ã€ŠAbracadabraã€‹


 Authors Note

    This is contained in a Spoiler, because reading this note should be fully intentional, and not just because the words are there and you''re a fast reader.

    Abracadabra was first developed in 2011 with the collaboration of my friend, Courtney Rae Canavan. Over the next couple years, we outlined, drafted, played around with an AU, and crafted over 500,000 words together in hopes to make something worth publishing some day. It was a passion project full of late-night messaging until the sun rose, giggling over inside jokes we would sneak passages in for one another, and playing around with prose.

    In 2013, though, Courtney was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and we put a pause on our project so she could focus on trying to get better. Ultimately, on Saint Patrick''s Day in 2014, she passed away.

    (In an added twinge of irony, the last scene we wrote together was set on Saint Patrick''s Day because we wanted to write about our mutually favorite holiday. It''s obviously not my favorite anymore.)

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Over the years, I''ve found some comfort in drafting and playing with the world we did write together as a way of connecting with her and expressing the message we wanted to tell. As a compromise for not being able to publish with Courtney, I''ve put the story on the Internet in various forms. I haven''t progressed past where Courtney and I paused, though. Re-telling the same thing over and over again without changing much more than just the words didn''t bring her back to have her help me finish the story--a difficult lesson that took me a long time to learn.

    So for this final iteration of Abracadabra, I''ve relied more on what Courtney inspired me to write rather than attempting to regurgitate what she left behind.

    This iteration of the story is a conglomeration of everything we planned together almost ten years ago into one: The research, the alternative plotlines and scenes, the changes we saved for future drafts. It will never be what we could have made together, but if I can offer a crayon-on-a-napkin version, that''s better for the world than hiding away what we were so proud of.

    If you''ve seen an old version of this story floating around the Internet, this one will be quite different, and I hope you enjoy it, in any case.

    Past versions may have been made with help from Courtney, but this time I''m writing it for Courtney.

 Chapter One: Smoke and Mirrors

    How was it that some dreams felt more real than real life? Like waking up meant turning away from an entire reality, rather than returning to one?

    The sound of something plastic and hard vibrating off of the nightstand was probably the only reason Cadence even opened her eyes in the first place. Otherwise, her limbs weighed ten times heavier lying in bed than they did just moments ago, when she stood in front of a blazing campfire and listened to a low, hypnotic voice. The sweat from being in that stuffy dream-hut remained on her skin, her lungs burning for air untainted by smoke.

    Cadence forced herself to slide out of her bed and thudded onto her carpet to scoop up her still-vibrating phone. She may as well have been trapped in gelatin with how hard it was to flip it open and hold it to her ear.

    ¡°H-hello?¡± This world took too long to get into focus, but as it did, the comfort solidified her. Though she still felt the need to cough, she suppressed it, struggling to remind her body that she never actually breathed in smoke or listened to ominous warnings, that she was always as snug as bug in a rug, in bed, dreaming. No matter how vivid or real it felt, no matter how she could recall each detail as if she just teleported into her bed moments ago.

    She was home. Short-fiber carpet under her legs, the cold and plastic phone against her ear, the sound of her best friend''s obnoxiously loud voice rattling around her brain: home. Safe. Not chased, not confused, not alone.

    ¡°Cadence!¡± Rupert cried. ¡°Alright, ''bout time. If you didn''t answer this time, I was going to call your mom and say you went missing!¡± She scoffed automatically in response; and, without hiding her groan, began to rise to her feet.

    ¡°That sounds drastic,¡± she mumbled. Though now that she stood by her bed and could see out her window, her room did seem brighter than it should have been for a February morning. The sun wasn¡¯t supposed to rise until she had already made it to work¡ª

    ¡°She''d find you faster than the police if you went missing anyway,¡± said Rupert. Cadence ignored him now that she glanced at her wall clock. She nearly shrieked¡ªwaking up four hours later than she intended would certainly explain why the sun was up!

    ¡°Oh my god, how did¡ªhow is it almost ten already?¡± As Rupert answered her, she pulled her phone away to double-check what she saw. Cell phone battery at twenty percent, nine unread text messages, three missed calls. How did she sleep through all of that, her alarm clock, and her backup alarm on her phone? Cadence wore punctuality like a shining badge of pride, being this late wasn¡¯t supposed to be possible.

    Nestling her phone between her shoulder and ear, Cadence raced to her closet to pull out something to wear. It was so much harder to think, panicking about being late for work on top of reeling from what that dream man said¡ªwhatever it was. The dread, the tightness in her chest was the only thing she could remember. And even now, though she knew it wasn¡¯t real, something about what he said felt far more important than having to make up a couple hours of work on the weekend.

    Rupert pulled her back to reality with a loud, exaggerated sigh. ¡°I''m about to finish my coffee just now, so I think I''ll just take a medium one....¡± Right into the coffee bribery, of course. Rupert was as opportunistic as he was caring.

    ¡°I¡ªI don''t know how I slept in this late!¡± Cadence admitted as she jumped into her slacks. ¡°Medium, black coffee¡ªfine. You''ve been covering for me, right?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, Alec just walked right up to our desks. Wanna talk to him?¡± Jerk.

    ¡°Oh, shut up.¡± She tossed her phone onto her bed so she could pull on a pink sweater, but Rupert hadn''t said anything important in the meantime. By the time she¡¯d picked it up again to rush to her bathroom, Rupert had already continued trying to sell his lie to their boss.

    ¡°...think your lead is interesting, at least. I bet Alec would like to hear anyway¡ªno, no, you''re right. Never bring in a half-baked idea to the Editor. Sorry, boss. You know how she is.¡± Cadence stepped into her bathroom just in time to watch herself roll her eyes. Brown, bloodshot, exhausted. Not the eyes of a woman that just slept in an extra few hours. And her hair¡ªnormally she braided it out of the way, but she resembled someone walking out of a wind tunnel with even her bangs sticking straight up.

