“It’s some kind of double replica—”
“He’s got her, she’s got him—”
“Did you see the other side?”
The excited whispers encourage me, empower me. I can no longer see Joan herself, just her replica, who smiles at me, frozen, inside my side of the glass. I slowly raise my left hand to touch the image of her hair. The thick black waves spark and then turn red as fire, her hair churning into a sea of bright auburn.
I hear the crowd gasp, laugh with delight behind me.
Joan must be meeting my move with her own embellishments to my image on the other side. I can’t see what she’s doing, but the crowd of women behind her look at her side of the glass, then peer around to me. “She somehow made him better,” I hear the amused whispers.
I turn back to my own work in progress, touch the glass where Joan’s lips are smirking at me, and with a wave, I change them to purple. Joan responds with another embellishment on her side. I carefully touch the shoulder of her replica’s dress. It’s just a replica, but even still, I find myself blushing with the gesture. At my touch, the replica’s entire black, lacy dress transforms into a pure, sky-blue shimmer.
“Time’s up,” Joan says softly.
I step a few feet away from the glass, and as we’ve rehearsed, we switch places to see what the other has created. I laugh out loud. My replica has hair as colorful as our upcoming dawn -finale—a nice touch and teaser from Joan—a shimmering purple suit, skin the color of eggplant. I look more than magical. The reflection is electric. I wonder if this is how Joan somehow sees me.
It gives me a strange and wonderful sensation, thinking about whether it is.
I look around. We have at least fifty patrons of the hundred fifty surrounding us. I get a heady surge of pride, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t ground myself. Instead I just enjoy who I’m with and revel in this chance to showcase what I can do—regardless of what it’s ultimately for.
Joan and I pinch out our own replicas, and then we spellbind the mirror once more, run the trick through once, twice, four more times as some of our initial patrons flitter off to other performance circles, but many stay camped right in their seats. Before I know it, the music changes, becomes more festive, lively, and the clock hanging above the double-door entrance chimes nine. Joan rounds the glass stand and joins me on my side.
“I forgot to tell you about this part,” she whispers. There’s excitement in her voice; she knows we’ve done well. “The finale will start in about twenty minutes. This is intermission, where we interact with the audience, flirt a little, get them excited for the finale.”
I smirk at her, emboldened by our trick together. “Flirt how?”
“Like a little parlor trick for a patron or two, like your compass manipulation, or that flower move you pulled on me in the hall.”
“That wasn’t a move,” I say. “That was for you.”
It’s the right answer, because she blushes, smiles at the floor. “Whatever you say, Alex Danfrey.” She steps around the benches and makes her way into the crowd. “Go after the ladies. They’ll love you. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
She disappears into the crowd of tuxes and evening gowns and is swallowed whole by hungry patrons who begin to chat her up, angling for a little magic for themselves. I take a scan around at the packed crowd of the auditorium. One hundred and fifty people move through the performance space in all directions, surrounding the sorcerers, or milling around the stages. I do a quick scan for familiar faces—for McEvoy’s main men, his underbosses, for anyone I’m actually here to track—but I don’t recognize a soul.
So I target my sights on an older woman, fiftyish, painted, all dolled up with money and privilege. She’s got a smile on, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. As I walk toward her, ready to fashion her a rose, put a real smile on that painted face, Howie Matthews appears out of nowhere, stops right in front of me, blocking my way.
I’m shocked still at seeing him. It’s like a window to my past opening, sobering me, blowing in a stiff, uncomfortable breeze in the middle of this warm madness.
He grins. “You look good in a costume, Alex.”
“It’s good to see you, Howie,” I reply, recovering. “Been a long time. Too long.”
He shrugs as he looks around the performance space. “I’ve been busy.”
“You just here for the show?” I say slowly. The pull of my hunt is now back in full force, tugging inside me once more. Howie’s a small-time player, just another guy on Win’s ride-alongs. He wouldn’t be in on anything involving the higher-ups . . . would he? “Nice to see you get a night off.”