident of the museum. There was Betty; Phoebe the fat lady; and the albino twins, Quinn and Caroline (who despised each other). There was also the cook, Mrs. Cobble, and Miss Fitch, the costume maker and general manager, whom nobody liked.
But none of the others really counted, because they were old. She thought maybe she’d at last have someone to talk to.
But one minute with Max changed her mind.
“Humfrey seems nuttier than a box of peanuts,” was the first thing Max said. “He looked at me like he’d just swallowed a toad.”
“His name is Dumfrey,” Pippa said. “And he isn’t nutty. He’s a genius.”
“Oh yeah?” Max dumped her rucksack (dirty, Pippa noticed) on top of the narrow bed next to Pippa’s, which had until this day remained empty. All the performers lived together in the portion of the attic not dedicated to the common room or the washrooms, of which there were two. A mazelike formation of old furniture, folding screens, and clothing racks had been arranged to subdivide the space and give each performer privacy, although many of the residents nonetheless had to share their sleeping quarters to accommodate all the beds. “Then how’d he end up saddled with this dump?”
Already, Pippa was regretting her new roommate. “This dump,” she said, “is one of the very last remaining dime museums in the world. It’s a wonderful and historical place.” Pippa was losing patience. “Why did you come, anyway?”
Max flopped down on her back, seeming not to care at all that she was dirty and the bed was, or had been, clean. “I heard an ad on the radio,” she said. “I’ve been looking for somewhere I can get comfy.” She kicked off her boots and wiggled her toes. There were several large holes in her socks. She sat up on an elbow, sniffing. “What’s that smell?”
“Your feet,” Pippa responded.
“Not that smell.” Max rolled her eyes. “The other one. Like—like—like cat boxes and meatballs.”
Pippa stiffened. “That smell” was the candle Pippa liked to burn before each performance.
“Sandalwood,” she said. “Brings luck.”
“What do you need luck for?” Max said.
Pippa smoothed a wrinkle from her coverlet. She didn’t like the way Max was looking at her. She didn’t like the way Max spoke, either—like one of the street kids who tried to sneak in and try to steal coins from the cashbox, when there were any. “I get stage fright,” she said carefully.
“Stage fright?” Max repeated, as though she’d never heard the words. She propped herself up on one elbow. “For real? What’s your act, anyway?”
Pippa lifted her chin. “I’m a mentalist,” she said stiffly.
“A menta-what?”
“A mentalist,” she repeated. “I know things. About people. I can . . . sense them.”
Max stared at her. “Like . . . you can tell what people are thinking?” She looked suddenly afraid. “Can you tell what I’m thinking?”
Heat crept up Pippa’s neck. “It doesn’t work like that,” she said quickly.
She couldn’t possibly tell Max the truth. That her gift was real—not like the tricks that street performers did, with their setups and sleight of hand, their fake volunteers and their cheap frauds. She really was a mentalist—she just couldn’t control it. Although sometimes she could feel other minds, pushing like alien blobs against her own, the only thing she had ever consistently been able to decipher was what a person was carrying in his coat pockets or in her handbag or—occasionally!—what kind of undershirt a person was wearing. And even that was blocked sometimes—like when Pippa was scared or angry. Or when she had stage fright.
That’s why she needed the candle.
Max was obviously unconvinced. She crossed her arms. “How does it work, then?”
Fortunately, Pippa was prevented from replying by Potts, the janitor. He lumbered past the Japanese screens, hat pulled low over his eyes, without bothering to tap or even cough.
“Downstairs with you,” he said. As usual, he spat out the words, as though they carried their own particular bad taste and he had to get rid of them as quickly as possible. “It’s six o’clock already. Almost showtime.”
Dumfrey’s Dime Museum was, from the outside, easy to miss. The four-story brick building, originally a combination art school and gallery called the New York Cultural Academy, was sandwiched between Eli’s Barbershop and the St. Edna Hotel, like an awkward middle child getting squeezed to death by its two prettier, more impressive siblings.