    Meanwhile, Rupert dropped his voice to a near-whisper, ¡°¡ªand he''s gone. Alright, so what kept you up so late that you slept through everything?¡±

    In the time it took for Rupert to ask that question, she watched her cheeks blanch. Puffy eyes were a given, but right on her cheek like a touch of blush, was a dark smattering of soot.

    As she reached up to try and wipe it away, however, she hesitated, staring at her hands. In the creases of her skin and caked under her normally meticulously tidy nails, was dirt.

    ¡°Rupert?¡± she asked into her phone quietly. Rupert silenced immediately at the slightest tremble of her voice. ¡°D-do you ever get the feeling that something is about to go terribly, terribly wrong?¡±

    <hr>

    Maybe it was the sunshine and coffee, but by the time that Cadence had made it to the office, the majority of that sticky dread had dissipated.

    Rupert, the large ginger man with the physique of a linebacker, squeezed himself into the corner of the break room to give her the option of sitting in the only metal chair that didn¡¯t squeak. He sat at the ready to listen to the story of a century, but now that she sat there and said the words out loud, nothing lived up to the horror she¡¯d built for herself.

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    ¡°The dream, though,¡± she murmured, as if arguing to herself that her morning really did start off that strangely, ¡°I¡¯m¡­already starting to forget it, but¡ªI don¡¯t know. It felt like I was somewhere I wasn¡¯t supposed to be.¡± Before her friend could say something sarcastic, she held up a hand to stop him. ¡°I mean, not like trespassing or anything like that. Like, there was this otherworldly feeling.¡±

    ¡°Hm,¡± Rupert sounded as he tapped the edge of his fresh coffee cup. ¡°I mean, I had a nightmare after we saw that magic show last week. Dreamed these wizards came to town and ripped it apart. Maybe it¡¯s delayed for you, since you¡¯re stuck in a writer¡¯s block? Like delayed inspiration or something?¡± Despite the fact that his explanation lacked just as much logic as her dream did, Cadence considered it a moment.

    ¡°Fine, maybe,¡± she said. It was hard to think that a few card tricks could trigger both of them to have such an exaggerated response, but there was a little merit to Rupert¡¯s theory. Otherworldly illusions, otherworldly dream. And in both cases she struggled to offer enough logic to comfort herself about what she saw. ¡°I guess¡ªyeah, my dream did kind of have that same je ne sais quoi about it.¡± After a moment, she added, ¡°Maybe I was¡ªit was just a weird night. Didn¡¯t get ready for bed properly and¡­. Yeah, you¡¯re probably right, it¡¯s probably just linked to the magic show.¡±

    ¡°Maybe you¡¯re at the tail end of your block, then?¡± Rupert only had a moment to smile; distracted by the shadow that passed over Cadence, he hardly had time to try and kick her in the shins as a warning that the Editor-in-Chief was right behind her.

    Alec sounded genuinely interested as he made his way to the fridge. He nodded in greeting to Cadence and said, ¡°Good morning, Conway! Does this mean your lead panned out this morning? You¡¯re writing about¡­.¡± He straightened up with a bottle of orange juice, nodding as he looked back to his employees. ¡°If you¡¯re covering a magic show, it¡¯s got to be something good. Now I¡¯m curious.¡± And even though the tall, skinny man did everything he could to be unimposing and gentle, the excited look in his eye only twisted the nerves in her stomach tighter.

    Cadence could only offer a weak smile as she turned back to Rupert, returning the under-the-table kick in kind.

    ¡°You know me,¡± she said awkwardly. ¡°I like to, uh, figure out what goes bump in the night. Disprove aliens and all that.¡± And while that was absolutely her specialty when it came to the Posted in Portland, she¡¯d never shoot herself in the foot so directly by covering something as simple as a magic show. What a stupid article that would be: How did the magician do it? The mystery of sleight of hand! She might as well perform a disappearing act on any future publishing deals with something that pathetic.

    Alec, though, maintained his faith in her. ¡°Yeah,¡± he said with a grin, ¡°I thought there might have been something weird about that guy. I mean, great magic and all that, but¡­.¡± He shrugged. Of course Alec also saw it. Rupert spent two days obsessing over the show when they came back last week.

    ¡°Wait, what do you mean?¡± Rupert sounded almost offended. ¡°He was good!¡± Cadence rolled her eyes.

    ¡°No, no, I don¡¯t mean like that!¡± Alec answered flippantly as he glanced to his wrist watch. He took a step back to indicate his intent to leave, but waved his hand. ¡°Like I said, great show. But it¡¯s just weird how he¡¯s managed to scrub his identity off the Internet in this day and age.¡±

    ¡°You Googled him?¡± It was hard to see if Rupert was more surprised or relieved that his recommendation panned out.

    Alec laughed. ¡°That¡¯d require him to show up on anything on Google. Anyway, I¡¯ve got a meeting to prep for at the top of the hour. Cadence, write me a proposal so I can officially put you on the calendar for this, alright?¡± Great.

    When the boss was safely around the corner, Cadence gave Rupert another kick fueled with the frustration that surfaced.

    ¡°Ow! What?¡±

    Cadence grabbed her cup of coffee and rose from the table as she continued to stare daggers at her friend.

    ¡°What?¡± he repeated. As was customary for the only tiny table in their break room, Cadence pulled the table as a way to tuck in her chair, a way to give her friend a way to get out of the corner.

    ¡°Back to work for me. I¡¯ve gotta go start researching a stupid kid¡¯s show thanks to you.¡± She stuck her tongue out before twisting around to get back to the small pond of desks. Before she was out of ear-shot, she heard Rupert mumble, ¡°That guy is not kid-appropriate.¡±

    <hr>

    The Clinton Street Theatre was a staple of Portland¡¯s local culture, one of the oldest theatres around. For a long time, it was a rite of passage for teenagers to sneak out of their house to go see the midnight reenactment of Rocky Horror Picture Show, dressed up as a character from the famous movie and with a backpack full of random props to throw at the actors on stage. Even though this particular theatre only had one show room in total, it wasn¡¯t unusual to see the place packed on a weekend for whatever concert, independent film screening, or drag show was featured.

