At that, Alex throws me that smirk that I’m always sort of angling for from him, the one where it almost looks like he’s about to laugh at you and with you at the same time. “Seriously, Joan. Thank you.”
My face flushes, so I nod and start to pace around my circle. “We practice our individual performances every day—the one-man and two-man tricks that take up the show’s first hour or so—and then Gunn comes in after lunch to give us his thoughts on the night’s finale,” I say. “Then we’ll experiment, try to run the finale a few ways, until we finally show him a dress rehearsal. After dress, we break for about an hour and come back here a little early for the real show.”
Alex raises his eyebrows. “Long day.”
I shrug. “It is, but you get used to it. There’s a show every night but Sunday, which I usually spend sleeping.”
Alex smiles again. “And the shows start at eight?”
I nod and point to the double doors. “Right through there, a hundred and fifty patrons come pouring into our show space. And trust me, the crowd is always something to see.”
“Lots of crazy cats come in here?”
I grin. “Rich, eccentric, addicted to shine. Sure you can paint yourself a pretty picture.” Then I tell him about some of the better finales we’ve conjured, and how we wrap up the show by brewing sorcerer’s shine for the audience. “Win told Gunn that you’re steady with transference—that you can brew your magic into a bottle, right?”
Alex nods.
“Well, we brew the shine up there, on the stage”—I point to the back of the show space—“and the stagehands take care of pouring it and passing it around.” I smirk at Alex. “And then it really gets insane in here.”
Alex laughs. “Like how?”
“People claiming that they’re seeing God, walking around like mummies, mumbling to themselves.” I laugh. “Lord, some even go stripping and streaking. Once caught a little orgy in the corner over there.” I feel my cheeks flush again, and look away. Why did I just mention that to him? “Sometimes I sneak up to my room, when Gunn’s not looking, just for a little break from it.”
“I hear you,” Alex says, as his laughter begins to fall away. “Some nights on the road I would have given up my right hand for a ten-minute break from McEvoy.” He points to my circular stage. “So what’s your trick?”
“Watch and learn.” And then I run through my solo performance, the one I’ve done over a hundred times since I arrived at the Red Den, where I take a ring of feathers, lift them until they slowly encircle me, then spin them fast as a tornado, until a live dove flies out of the chaos. I’ve done the trick so many times that I don’t even consider it “magic” anymore, but when the bird flaps to the rafters above, Alex gives a sigh, just like a patron. “That’s amazing.” He looks at me. “What do you do with all the birds?”
“A stagehand rounds up the five or so I make each night into a cage,” I say, as I gather more feathers from my bin. “Then I release them, to fly for one glorious night, before they’re condemned to disappear.” I give a little smile. “For that minute, when I lean out the window and watch them flap away, I pretend that I’m flying with them.” Lord, I can’t believe I just said that out loud. It feels weak, and sappy, and it’s something I haven’t even shared with Grace. Maybe ’cause it makes it sound like I want to run away. And maybe ’cause sometimes, when I’m in Gunn’s office, when the walls are closing in, there’s nothing closer to the truth.
But Alex doesn’t flinch, and his eyes grow warmer. “Where would you go?”
If I really could fly? I’d turn Ruby, Ben, and me all into birds, let the three of us soar under the moon, without a care in the world, Ruby’s laughter spellbinding the night. “I’d fly for as long as I could.” I look away from him. “Why don’t you try it this time?”
“I don’t know if I can,” he says doubtfully.
I sit on the bench next to him. “Just focus on every feather, at the same time you’re imagining the bird. Your magic touch wants to make the connections.”
Alex nods, turns in on himself. He dumps some more feathers around him. Then he furrows his brow, points his hands toward the floor, and the feathers begin to lift, sashay. Then they start to move together like a complicated dance. But my eyes stay on Alex. He’s beautiful, standing there concentrating, his hair flopping over a strong brow that’s just starting to perspire. He’s exactly the kind of intriguing, handsome boy you’d want to trick you.
The feathers soon spin into a frantic white wind, and then a dove is birthed from the center of its magic cocoon. The bird flies across the show space and lands on a ceiling pipe high above the double doors.
“You’re really talented, Alex.”
“I’m not so sure anymore, now that I can see what you all can do.” But he’s clearly pleased by my compliment.