After a couple moments, he says, “Okay, open them.”
I gasp. Built around Alex and me is a small gazebo drenched in lush green ivy, white-latticed walls, a cathedral-domed roof. Peeking in through the openings of the gazebo are all sorts of wildflowers, and if I angle my head just a few inches, I can see a brilliant, near-electric-blue sky cast over the gazebo like a warm blanket. The shadows of flowering bushes dance along the white wooden frame, their rhythm set by a soft and sweet magic wind. Alex’s talent is extraordinary. A manipulation this complicated could only be pulled off by me, and maybe Ral with Billy’s help.
“It’s . . . breathtaking,” I finally say. I realize I’m now holding on to his forearm, and I collect myself, let go. “The detail is amazing. Alex, you’ve got much more than chops.”
There’s a twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes. “If you can’t go outside, I thought I’d bring outside to you,” he says. “Besides, sometimes magic is far better than the real thing. Right now you’re missing a cold, ugly, gray December evening.”
I close my eyes once more and inhale Alex’s manipulation. Even the scent of it is perfect—the faintest hint of roses, that rich, musty smell of earth.
“Do you need birds?” Alex whispers. “Because I can add birds.”
I laugh. “I’ll get by without birds.” But then I hear the faintest chirp of sparrows in the background. It sounds like morning back in Parsonage, the spring chicks peeping outside our cabin window as I roll over and throw my arm around Ruby.
“We all need a breath of fresh air every once in a while,” Alex adds. “Remember that.”
And for some reason—whether ’cause I’ve stumbled into thinking about home, or ’cause this gangster seems to understand me more than anyone in the troupe right now, or ’cause I really did need a breath of fresh air, more than I realized, my eyes start to water.
Alex notices. “Crap, did I do something wrong? Is this okay?”
“It’s better than okay.” The feeling Alex brings on—warm and heady and tingly—it comes on strong again. But this time it’s got an undercurrent, a distinct pang of guilt. Alex has nothing to do with why I’m here and what I need to do, I realize. Alex is just for me. And I gave up a long time ago thinking I deserved something of my own.
We both hear the click of a lock, and then muffled voices, the creak of the door. Alex quickly raises his right hand, and the entire garden starts to swirl, and then disintegrate into a powdery dust that whips and vanishes into nothing.
And then it’s just the two of us, feet apart, standing in the middle of an empty hallway.
“Not a word of this,” Boss McEvoy snaps, as he smacks open Gunn’s office door and barrels into the hallway.
“Of course,” Gunn answers behind him.
I instinctively step away as McEvoy approaches. But he doesn’t even stop, just grabs Alex’s shoulder and draws him forward like a horse. Before they reach the mouth of the hallway, I remember to release my manipulated wall. Alex looks back, once, before McEvoy drags him into the show space and out the double doors.
*
Gunn’s little gift of a break before our showtime backfires. Instead of showing up looking rested and ready for the night, our troupe feels even more off than we did at rehearsal. Ral and Billy get downstairs only a few minutes before eight. Tommy and Rose are actually late, and I’d bet money they’re already shined. Pinprick pupils, goofy grins. Not that they’ll get spoken to for it, since Gunn isn’t even on the floor—I’m not sure if the underbosses’ meeting is still going on, or if Gunn’s somewhere else, taking care of the rest of the “pieces” of his cryptic plan. So when the double doors burst open and the stagehands turn on the jazz and the patrons flood around our performance circles in their evening best, it’s the least prepared I’ve ever felt for a show.
I try to relax and just focus on my solo performance. My magic manipulation starts with a bin of feathers: I take a handful and throw a ring around the border of my performance circle. And then I orchestrate the feathers like a conductor, spinning them, bringing them together like a fluid current, until out of a white blur of magic, a dove is birthed. Sometimes folks will even stay right on their benches, sip their complimentary whiskey or brandy, and watch me do it twice.
But tonight I can’t even revel in it. Tonight I’m just going through the motions, my mind always somewhere else. Running through what Grace told me about Stock spreading rumors, to thinking about Alex, to worrying about the blood-spell and Gunn, and then frustration and worry eclipse everything else.