    Most Friday nights, locals could buy a ticket for fifteen dollars to see a peculiar local magician bounce around the stage for an hour. And while the Editor-in-Chief¡¯s lackluster research about said magician set Cadence up for dread, she did find some stuff on the Internet regarding the show and its history. For one, the Clinton Street Theatre had only ever hosted two magicians in its near hundred-year history, one of them a current performer.

    The first hosted magician went by the name the Magnificent Michael, and returned to perform magic in Portland after a long and successful career touring the nation almost ten years ago, and retired after five when his health took a poor turn. That didn¡¯t leave the theatre without its Friday night show, though.

    Michael had only one assistant throughout his entire sixty year career of performing magic¡ªand only starting in 2002 when he returned to Portland. This assistant appeared out of nowhere, a shadow hardly noticed and hardly addressed. This dark-haired nobody only assisted as-needed, fetching props or manning lighting effects in silence until the final flourish of the Magnificent Michael¡¯s career. In that final set of performances, the Magnificent Michael revealed the stranger¡¯s name: Antony Devrue.

    The Magnificent Michael¡¯s successor had no digital footprint that didn¡¯t relate to photos of post-show euphoria or advertisements for Magnificent Michael. No Wikipedia entry, no news articles, no MySpace account or social media, nothing. Cadence found through her endless scrolling that this piecemeal information presented wasn¡¯t frustrating for only her; half a dozen forums or web sites featured conversations between Internet strangers wondering what the deal was¡ªbut to make matters even more infuriating, almost all posts and threads were locked or archived. And of course, the most promising bit of trivia about him: he absolutely refused any attempt at interviews. Just great.

    Antony Devrue was only ever spotted in the background of Michael¡¯s shows at the Clinton Street Theatre, and never elsewhere. In the nine years since he appeared in Portland, not much more information was revealed about him. That silent and insecure teenager grew into his face, grew a little taller, and even found a confident and charismatic stage persona¡ªbut before that, he might as well have been an illusion, himself.

    Cadence left work that Friday night with determination, though. She was a Conway: a daughter of a family of logic. From her father, a tenured physicist professor at the university; to her mother, a well-studied historian that could gaslight and guilt-trip like no other. Every child of Ewan and Anita had an affinity for differentiating reality from fiction in one way or another. Cadence used this superpower to debunk conspiracy theories and viral trends for the Posted in Portland.

    Antony Devrue¡¯s tricks would be no exception one way or another¡ªbe it showing who he bribed to keep his name out of search engines or what kind of blackmail he used to keep his name out of forum posts. It would be a little more interesting than photos of a fake arm, at least.

    The walk from the Posted in Portland building to the Clinton Street Theatre took an entire hour, but Cadence had her notebook out with plenty of ideas scratched over half a dozen pages in the meantime. She¡¯d scribbled down some sort of out-there theories about a disguise by the time the lights of the marquee brought her back to real life.

    She blinked as her senses returned to her, suddenly very aware of the crowd lining up to be let into the small theatre, of the woman that owned said theatre accepting tickets at the door. Though her vision was still blurred from staring at her notes for so long, Cadence made her way to a seat in the front row, where she could get a good, hard look at whatever prosthetics or fishing wire this Antony Devrue used in his act.

    But when Cadence¡¯s wristwatch clicked seven PM, nothing happened. The lights didn¡¯t dim, the curtain didn¡¯t pull back. Nothing but restless patrons and an incredibly annoyed reporter.

    Well, at least if the magician disappeared, it¡¯d make for a more interesting article.

 Chapter Two: Ordinary

    Antony Devrue was seven minutes late to his own show, Cadence noted with a grimace. He showed up out-of-breath and sweaty, without his microphone on, calling apologies to the crowd as the owner of the theatre hooked him up to a lavaliere. He spouted excuses, and some poor teenager with a hand-held camera rushed up to capture his face to project the image onto the big screen. That, alone, took another few minutes¡ªso the show didn¡¯t actually start until ten minutes past the hour. The irony wasn¡¯t lost on her: she had to write about this stupid thing because she was late, and now ten minutes of her time was completely wasted as she waited for him to get his act together.

    With gritted teeth, Cadence attempted to shove her annoyance away and get to writing down every detail she could see. The magician looked the same as last week when she came here with Rupert: wavy dark brown hair trimmed to only be a couple inches long, a close shave, a simple v-neck t-shirt and black linen pants. He didn¡¯t dress up, and sometimes his laugh revealed a well-masked nervousness, like when the owner of the theatre rolled her eyes at his excuses. Unrefined and unpolished, yet unapologetic.

    That hint of guilt he displayed was enough for Cadence to grant him a bit of mercy in her descriptions. Instead of some of the more spirited notes she considered, she drew upon her first impression from last week¡¯s show when she was in a much better mood and didn¡¯t have to focus. Last-Week-Cadence would have appreciated his tight-fitting shirt better, but the audience for Posted in Portland probably wouldn¡¯t care about it, so she let the thought fade away.

    Cadence wrote, ¡°Conventionally attractive in the ways that scream, ¡®I¡¯m on the Mediterranean Diet¡¯ but not ¡®I regularly get lip-fillers.¡¯ Charming enough for a small stage, but would probably be eaten alive anywhere like Madison Square Garden. Here¡¯s hoping he doesn¡¯t rely on the dark-hair-light-eyes combo and try to jump into someplace like Hollywood.¡± (Though with the way casting was going these days, producers would fast-track him to star in the next superhero movie and rely on his quick one-liners rather than any acting talent.)

