“There’s a small lever by your right toe. It’ll take some practice to find—”
She hit the lever, and he had to jump to catch the glass top from sliding too quickly. “You were saying?”
He scowled at her. “And now we close it.”
“But—”
Before she could protest, he was already pulling the top down and locking it with a bronze padlock. Fog from her breath started to build on the glass, inches from her nose. Suddenly, the air felt too warm, too close.
“There aren’t any air holes,” he shouted, his voice muffled by the glass. “You’ll have to work fast.”
No air holes? She was going to kill him.
Her foot fumbled for the latch but missed the first time.
If he doesn’t finish me off first, that is.
“We’ll have a cue or something,” he was shouting, motioning to the lever near her foot. “Some sort of hand motion or signal to . . .”
She pulled time around her, slowed the seconds, and depressed the latch. The glass released, and she slid it away from her face, taking a moment to breathe in the cool, musty air of the basement and allowing the prickle of panic to recede from her skin before she climbed out. Composing herself, she wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts and then slid the glass back into place before examining Harte. Nearly frozen midword, his eyes gleamed.
He loves this.
Whatever else he pretended, whatever he’d done or was going to do, she could see that he wasn’t pretending his excitement for this new trick—effect. Whatever. The point was that he loved it as much as she loved the rush from lifting a fat wallet or hearing the tumblers of a lock click into place.
She felt that strange lurch in her stomach, one that she didn’t like at all, so she released time and watched Harte sputter midsentence.
“. . . let you know—oh.” His face split into a surprised smile. His stormy eyes lit, unguarded and unaware that he was showing her something new about himself. ?“Yes! That’s it exactly.” Then he seemed to realize he’d revealed too much. “You’ll have to wait for my cue, of course,” he said, back to his usual arrogance. “You don’t want to come out too soon and ruin everything. We’ll have to—”
“You locked me in an airtight box,” she said flatly, interrupting him.
His brow furrowed. “That’s kind of the point. If there’s no sense of danger, the audience won’t care.”
“You. Locked. Me. In. An. Airtight. Box,” she said again, enunciating each word through her clenched teeth.
“Maybe we should add something more,” he said, not paying any attention to her outrage.
“You could have warned me before you locked me in. ?You should have warned me.”
He ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “You got out,” he said, looking at her as though he didn’t understand her point.
“You could have killed me!”
“I didn’t—” he started to say, but when she stepped toward him, he put his hands up defensively. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”
“Dolph isn’t going like it if I end up dead.”
“You’re probably right about that, too.” He ducked his head and unlatched the bronze padlock. “But other than the almost dying, what do you think?”
She shrugged, reluctant to give him any credit at all. “It’ll be okay.”
“Okay?” He laughed. “No. This will be like nothing anyone has ever seen. If this doesn’t convince Jack that you have something he wants, nothing will. ?This has to work.”
“It will,” she said, looking over the glass coffin again. “We’ll make it work. Together.”
“We just might,” he said, his expression changing. “Here’s to bringing down the Order.” He held out his hand, his eyes serious. Esta considered all the reasons she shouldn’t let him touch her, but in the end she placed her gloved hand in his. He squeezed gently, but the warmth she felt thrum through her had nothing to do with the peculiar energy left behind by magic.
The atmosphere between them grew thick, charged. She pulled her hand away.
“Esta . . . ,” he started, but hesitated as though he didn’t quite know what he wanted to say.
Before he could figure it out, a voice called from close by. “Harte?” Evelyn said, stepping into the light thrown by his work lamp.
The moment broken, he took a step back from Esta, looking suddenly embarrassed. Or guilty. “Yeah?” He wiped the hand that had just shaken hers on his pants.
“Shorty wanted me to let you know you’re on in twenty.”
“He sent you down here?” he asked, a frown tugging at his mouth.
Evelyn put her hands on her hips. “Is that a problem?”
“No. Sorry. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“I’ll see you upstairs,” she said sweetly, before giving Esta a pointed glance and then slinking back from wherever she’d come.
Esta watched her go, wondering how long Evelyn had been standing in the shadows. And how much she’d heard. But if Harte was concerned, he didn’t show it.
“Look, I’ve got to get ready for the show, but stick around, would you?”
She glanced up at him, surprised. He’d never invited her to stay and watch his show, or to wait for him after.
“So we can practice again,” he finished, tugging at one of his suspenders. “I’m thinking once we work on the timing, I can get ahold of Jack. It shouldn’t take us that long to get it right.”
“Oh, right,” she said, feeling suddenly stupid. Of course. “Dolph would want us to get this going. We’ve taken long enough.”
“So you’ll wait?”
“Yeah,” she said, pasting on an encouraging smile. “Absolutely.”
After he’d disappeared up the steps, she let the smile fall from her face and ran her hands along the smooth glass of the box. It was a good idea, a good effect, she had to admit. It might even be enough to convince Jack Grew that she had something he wanted, but they couldn’t take any chances. The trick needed to be better than good—it needed to be spectacular.
IMPROVISING
Harte had never seen Esta so on edge. After he’d explained how they would run the lost heir on Jack, they’d settled into a steady—if not quite comfortable—rhythm as they prepared for the Friday-night performance. Everything he’d thrown at her—and it had been plenty—she’d given back to him in turn, and with a smirk on her face that told him she was enjoying herself. But standing in the wings, her apple-green silk gown glinting in the lights from the stage, she was going to chew a hole in her lip while she watched the act before him.
“You’ll be fine,” he said, resting his hands on her bare shoulders. He felt her stiffen, but she didn’t pull away, even when he rubbed his thumb gently over the pink scar on her arm. She wouldn’t tell him what it was from, but the angry pucker of skin had drawn his attention and his concern.
“Don’t,” she whispered, turning her head back to look at him with a frown. Her honey-colored eyes were serious, and if he wasn’t mistaken, scared.