A Curious Beginning

“Oh, perfectly.” I smiled broadly and he muttered another curse before taking my hand and leading me from the caravan. Once outside he quickly tied the scarlet neckcloth and then put his arm firmly about my waist, holding me securely on my feet as we made our way to the tent where we would be performing. He guided me to a flap at the back, and from the front I could hear the professor explaining that the great Rizzolo had been called away and that in his place they were privileged to have Rizzolo’s own mentor, the greatest of the greats, a man who held the secrets of magic within his fingertips, the astonishing Stoker and his beautiful assistant. I giggled, and Mr. Stoker lifted his hand, his palm flat.

He said nothing, but I understood the warning implicit in the gesture and bit my tongue hard against another laugh that was bubbling up. After that, things began to happen quite quickly. The crowd hurried in, jostling and whispering, and then, with a final flourish of hyperbole, we made our way through the rear flap. I waved and smiled, and Mr. Stoker scowled, which suited his role as mysterious conjurer quite perfectly. He secured me in the restraints and I blew him a kiss, which seemed to distract him, but only for a moment. He turned but did not address the crowd. They fell silent with expectation, and still he said nothing. The moment stretched on, the tension peaking in exquisite torment, and only when they were at their most fevered and excited did he speak. It was masterfully done. They were spellbound, all eyes fixed upon him as he moved slowly in front of them. I realized then how exotic he must seem to these plain countryfolk. He was big as a farm lad, but he moved with a natural grace that would have done credit to any member of the genus Panthera. He was predatory as he stalked them, demanding their attention and respect, and they watched him in awe as he conjured items seemingly from thin air. He brought out silk handkerchiefs and velvet roses, a handful of golden coins, and from behind one boy’s ear, a tiny mechanical bird that hopped when he held it on his palm. They were intoxicated with him, as much from the force of his personality as the tricks themselves.

He directed their attention to the arrangement of knives and made a great show of asking the village blacksmith to test my restraints and his own blades. The fellow agreed that all was as it should be and Mr. Stoker stepped to his mark, bouncing the first knife slightly on his palm. The crowd was hushed, their nerves taut as an archer’s bowstring as they waited. Again he toyed with them, delaying the inevitable until he judged the moment was ripe. Then, in a motion so fast a cobra would envy him, he whipped the knife through the air, pinning it to the board beside my head. The crowd roared, and he did it again, eleven more times in quick succession until the knives were quivering around me. They cheered and he bowed. He made no sign of releasing me, so I merely smiled and inclined my head as they applauded. One of the lads had been appointed to pass his hat, so he made his way through the crowd collecting the coins they showered happily upon him.

At last he turned to me, saying nothing as he removed the blades. Then he moved to unbuckle the restraints. “Can you walk on your own?” he asked softly, his mouth grazing my ear.

“Doubtful,” I admitted.

He sighed. “No matter.” He released the restraints and scooped me up in the most undignified fashion possible, flinging me over his shoulder like a sack of grain and waving to the crowd. They roared in laughter and I suppressed the urge to kick him as he ducked out of the tent.

“Was that necessary?” I demanded of his backside.

“Entirely,” he told me. “You said you cannot walk and I have no intention of throwing out my back simply because you cannot hold your drink. This is the easiest way to carry heavy loads.”

I did kick him then, but I missed, for my foot swung at empty air and he merely clamped a large warm hand to my thigh. “Mr. Stoker, that is most inappropriate,” I said, more for form’s sake than out of any real objection. I had found the experience thoroughly stimulating. But we had reached the caravan by then and he set me on my feet.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said cordially.

He leaned closer to me, and I realized the moon had risen, slightly fuller than the night before, shedding a romantic silver light upon the landscape. His dark hair was tumbled and the moon glinted upon his earring, giving him a mysterious air. In the distance I heard the music from Otto’s accordion—some melody I had never heard, full of longing and promise and urgency. Even the roses had unfurled, wafting their heady fragrance into the night air to intoxicating effect. It was as if the entire world conspired to create an atmosphere so romantic only a poet might have done justice to it.

Mr. Stoker’s gaze rested on mine, then moved down to my lips and back again. His lips parted, slowly, so slowly, and he spoke. “We can’t repeat it, Veronica,” he said, his voice oddly thick.

He leaned closer still, and the night seemed full of him. The clean male scent of him was in my nose, and I could feel the solid warmth of his flesh as he stood so very near to me. “No, we mustn’t,” I agreed. “Such proximity is dangerous.”

Something warred in his face, dueling emotions he could not quite master. “Yes, quite dangerous,” he said, moving closer still, almost unwillingly, his body seemingly drawn to mine against his wishes. It occurred to me then that he was dangerously close to doing something we would both regret—probably the instant it happened.