    As the magician introduced himself properly to his crowd, voice echoing from the back speakers and face enlarged on the projector screen above the stage, it was fascinating to watch how he slowly melded into his stage persona. He stood differently, even spoke differently. For the first couple minutes of his performance, his words seemed to require more effort; he stumbled. His ¡°ch¡± sounds were too soft, he even rolled a couple of his ¡°r¡±s. But, after he got into the groove and he caught his breath, the accent nearly disappeared completely¡ªbut now that she¡¯d heard it, Cadence couldn¡¯t place it.

    His consonants were carefully dictated, not unlike the way Shakespearean actors held sounds in their mouths. Cadence hadn¡¯t met too many people with Italian accents in real life, but perhaps that way of speaking was the closest she could guess without confirming with him, directly. Antony Devrue recited his words more like a poem than prose, true to the style of a romance language; but beyond that, it was impossible to say where he might have learned to speak, especially with such proficiency. With this in mind, she did write a quick reminder to herself in the margins of the page to be careful of his origin story, just in case he turned out to be some sort of foreign refugee hiding from a dangerous past.

    Despite attempting to note every physical detail on paper, Cadence still kept track of the magician¡¯s antics. Antony Devrue pretended to pull a live dove from his pants pocket, touted how ¡°magic¡± the bird was when it took flight and unleashed different colors of glitters over the applauding audience. For the latter half of the trick, the most impressive part about it was how the glitter seemed to disappear the minute it fell upon a person. And while thankful for it, Cadence messily scribbled on the notebook in her lap: ¡°water-soluble? Semi-combustible? Interaction with oxygen?¡±

    The magician hopped off the stage to direct the bird and glitter around before biding it adieu: ¡°You were very good, Henry! Go get some dinner. You¡¯ve earned it, you little showboat.¡± And at this command, the bird took off from its perch on his finger and flew to the back of the room, where the owner of the theatre held a simple transport cage. Eager not to let herself get distracted, Cadence returned to the front of the room and continued scribbling.

    However, when something blocked the ray of stage lights that she used to see her horrendous handwriting on the page, she instinctively slapped her hand and pen down on her paper. Slowly, she looked up to see the magician in question staring at her, clearly reading what he could of her notebook.

    ¡°Are you taking notes?¡± he asked, seemingly delighted. Cadence didn¡¯t offer a reply. Instead did her best to maintain a neutral expression. ¡°¡®Semi-combustible¡¯? You¡¯re making me sound good, keep going!¡± The sweating teenager from before caught up to him from the other side of the stage, pointing the camera lens right in Cadence¡¯s face. She cleared her throat and closed the notebook onto her pen.

    ¡°Oh¡ªsorry,¡± Antony Devrue continued. He gestured for the cameraman¡ªor camera-teen, more appropriately¡ªto back away a few steps. Thankfully, the kid seemed to take the hint, and panned to focus on the magician that now pulled a box of cards out of his front pants pocket, the same one the bird had come from. It was an exaggerated movement to show off how there were no creases or indications that there could be something else there; his fingers seemed to struggle even getting in there in the first place, with how unforgiving linen blends were.

    The magician still stood in front of her, crinkling the plastic that encased the box; for a second, he hesitated, but he covered that moment of uncertainty and instead slapped on his usual smile. And although his hands were steady and he stood with his shoulders straight, something about the way he stood in front of Cadence made him seem smaller than when he was just a few feet away, like he doffed just a bit of his stage persona for this. Her fingers itched to make a note of this, but instead tightened her grip around the spine of her notebook.

    ¡°I take it you don¡¯t believe in magic, then?¡± he asked as he flipped the box back and forth in his hands and put the plastic trash in his infinite pocket.

    Cadence hesitated. Him singling her out didn¡¯t necessarily make this observation very objective, but maybe seeing him move up-close would give better insight into his illusions.

    She shrugged. ¡°I believe in what I can see and prove.¡±

    They theatre crew must have put another spotlight on his face with how much it lit up. ¡°Ah!¡± he sounded. ¡°But what about science we don¡¯t yet understand?¡± Ugh. That¡¯s what her dad would say when she was a little kid, only¡ªwell, in the reverse. Don¡¯t be naive, magic isn¡¯t real, it¡¯s just something you don¡¯t understand yet. Part of the reason she hid away and started writing fantasy stories on her own was because of how unsatisfying it was to try and play pretend with her family members.

    Antony Devrue considered the strain in her expression for a moment, cocking a brow.

    ¡°What about something you can see up-close?¡± He gestured with the deck of cards in his hand, asking her permission.

    Cadence hummed, partially to buy herself time to decide, partially as an experiment to see what he would do with silence. It would be harder to pay attention to everything if he was directly trying to manipulate what she saw, specifically, but then again¡ª

    ¡°Wait, I¡¯ve seen you before,¡± he said, interrupting her thoughts. ¡°You were here last week. You sat over there.¡± He gestured a few rows back, where she did, indeed, sit with Rupert and dealt with her best friend¡¯s mumbled theories for an hour.

    ¡°You¡ªremember where I sat?¡± she echoed. He remembered her at all? She was just one in a crowd of people, obscured by stage lights. For a fraction of a moment, that uncertainty appeared in his expression, the same time heat rushed to her cheeks. He recovered quickly, obviously used to public embarrassment far more than her. At least the camera-teen gave her space, let her tell herself no one could see how embarrassing it was to be recognized at a magic show after publicly claiming she didn¡¯t believe in what he did.

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    ¡°Of course!¡± Antony Devrue answered. Now as he smiled, he didn¡¯t seem quite as small¡ªlike he remembered he performed for everyone, and wasn¡¯t just holding a private conversation with her. ¡°How could I forget? I could tell there was something unique about you.¡± He didn¡¯t even seem phased when her expression fell to passive annoyance.

    ¡°Are you saying I¡¯m Force-sensitive?¡± she asked flatly.

