So we work, each of us taking our favorite place along the show space’s perimeter, improvising with magic until we get to a finale we’re all happy with. I wait for Ral to get the floor slowly spinning, wait for the others to set the stars and the planets and the textured, smoky night. And then, in this man-made sky of possibility, I shoot the brightest, electric-orange comet from the double doors straight across to the back stage.
But I’m too distracted to enjoy it, unable to put everything else away and just relish the trick. Gunn’s earlier visit, his haunting words—you run until you win, or until you fall—that somehow manage to flatter as much as disturb me. Ben’s letter, my promise of sharing Mama’s blood-magic, Stock’s taunts: it’s all buzzing, closing in.
Joan’s the comet.
After a dry run of our new forty-five-minute finale for Gunn, we gather around him at the base of the stage to hear his final thoughts. The double doors to the show space clang open at the same time, and a team of young Shaw thugs bursts into the space.
The street urchins of the Shaws’ operation rarely attend our show, but they take full advantage of the extra shine we brew during the previous night’s performance. And in the slim window between our rehearsal and eight p.m., the Red Den gets handed over to the young runners and smugglers stopping in for a magic ride before their night’s work. Their ringleader, Win Matthews—the underboss who runs the Shaws’ smuggling operation, I’ve gathered—spots Gunn across the show space and waves him down.
“Be down here by seven thirty,” Gunn says, dismissing us. “Wear the usual, the dresses and tuxes,” he adds, referring to the wardrobe we all received as soon as the doors to our new Red Den opened. He nods to me. “And give me fifteen minutes, Joan. I’ll be in my office.”
I feel all eyes of the troupe fall on me, and that tug-of-war of emotions pulls underneath my skin again. I gulp and nod. “Of course, sir.”
Stock gives me an arched eyebrow as Gunn takes Win into his office along the right-side hall. The tension inside our troupe circle is now palpable, so thick and bitter I can almost taste it. “You’ve got something to say, just say it,” I finally snap at Stock.
But Ral’s the one who answers. “We’re all adults,” he says slowly. “We’re all here to do a job. I suggest we go upstairs and get ready, before we do or say anything we might regret.”
“Yeah, all right,” Stock says, but keeps his eyes on me. “See you all down here soon.” Then he adds as he walks away, “Comet.”
I will my anger to fade, avoid meeting Grace’s probing stare as we all filter toward the hall that leads back to our rooms. I’m sure she’s going to start grilling me over why Gunn wants to meet with me as soon as we get upstairs, and I’m not looking forward to it.
But as I’m about to turn down the hall, I spot Win Matthews’s new boy—the one I met a few nights back—hovering over the liquor bar in the corner. Alex Danfrey, his name was—the one who was chatting me up as his friend was lost to a shine-high. He’s sitting with Howie now, and about three other Shaw young guns. And like he can sense my stare, Alex looks up and we lock eyes.
I’ve seen a lot of faces here at the Den, but it’s hard for me to figure out if someone’s a looker on first glance—there’s just too much to take in at once to make any kind of decision. It’s really the second chance I get that makes or breaks it.
And on this second chance, I realize Alex’s face is pretty much perfect. Wide eyes that are blue from here, blond hair that’s soft, unlike so many of the gangsters with their polished helmets of pomade. Straight nose, right-angle jaw. I notice he’s got a nice build, too, not too big, not too slim, his long legs stretched out under the bar as his torso’s rounded over its edge.
Go, Joan. Move.
Put your head down. This is no time to get distracted.
I give him a smile and force myself to keep walking down the corridor.
But when I’m halfway down the hall, I hear a hesitant, “Joan, right?”
I turn around. And there he is, Alex, no more than ten feet away, like I conjured him there myself. I don’t say anything, but I get a flippy, almost sick feeling in my stomach, now that he’s closer.
“Just need to use the washroom.” Alex gives a big exhale when I don’t answer. “Actually, I don’t need to use the washroom. I just . . . wanted to say hello.”
But my mind stays blank, and I keep staring like a damn fool at his pretty face.
“Anyway, probably should get going,” he says, not that I blame him, seeing as he’s found a weird mute in the hall. He turns back to the main space.
And then I find my nerve, my magic, and quick throw up a double-sided protective wall in front of him at the mouth of the hallway: on the show space side, a replica of an empty hall. On ours, a thin sheet of glass, so we can see the show space without being seen ourselves.
Alex turns back to me, a sparkle in his eye. “Wait . . . was that you?”
“Got to watch what you say in this place.” I recover with a smile. “I feel a bit more comfortable talking, now that we have some privacy.”
“So you’re a sorcerer?”
I make a little curtsy.
He smiles. “I thought you said you were a stagehand.”