That was before she went off script. He couldn’t afford any more of her improvising, so he shut the lid tight, latched on the padlock, and tossed the key into the audience with a flourish. Esta made a good show of it, frantically pounding at the glass to get out. At least, he thought with a twinge of guilt, he hoped it was only a show.
He gave the signal for the stagehands to bring out the second part of the trick—a contraption that suspended an iron weight over the glass box by a piece of rope.
“Fire. ?The most volatile of all the elements,” he told the audience as he set off a flare in his hand and used it to light a candle beneath the rope. “If I am not able to call upon my mastery of the Otherworld’s powers, the flame will burn through this rope and the weight will fall, crushing the casket . . . and Miss Filosik with it.”
The theater was on the edge of their seats, watching the girl struggle against the glass box, watching the candle eat away at the fragile rope. Waiting with violent glee to see whether she’d live or die.
He picked up his scarlet cape and twirled it over his head. One . . .
Over the casket where the girl writhed and slapped at the glass. Two . . .
He closed his eyes and sent up a quick prayer to the god he’d long given up on that he hadn’t overplayed his hand. Then he twirled the cape in front of him, obscuring the audience’s view for less than a second, as the candle ate through the final bit of rope.
Just as the weight fell, shattering the glass.
Three.
A MISSTEP
She took a moment to enjoy Harte’s dazed look of relief before she gave the shocked audience her most dazzling smile.
“I guess Papa was wrong,” she said, and the audience went wild.
She took her time raising one arm, like he’d taught her, to take her bow. The thrill of the crowd’s rolling applause sank into her, warming something deep within her.
In that moment, she understood Harte a little better.
He was staring at her, and for once, he was speechless. Not that she blamed him. She hadn’t exactly warned him about the costume change she’d orchestrated. She’d paid the theater’s seamstress, Cela, to create the scrap of a costume she was now wearing, because she’d been watching in the wings for days now, and all that watching had taught her something—it wasn’t only wonder and awe that sold an act. A little skin didn’t hurt either.
Evelyn and her sisters, if that was what they really were, had about as much talent as a trio of alley cats in heat, but they knew when to show a little leg and to give a little tease. And they got the audience’s attention every single night.
Harte’s face was turning an alarming shade of red as she made one last curtsy and took herself off, stage left. She was barely out of the footlights when he came charging behind her. He ripped the robe from the stagehand’s grasp and wrapped it around her.
“What the hell was that?” he asked. “And what are you wearing?”
“Do you like it?” She opened the robe to give him a better look.
In her own time, the outfit—a corseted top with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a pair of bloomers that came to midthigh—would have been laughably modest. The entire thing was made from a gorgeous midnight-blue silk and was studded with crystals that glittered in the dim light of the wings like a field of stars. Old-fashioned as it might be, she loved it. Not only was it beautifully made, but after the long skirts and layers of fabric she’d been wearing for weeks now, she felt lighter. More like herself.
Harte opened his mouth, but all that came out was a choked sound. He tied the robe back around her again.
She decided to take it as a compliment.
He was still sputtering in anger when Evelyn came up to them and wiped at Harte’s cheek with her fingertip. “You got something on your face, there.” ?Then she laughed at him and walked off.
He reached up, still wordless, and rubbed where she’d touched. His brows furrowed as he saw the red stain on his fingertips, and when he looked in the small mirror on the wall, he turned an even deeper shade of red.
“You kissed me?”
Esta shrugged. “I thought it would be a nice touch.”
She hadn’t planned it, but when she had pulled the seconds around her and made time go slow, it seemed too easy to simply get herself out of the box and slip the green gown off. He’d been so bossy all afternoon, she couldn’t resist playing with him a little—giving him back some of what he’d given her—so she’d left the bright red imprint of her lips on his cheek before she let go of her hold on time.
To the audience, it all happened at once—the amazing escape, her metamorphosis into the new outfit, and the mark on his cheek. For them, she’d gone from seconds-away-from-death to victory in a blink.
“You should have cleared it with me,” he said, rubbing at the red spot and making it worse as he smeared it.
“Funny. I’ve thought that every time you’ve kissed me. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”
“It doesn’t matter if it worked,” he told her, turning to her with an expression so angry, she took a step back.
Esta pulled the robe tighter around herself and headed toward Harte’s dressing room. She didn’t bother to check if he was following her. She didn’t need to—she could practically feel him breathing down her neck.
She tossed off the robe as she walked into the room. Before she had time to turn around, he’d slammed the door, closing them into the small space alone and away from the prying eyes of the other performers. She turned, her arms crossed, and propped herself against his dressing table, refusing to be intimidated. “What is your problem? Tonight went well. Better than well. They loved it.”
“This is my act,” he said, stalking toward her. “It’s my call what happens out there. ?You don’t get to change it without my say-so.”
She’d known he’d be a little annoyed, maybe even upset by her not telling him, but she truly hadn’t predicted that her little addition to the act would make him so furious. Their almost-easy partnership for the last few days had made her forget her position, and she’d miscalculated, forgotten how different things were between men and women in this time. Harte might have acted more enlightened than most, but he was still a product of his time. Of course he’d take any adjustment to his act personally. She should have realized.
Not that she was going to apologize. The risk had worked, and he was going to have to deal with it. She turned her back to him so that she could use the mirror to take off her stage makeup.
His face appeared in the mirror behind her, looming over her shoulder. “I thought after this week—”
“Darrigan!” Shorty poked his head through the door before she could finish. “Good job, kid. That was a helluva trick you two did out there,” he said as he came into the room, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He gave Harte a rough thump on the back that seemed to shut him up and then handed him a slip of paper. “Message for you,” he said with another thump on the shoulder before backing out and closing the door behind him.
“What is it?” Esta tried to peer at the message while Harte used his shoulder and his height to keep its contents away from her.