    ¡°I don¡¯t watch Star Trek.¡± The physical pain every nerd in that audience felt was completely enveloped by equal amounts of laughter. On the projected screen on the stage, the cameraman reflected the amused faces of the crowd back to them.

    Emboldened by the panning of the camera over the audience, a teenager with a cracking voice shouted from the middle of the theatre: ¡°What about me? Do you remember me from last week?¡± As expected, a chubby face suddenly took up the majority of the projector on the far wall of the stage. The distraction gave Cadence a moment to slow her breathing, force her cheeks to stop blushing quite so severely.

    A flash of warm recognition took over the magician¡¯s features as he glanced in the vague direction of the heckle.

    ¡°Lenny, it¡¯s more remarkable if you¡¯re not here every week.¡± The way the audience laughed so readily in agreement made Cadence glance around where she sat. Was everyone here a regular? Is that why she stuck out so much? Everyone here laughed at a joke she wasn¡¯t a part of like a family at dinner dropping an inside joke. And, just in kind, it left a warm twinge in her chest.

    So that¡¯s part of what made this special. It wasn¡¯t just a magic show, it was its own little community.

    Antony Devrue gestured with the deck of cards back to Cadence as he addressed everyone. ¡°Can I talk to this lovely lady that¡¯s waiting so patiently, now?¡± The camera-teen caught her rolling her eyes right on the big screen so that the crowd could laugh. Antony Devrue waited for Lenny¡¯s verbal agreement before he fully twisted back to the front row. His amusement from the banter faded in favor to focusing on her completely with a gentle smile. With all the commotion, it was easier to forget the camera all together.

    ¡°Sorry. Your thoughts on magic?¡±

    Wary of what sounded like an incredibly cheesy pickup line in her near future, Cadence shook her head. ¡°I believe in what I can see and prove. Science.¡±

    ¡°Ah, a woman of logic!¡± he said as he gestured to her for the crowd. ¡°Perfect. Would you help me with this next trick?¡± Now, Antony Devrue stepped forward, slumped in a way that made it feel like a one-on-one conversation again. Cadence shrugged in the slightest way, but it was enough of a reply for him to hand her freshly un-sealed deck of cards. ¡°Logical, lovely, and gracious. Thank you!¡± By some miracle, maybe even magic, Cadence managed to hold back her snort. ¡°Please, what is your name?¡±

    ¡°Cadence.¡±

    ¡°Cadence, great to officially meet you. I¡¯m Antony.¡± Only when he said his name did the tiniest hint of his original accent slip through. She nearly forgot up until that point that she had been listening for it.

    ¡°Cadence, could you please open that deck of cards and check it to make sure it¡¯s completely ordinary and normal?¡± At his request, she used her fingernail to tear the sticker that kept the box closed, took out the cards, and began to sift through them. They were the regular thickness they should have been, the ink was dry and didn¡¯t react to her attempting to smudge it as she sifted through them. They even held that same woody scent new cards had.

    ¡°There doesn¡¯t seem to be anything unusual¡­about the cards, anyway,¡± was her final analysis. The crowd bought into her jab, chuckling along. He rolled back a bit on his heel, regarding her with a cocked brow.

    She met his gaze, the grayish blue that reflected more of the stage light rays than the camera lens beside him. She could almost see the gears click in his mind, the way he started to construct his perception of her. He caught her skepticism, held it easily and accepted it so easily without a hint of defensiveness; a sort of appreciation twinged in his smile. Cadence tried not to focus too hard on how that felt like a relief, for him to understand where she was coming from.

    The magician continued, ¡°Ordinary cards, but you¡¯re saying perhaps I¡¯m not?¡± She nodded. ¡°And you¡­are? Ordinary?¡± The cards felt heavy in her hands. And even though she nodded again, the way he asked made it difficult to feel confident in that answer.

    She should have known that any change in her expression would catch his attention, though. Thankfully, rather than grinning as much as it looked like he wanted to, Antony Devrue bit back his smile and nodded to her.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± he replied. ¡°Could you please sort out the jokers of this new deck? We don¡¯t need them for this trick.¡± Easy enough. Cadence turned her attention to the deck she held and flipped it over to start to pull out the jokers, thumbing through carefully to make sure they were together at one end of the deck as expected. She pulled them aside and held them in one hand, the rest of the deck in the other, and looked back up.

    Annoyingly, Antony Devrue didn¡¯t seem to be paying attention. While his camera pointed at the cards she held, he looked around at the crowd as if there was something else that was supposed to happen. When he glanced back down to her, he repeated, ¡°Could you please sort out the jokers? We don¡¯t need them for this trick.¡±

    Did he botch an illusion this early in the show? Cadence wiggled the jokers in her hand, but he shook his head.

    ¡°No, I see them. But you never know, there could have been a mistake at the factory when they were being made, and there could be more. Could you check again, just in case?¡± She didn¡¯t hide her annoyance, but instead set the jokers face-up on her closed notebook and started to sift through the deck again. After her thumb passed by only a few cards, she hesitated. Another joker. And later in the deck, another.

    ¡°Um¡ª¡±

    ¡°Aha! See?¡± Amused that his trick worked, he gestured to the four jokers Cadence now held. ¡°Can¡¯t trust it. Can you check again?¡±

    ¡°Are you serious?¡± Now, though, Cadence sat up straight in her chair, leaned over the deck of cards, and started to feel for the false back or changing ink on each and every one. Yet the three additional jokers she stumbled upon didn¡¯t come from anything other than casually flipping through.

    After he asked her to check one last time, she ended up with twelve jokers in her lap, as if more spawned each and every time she fanned the deck. The cards she looked through remained the same. In order by number and suit, never diminishing by any count, never seeming to take the place of what would have been there in a normal, mass-manufactured deck. She sat with over a fifth of a deck in one hand, and what felt and looked like a complete one in the other, and stared up at the magician with an exasperated expression. The joys of the crowd felt so far away while she stared at him and silently demanded an answer.

