I could have hugged him, but I knew he’d much prefer a firm nod of the head, which I gladly supplied. “Yes, thank you. I shall sleep for an hour or two.”
He gave me room to pass, and I continued down the hall, poking my head into a few rooms before finding one empty parlor with exactly what I needed: a window leading to the narrow alley by the side of the house.
Holding my breath, I rattled the window open, squeezed through the frame, and nearly twisted my ankle landing on the damp, uneven cobblestones outside. Goose pimples formed along my arms, and I sincerely wished I had grabbed my cloak beforehand. Too late now. No choice but to brave the bitter cold.
I smoothed out my wrinkled dress and set off through the dense fog toward the glow of the main street, a slight fear pricking in my stomach with every clacking step. Never had I wandered London alone at night, nor considered it even a remote possibility, which meant my mind hadn’t yet found anything in particular to be terrified of and instead settled on everything in general. Every dark patch of the street rendered me vulnerable to criminals, and every yellow pool of gaslight exposed me to Society. Every passing pedestrian produced a flinch as I expected a thief or shocked acquaintance, while every stretch of silence meant no one to help me out of danger. Every moment, I alternated between keeping my head down inconspicuously and raising it to be aware and anxious of the entire street. Any lingering thrill of freedom that I might have had was completely swept away by the terrifying uncertainty.
A light breeze blew my skirts askew and sent stinging fragments of dirt and dust into my eyes. I swiped the debris away and tried to console myself with the resolution to send Mr. Kent a message at the theater, but at the present, the decision did nothing to calm my nerves. A few long blocks made it clear the theater was much farther than anticipated. Even as I crossed streets and sidewalks, recalling landmarks and memorable images from the carriage ride, part of me still worried this walk would somehow last forever.
It was only when I heard the dear, sweet noise of traffic from a nearby thoroughfare that I allowed myself a heavy breath of relief. Cabs, carriages, and omnibuses rattled by, and the facade of the Egyptian Hall beckoned me from across the street. The archaic style was completely incongruous with the surrounding buildings, but architecture hardly warranted a second thought, what with my heart racing and all. I stumbled through the pillared doorway, purchased a floor ticket for a couple of shillings, and slipped inside. The doors closed behind me like a tomb, and the lights above were extinguished.
It took my nearly sitting on several poor attendees before I found an empty spot in the darkness. Two men in the row in front of me, who smelled as if they’d bathed in spirits, turned around, gazed hazily at me, and offered a drink from their flask. I politely declined as I landed heavily in my seat. Smoke discharged in the center of the stage, and a figure seemingly materialized out of the air with a bang. When the smog dissipated, I almost cursed aloud. The magician was wearing a blasted mask!
The combination of his navy cloak, my distant seat, and the sheer spectacle of the show rendered it impossible to determine if he was the same Mr. Cheval. This one was certainly a big man, but his confidence set him apart. His physical movements at the ball appeared awkward and clumsy, but here onstage, he was in his element. Every motion was precise, every step graceful. He treated his act like a delicate experiment. He performed disappearing tricks with two beautiful assistants. He brought a woman from the audience onstage, demonstrated what he called “the science of mind reading,” and guessed everything about her correctly. He blended vials of chemicals, dropped them in an empty box, and conjured up birds and rabbits from his compounds. He even performed surgery on an assistant by cutting off her head and miraculously restoring it within seconds. Perhaps it was entertaining, judging from the loud laughter and applause from the two drunkards in front of me. But after all this, I was no closer to confirming his identity. I did not have the patience or time to sit through the entire performance, then wait outside for another hour in the hopes of catching him after. That would run too dangerously close to the end of Lady Kent and Laura’s night.
When Mr. Cheval announced in his light accent that we had reached the show’s centerpiece—a death-defying escape from a locked glass box—I leaned over to the drunkards. “I have seen this trick before—he just uses a double! That’s why he has the mask!”
Gratifyingly, one man gasped and the other let loose the same sort of wailing “No!” that Achilles might have unleashed at his discovery of Patroclus’s body. I nodded significantly.
The more vocal one turned to the stage and loudly slurred, “Take off the mask, you fake! You have a double and we know it!”