The only sound other than the occasional crackle of the dying fire was the storm outside, as the wind whistled and rattled the windowpanes. Had man’s dominion broken Nature’s social union in Edinburgh? he wondered. Or was Nature herself to blame, and man just a part of a wider circle of savagery?
Anger swept over him. He realized with a shock that his fury was directed not at the person responsible for his parents’ death, but at them. He was furious at them for dying, for leaving him behind to worry about his emotionally crippled brother. At that moment, he despised Donald, too—might it have been better if his brother also had perished in the fire? Or even Ian himself?
He reproached himself for such thoughts. He recalled the sweet, carefree years in the Highlands. Were they, too, just an illusion, seen through the mist of time and memory? The story of his family’s life seemed to be missing chapters. Ian rose from his chair and pulled aside the curtains, peering into the darkness. Snow swirled around the gas lamps on Victoria Terrace, creating a halo of white around the yellow flames.
One thing was certain: time did not move backward. He could never reclaim those days; all he could do was hold them close and lurch into the future. He had but one thing, he thought grimly: the chase. While he was engaged in the pursuit of criminals, everything else fell away, and he experienced a sense of purpose. He gazed into the darkness and waited for the coming dawn.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The man on the stage of the Theatre Royal spread his arms wide as he stepped into the glare of the spotlight. Tilting his head back so the beam focused directly upon his glistening black hair, he peered into the darkened theater. Every woman in the audience felt he was looking directly at her, and every man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Monsieur Jacques Le Coq greeted his captivated audience with a smile, the light glinting off his broad whalebone-white teeth. Every woman in the room felt her heart flutter, and every man felt his sink. The hypnotist was a fine figure of a man, elegant in his black tails and crisp white cummerbund. His hair was thick and glossy as a colt’s coat, his shoes polished to a dazzling sheen. But it was more than that. His presence onstage commanded attention. Lillian herself was quite taken by the man’s seductive power, caught up in it in spite of herself.
“How many of you believe in the power of the human mind?” he said, his voice low and rich and heavily accented, showing its Gallic roots.
A murmur rippled through the audience. He held up his hand, and silence fell over the crowd.
“No state is so natural to the human condition as that of longing,” he declared, strolling to the right side of the stage. “When we are hungry, we long for food—and as soon as we are sated, we think wistfully of our next meal. Poetry, theater, and song exist because of longing—our myths and stories are full of separated lovers, ambition-crazed kings, and nobly striving heroes. Longing ignites the poetry in our souls like nothing else—not love, not Nature, not domestic tranquility. Many of you are here tonight because you long for something, though you may not know what it is.”
He gazed upon the ladies in the front row, who tittered and blushed. He strode to the other side of the stage and looked up at the box seat where Lillian sat. She felt the heat rise up her own neck, her cheeks burning.
“But the power of the human mind has not been sufficiently explored,” he continued. “It has the power to overcome not only longing but also pain and suffering and a multitude of life’s travails. Who among you believes in the power of the human mind?”
“I do!” shouted a young man in the third row, and all eyes turned toward him. He was seated next to a very pretty young woman in a light blue dress, her face garlanded with ringlets of light brown hair. It was obvious he meant to impress her. There were titters among the audience members, and several of the ladies fluttered their fans in front of their faces, hiding all but their eyes.
Monsieur Le Coq smiled. “And what might your name be?”
“Phillip!” the young man replied, his voice faltering as people twisted around in their seats to get a good look at him.
“A name fit for a king,” the hypnotist remarked drily, his audience responding with a burst of nervous laughter. The young man joined in, but his eyes showed more apprehension than amusement.
“Would you like to help me demonstrate the power of the human mind, Phillip?” Monsieur Le Coq inquired genially, rubbing his hands together.
“I should be delighted!” Phillip responded a bit too loudly, his voice tight and high with tension.
“Very well,” the hypnotist replied, rewarding the ladies with another dazzling smile. “Come right on up here, if you would, Phillip.”
Phillip rose from his seat, straightened his cummerbund, and drew a hand over his already impeccably combed hair. Seizing his young lady’s hand, he kissed it with a flourish before squeezing between the seats of the other patrons to get to the aisle. Some of the ladies around him sighed at the gallant gesture, while their husbands frowned at its theatricality. He was a nice-enough-looking young man, if a bit slight, with a firm chin and a fine, aristocratic nose. As he ascended the steps to the proscenium, he caught the toe of his shoe and tripped, but quickly regained his balance, climbing briskly to the stage.
Monsieur Le Coq met him with a firm handshake and a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Ladies and gentlemen, our first brave volunteer of the evening—Phillip!”
The audience responded with a smattering of applause. Tension hung in the air, thick as an Edinburgh fog. The audience leaned forward, a great curious beast, its attention focused upon the proscenium, as a stagehand carried a simple, straight-backed chair onto the stage. Monsieur Le Coq nodded, and the stagehand withdrew silently into the wings.
Next to the hypnotist, with his powerful shoulders and leonine mane of dark hair, Phillip looked spindly and ill-nourished. Lillian thought that some of Monsieur Le Coq’s effectiveness derived from his impressive, muscular build. He seemed to dwarf the young man who stood before him, gaining in stature as the other appeared to grow smaller.
“Now then, Phillip,” he declaimed in his deep, resonant voice, which carried with ease to the back stalls, “how are you this evening?”
“Very well, thank you,” the young man replied, though he was looking less well by the minute. His left knee was shaking, and his jaw was clenched; beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
“Relax!” Monsieur Le Coq commanded, clasping both hands upon Phillip’s shoulders. At first the gesture appeared to startle him, but as the hypnotist’s eyes met his, all the tension drained from the young man’s body. Lillian feared he might fall if not for the firm grasp of the hypnotist holding him upright.