    His feigned confusion wasn¡¯t as amusing, being a part of the trick like this. But the crowd, even if they were all regulars that had seen this before, ate up every moment of Cadence¡¯s annoyance and Antony¡¯s performance even more than the appearing jokers. It was hard to not agree to continue with the show with the palpable excitement emanating from the crowd.

    Antony let out a, ¡°Hmmm¡± as he held out a hand to accept the deck of cards from her. ¡°Maybe there were more than fifty-four cards in the box.¡± No shit. ¡°Could I ask for you to count out the jokers that were there while I count the deck so we make sure we have the right number of cards, here? We¡¯ll go one-by-one at the same time so that there can be nothing you can¡¯t see.¡±

    Rather than pointing out how absolutely insane that was, Cadence rolled her eyes and picked up the small deck of twelve jokers in her lap, and waited for him to count out ¡°one, two, three¡­.¡± There were only twelve jokers. But for some reason, every time she touched a card to put in a separate pile as Antony counted out, it was as if it didn¡¯t leave her hand in the first place, just duplicated and joined the pile of jokers in her lap.

    Cadence hesitated, as uncertain as the crowd¡¯s murmuring. There was no reason this should be. The cards were the right thickness and never changed one way or another.

    The magician hardly glanced at her. ¡°Please continue counting with me so it¡¯s fair to the audience. Eleven, twelve, thirteen¡­.¡± Not until he was at card number forty, did the jokers stop multiplying when she touched them. While he held fifty-two normal cards in his hands, she now held a complete deck of jokers where there were once only twelve¡ªor two, or maybe none. She couldn¡¯t even feel embarrassed when the camera zoomed in on her expression and the audience laughed at her.

    Antony Devrue nodded knowingly, ¡°Ah, you see? You had a whole deck of jokers in here.¡± He held the normal deck toward her and gestured for hers. ¡°Care to swap?¡±

    ¡°If I see one more joker, I swear¡ª¡± Interrupted by the laughter of the crowd, Cadence leaned back in her chair with what seemed to be, even at first fan, a deck of normal cards.

    Antony laughed with everyone. ¡°No, see, I was just hoping you¡¯d humor me for the trick I meant to do with you.¡± A mischievous smile. ¡°It¡¯s called Do as I Do.¡± Anticipating the directions, she held the deck in her hands as he did, his. ¡°If you meet someone and you think they¡¯ve got some sort of special¡­.¡±

    ¡°Je ne sais quoi?¡± Cadence mumbled, more to herself than to him.

    Antony didn¡¯t seem to hear her completely, and continued, ¡°Some sort of special connection to the otherworldly, this trick can show you. See, I¡¯ve got that connection and I think you do, too.¡± He stood up straighter, back to balancing on the heels of his feet. ¡°You sort through your deck and pick your favorite card, then shuffle it in at random. I¡¯ll do the same with mine.¡± Maybe if his favorite card was a joker, Cadence thought to herself. ¡°Then we will swap decks and do it again. If it¡¯s the same card, then I¡¯m right.¡±

    Cadence let out a light sigh. ¡°Should I show the camera once I have it?¡± She glanced down to the regular deck, passively daring any potential joker to show up.

    ¡°Nah, then I¡¯ll see which card it is through the reflection or something. This is a genuine check to see if we pick the same thing. Maybe we won¡¯t.¡±

    The audience laughed when Cadence gave a knowing glance to the camera. Still, he sifted through the deck of jokers as if he actually considered each and every one while she looked for the Ace of Spades. And, as instructed, she shoved it somewhere in the middle and started to sloppily shuffle a few sets of cards to make sure she didn¡¯t accidentally mark where it was. And, when prompted, she swapped decks with Antony.

    As he casually began to look through the normal deck of cards, she flipped what she held over and gasped.

    Sitting on the top of the deck of jokers was a single Ace of Spades with Antony Devrue¡¯s messy signature scrawled over it, ink still shiny and wet.

    The audience erupted into a sea of applause and hollers, and Antony stood quietly holding a deck of regular cards in one hand, and an unmarked Ace of Spades in the other. He smiled.

    ¡°Not so ordinary.¡±

 Chapter Three: Pretending

    The end of this show, to the magician of the Clinton Street Theatre, was not unlike every other week: boisterous cheers from people that had never seen him before, about half the crowd standing as they applauded, and a few of the regulars shouting predictable praise as he waved and walked down the side aisle of the theatre to bid them farewell.

    He pulled at the lapel microphone clip on his collar and began to feed the wire to the battery pack when he got to the set of doors Irene stood by, though notably much less pissed off than when he arrived late and she put the microphone on him.

    ¡°Good recovery,¡± the owner of the theatre said to him as he passed off the lavaliere. ¡°What made you late this time?¡±

    Antony shrugged as he adjusted his shirt over the waistband of his pants. ¡°Double-booked.¡± Before she could say anything in response, Antony smiled and rested a hand on her shoulder. ¡°Thanks for not lecturing me about it, Irene. I appreciate your understanding.¡± If Irene wasn¡¯t one of the very few people here that knew him and his tendencies, maybe she wouldn¡¯t have glared at him as he walked down the hallway, away from the exiting crowd. It wasn¡¯t as if he lied¡ªbut, true, for someone who was just a local magician and held the same slot of time every week, he was late quite a lot. Maybe he wouldn¡¯t have been if anyone from home knew he was here.

    The very first old, worn door in this corridor bore an unremarkable name plate with his name, Antony Devrue, held on with double-sided tape. A perfect, little dressing room right beside the janitor¡¯s closet. He didn¡¯t need to take out a key to unlock it; at his will, right when his hand wrapped around the brass knob, the lock unlatched and he could walk inside.

    Just like he didn¡¯t need a key to unlock the door, he didn¡¯t need to reach to the light switch to flick it up and simply imagined for it to happen in able for it to manifest. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling began to sputter to life, haloed by a water stain from an old roof leak.

