It’s like this, some mornings. We’re one troupe, a ring of seven sorcerers working together, bettering one another, but the scars from stitching our factions together—Stock, Tommy, and Rose, with Ral, Billy, Grace, and me—they’ve never faded completely. Most times we manage to pretend they’ve healed. We ignore them. But some days one of us—almost always Stock—starts picking at the edges, whether ’cause he’s in the throes of a shine withdrawal or ’cause he’s just generally more of a prick that day than the last.
“You’ve got people around your stage every night, you two,” I tell Ral and Billy, trying to make my voice sound warm and encouraging. “You’re just tired of your own trick—hell, I’m tired of mine. I’m starting to see feathers in my dreams.”
“Sure that’s all you’re dreaming about, Kendrick?” Stock cuts in.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s been an ass since he got down here, think he’s got shine withdrawal,” Grace whispers beside me. “Do us all a favor and just ignore him.”
But Stock persists. “Swore I saw someone dreamy leaving your room this morning.” He gives me his ratlike smile and starts wiggling his eyebrows at me like a goon. I feel like throwing a shock of magic right into his gut, but I manage to stay focused on my cigarette. You need to forget about Gunn in your room this morning, forget about what you promised him—and just lose yourself in the magic.
Thankfully, Billy and Ral bring us back to their trick. After Grace and I humbly suggest a few ways they could work in some audience participation, they’re satisfied enough, and we all disperse to work on our own tricks on our respective stages.
Around noon, we break for lunch. I head out with Ral, Billy, and Grace for a quick bite at Moby’s Diner, where Billy orders two slices of pie and then only eats one bite of each just “’cause he can.” We’ve all reacted to our new lifestyles differently, but then again, we’re all here for different reasons. Grace wants a new start—and she’s naturally cautious, a saver—while Ral and I are taking care of people back home. But Billy’s a lone wolf, and now has more money than he knows what to do with. So he splurges on dumb stuff all the time, like flashy cuff links, or this big, gaudy ring he’s never even gotten to wear, since Gunn says it’s too distracting to sport during our show.
We quickly wrap up lunch, hustle back to the Den, and Gunn comes in a little after one.
“I’m billing tonight’s performance as the Night Sky. Dawson’s already printing the tickets,” Gunn says, as the seven of us trail him to the middle of the show space, where lounge chairs are clustered into little sitting areas. We call this area the “shine section,” since it’s where most patrons go once they take their nightcap of sorcerer’s shine, after the finale. Here, or in the VIP lounge that bigwig patrons can rent along the left-side hall, when Gunn’s not using it to entertain some Shaw higher-ups.
“Got the new idea last night—tonight’s finale will be a worthy addition to our rotation.” Gunn settles into a plush green armchair. “I’m picturing a huge moon, planets. Shooting comets through mist. I want it eerie but beautiful at the same time.”
For as cold and calculating as Gunn can be when he wants something, I have to hand it to him: he’s got an artist’s touch, a true grasp of magic. His ideas for our finales are always elaborate, big-picture, like this new one, but he knows what our troupe is capable of, and every night, we don’t fail him. “Ral, I thought you could handle the large-scale illusion, so focus on the backdrop—maybe add a slow spin to the floor to keep it unsettling. Billy, as always, you need to fill his vision in—night mist, a faint wind,” he says. “Grace, I know you appreciate the details. You’re on the stars.”
“Understood, sir,” Grace answers.
“Tommy and Rose.” Gunn glances at the dark-haired pair. “I want you manipulating a moon. Get creative. Use those visual magic gifts of yours and take it through its phases slowly, a full moon until it all but pinches out at the end.”
Tommy nods and turns to Rose, and the two immediately start whispering ideas.
Gunn looks up at the lofted ceiling. “And Stock, our motions expert, I need a slow orbit of planets. Have them rotating about a story high, so everyone can appreciate the full view.”
Stock shoots me a snarky look as he asks, “What about Joan, sir?”
Gunn doesn’t tear his gaze away from the ceiling. “Joan’s the comet.”
I feel a wave of embarrassment as Stock rolls his eyes and mouths to me, “Dreamy.” But he doesn’t say another word as Gunn settles back in his chair.
“After the finale, lead the audience toward your stage.” Gunn gestures to the raised stage in the back of the space. It’s where we brew the audience their collective nightcap of sorcerer’s shine, before the stagehands pass it around to the crowd to drink.
“All right.” Gunn stands to leave. “I’ll be back to see what you come up with.”