    Maybe if it was meant to be a dressing room, this room would have been made bigger¡ªwith linoleum floors rather than the same carpets from the renovation in the 90s that hadn¡¯t been cleaned since. No windows, no other doors¡ªa prop storage room. Thankfully, there weren¡¯t exactly very many traditional plays held at this theatre, so the storage was mostly unnecessary, granting him this little slice of heaven. But maybe if this room was what it was meant to be, it wouldn¡¯t have held the same charm it did for Antony now: A person not what he was meant to be in a room that was not what it was meant to be.

    The black leather love seat groaned when he let himself fall into it, the air sighing out of the cushions in unison with him as he leaned back. Directly across by a few feet stood an old vanity, just a desk with drawers and a regular half-mirror leaning against the wall. Dusty, hardly used except for the drawers that held various useful things for everyday life from a bottle opener to trash bag liners¡ªwith the more useful yet unique things he needed locked in the top right drawer. He never really used the mirror on top of the chest of drawers, though. He preferred the spotless antique standing mirror against the back wall, a mirror with more capabilities than just reflecting light. It stood right between the metal clothes rack he filled with outfits he deemed appropriate for the stage and the only decoration in here: an original poster of the Magnificent Michael, left here from that very same man. The only piece of sentimentality Antony let stay here, just in case.

    He didn¡¯t look to his reflection from either mirror as he rested, just leaned his head against the back of the couch and let the adrenaline of the night begin to dissipate with every slow, methodical breath.

    He probably should have been thinking about why he was late tonight¡ªwhy he even hesitated to go home right now in the first place and lie to his roommate about where he¡¯s been even though it was the same every week. Or maybe he should have been thinking about the wonderful news Victor passed along before Antony managed to peel himself away to get here. Honestly, he should have been able to easily think about how his best friend achieved such a great step in his career so young and about what sort of celebration he was expected to throw, but in this moment, on a couch he grabbed seconds before someone tried to chuck it into a dumpster, Antony¡¯s mind settled on simple comforts.

    The ritual of laying back on this couch after every Friday show, these quiet moments, were precious. No purposeful thoughts, just letting the immediate memories of the night pass by. Listening to the buzz of the light bulb that reminded him of the applause of the crowd he stood before, letting the sweat he accrued from bouncing around the stage dry. This ritual was what the great philosophers of old described in their teachings of higher enlightenment. No one around to expect anything of him, no audience large or small to perform for one way or another. No one from home knew of this place or how to get here, and no one from here could get through his dressing room door without a significant amount of noise or a key. The only place that was only for him.

    Interruptions for this ritual were usually reserved for when Irene finished counting out the cash and handed him his cut for the night. And yet now there was a knock at the door, soft and not in Irene¡¯s usual pattern. A quick glance at the clock on the vanity confirmed that it had only been a couple minutes, and Irene was probably still shooing people out of the theatre space.

    There wasn¡¯t anything planned for tonight¡ªor any Friday night, for that matter. For him, it was a few hours of post-show rest before returning home and gearing up for real life work at Gemma Imperii. Curiosity granted Antony a small boost of energy, enough for him to close the distance to the door and open it.

    Even before he finished swinging the door open, a smile spread across his face.

    The volunteer from earlier was taller than he thought she would be, maybe just a dozen centimeters shorter than him. She stood with her shoulders forward and her oversized purse dangling delicately from both of her hands, shrinking herself with a small, sweet expression.

    ¡°Hi,¡± she said. Standing amongst blinding spotlights in front of the comfort of a crowd had him with inflated confidence. Now that he was by himself and unguarded, Antony¡¯s voice stuck in his throat. He was caught between the amber and gold hues in her eyes, in watching the way her expression evolved from a manufactured meekness to a suppressed smirk. He didn¡¯t have the script for whatever performance she just put on, but he must have played his role perfectly if she was that pleased to watch him hesitate.

    ¡°Hi,¡± he finally managed to spit out. Logically, he knew she was being purposeful, that she swept her hair to one side to show her neck, tilted her head to be more flirty and draw attention to a delicate, gold chain partially hidden underneath her soft sweater. But knowing she was standing like that on purpose didn¡¯t make her smile less charming or his heartbeat slow down.

    ¡°Can I come in?¡± Maybe if he was as smart as her, he would have known better than to open the door a bit more and gesture for her to step inside. ¡°Thanks.¡± When she stepped forward, he became acutely aware that while she held a gentle and light scent of some sort of melon combination, his dressing room smelled like moth balls and sweat, and he was probably no exception. Helpful as ever, this revelation just made him sweat more.

    When Antony shut the door, the woman turned around and outstretched her hand to shake his. She didn¡¯t seem to notice the smell, at least. ¡°Proper introduction: I¡¯m Cadence Conway.¡± When he took her hand, warm and soft with a steady grip, she continued, ¡°I was hoping that since I was such a good helper earlier, you¡¯d help me?¡±

    He couldn¡¯t even open his mouth to answer; the brunette reached into the large, gray purse and began to fish for something without looking, and instead examined her surroundings with that same sharpness she displayed when she tried to figure out his illusion. In just a couple steps, she sank into the very spot on the couch he just rose from, set her purse on the floor, and pulled out the notebook from before.

    The light overhead flickered, as if to announce the budget of the theatre and whatever other shortcomings this room offered at first glance. But now Antony had a moment to catch up. Sensible sweater, business casual slacks, conservative leather boot heels¡ªhe should have figured this out earlier. Who took notes at a fifteen dollar magic show? No one as put-together and pretty as her would willingly step into a dingy room with a stranger. No one that wasn¡¯t getting paid to do it, anyway. Damn reporters¡­.

    ¡°Mind answering a couple questions?¡± she finished finally with the gentlest voice. The groan had already been building¡ªand even though he knew it was rude and was completely uncalled for, it escaped his grimace.

    ¡°Oooh,¡± he started, wincing. ¡°Uh, that¡¯s, um, this is not the¡ªthat¡¯s not the kind of attention I really am looking¡ª¡±

    ¡°Oh, just a couple?¡± Cadence asked, maintaining eye contact. She looked so solid and still on the couch, like moving a mountain would be physically easier than convincing her to leave. ¡°It¡¯ll be quick and painless, I promise.¡± Pft. Sure. She had to say that before, certainly.

    Antony shook his head in what he hoped looked far more confident than he felt. ¡°Yeah, no, sorry, I don¡¯t do that kind of thing¡­.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s the harm?¡± Another casual, flirty tilt of her head. She didn¡¯t understand, and no answer he could give would make her understand. Again, Antony shook his head.

    ¡°No, I¡ªI just don¡¯t¡ª¡±

    ¡°I mean,¡± she interrupted with a cocked brow, ¡°just because I ask you the questions, doesn¡¯t mean you have to answer them.¡± That took him by delightful surprise.

    Antony hesitated. Against his better judgment, he asked, ¡°Sorry, where did you say you worked again?¡±

    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°Posted in Portland.¡±

    ¡°The alien conspiracy theory thing¡ª?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve got a wide array of topics we cover requested by various audiences.¡± Another rehearsed answer, though this one had a bit of a bitter twinge to it. Her smile remained. ¡°I just wanted to¡­you know, ask a couple questions, get to know you¡ªor your show¡ªa little better.¡± That stumble felt just as rehearsed.

    Antony recovered from his uncertainty and regarded her with crossed arms. The other failed attempts to get him to interview never got past the doorway, never tried to manipulate their way to answers by flirting with him. Honestly, some of them didn¡¯t even look like they really cared for his answers and left almost before he could fully reject them. The others leaned into bribery for paper money he had no use for or threats of public scandal that wouldn¡¯t affect him. Cadence came prepared, researched¡ªas researched as she could have been for someone like him, anyway. Clearly she didn¡¯t just gather information from the other papers and magazines in the city, and she didn¡¯t just take notes on how he could perform his magic earlier. Throughout his performance, she studied him, his reactions and responses and wrote her own guidebook in less than an hour.

    The exhilaration lit a fire in his stomach, made his blood pump faster. He had to wonder if she predicted how thrilling he¡¯d find this, if her little analysis from the front row predicted this very moment when he tried so hard not to react, yet ultimately walked face-first into what she hoped for.

    Just as an hour ago, Antony stood and she sat. Only this time, even though they were in his dressing room after his show, it was completely clear to him that they were in her domain. No audience to react predictably and amplify a potential response, no amphitheater to reverberate the energy back. And just like she agreed to play along an hour ago, he opted to agree to Cadence¡¯s game, and slowly made his way to his couch to sit down.

    This was not a magic show made even more false by its performer, though. There was no safety net of double illusions or promises of fantasy no one believed. This was a one-on-one conversation with someone that he doubted he could truly lie to, when all he could safely do in this situation was lie.

    As Antony lowered himself to his couch, he took unjustified comfort in the controlled way Cadence conducted herself. If she was as smart as she seemed, that in and of itself could act as a protection for him. The fear and excitement rose in his chest in sync, a question he should have never gotten close enough to wondering rose to mind: If she did see something unexplainable but true, what would she do with it? Would she do all the lying for him in denial, reinforce the world she thought she knew?

    He watched her the entire time it took for him to sink into the cushion and rest an elbow on his knee, watched how the light in her eyes betrayed her smoothed expression. She wanted answers, fine¡­now, the only thing he could even bring himself to think about was wondering what she would do if she got them. If she could.

    He¡¯d already made a mistake. He stared at her too long, took too long to verbally answer. Her excitement of winning what she¡¯d earned began to dip into curiosity right as Antony had come to terms with the disappointment he¡¯d set himself up for. He rooted for her and her notebook. Even briefly entertaining the thought of Cadence uncovering anything at all felt close to euphoria. But at the same time, he¡¯d do just about anything to prevent that from happening. And unfortunately for Cadence, he had a severe advantage when it came to manipulating someone¡¯s perception and the world around them¡­and a unique, horrifying consequence if he failed.

    But it was too late, now. Antony sighed, gathered himself, and began to shove away the intense influx of curiosity that just gathered.

    ¡°Fine,¡± he said, taking a moment to calm himself. ¡°But I won¡¯t even consider answering a question you don¡¯t answer, yourself.¡± He¡¯d finally managed to catch her by surprise.

    With a raised brow, Cadence asked, ¡°Are you this much of a pain in the ass to everyone, or am I just a special case?¡±

    He laughed.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call you ordinary.¡±

    That earned him a legitimate snort: an unfiltered, accidental, pig-like snort. He hardly had time to be surprised before Cadence cleared her throat and looked away. She didn¡¯t even see how skillfully he suppressed the look of absolute delight from seeing a pretty face make such an ugly sound.

    ¡°Um¡ªright, start off easy,¡± she said as she grabbed for the pen she¡¯d squished in the spine of her notebook. ¡°You, uh, started getting involved in magic shows in Portland almost nine years ago.¡± As she began to twist back to face him, her eyes definitely hesitated on the poster beside the standing mirror. ¡°Was magic a part of your life before then, or did you discover it here?¡±

    The question sobered the excitement from before. This was an easy question. Question number one, and his throat felt like closing up. Too late to turn back now.

    ¡°I, uh¡­.¡± Question number one, and he already found himself staring at the ugly carpet. ¡°I guess you could say I¡¯ve been around it since birth?¡± Safe enough. And when he looked back at her, Cadence¡¯s expression looked about what he expected: flat, irritated.

    ¡°It¡¯s going to be like that?¡± was her response.

    ¡°Is that a question?¡± She rolled her eyes at him, didn¡¯t even bother to write anything down. It was getting difficult to feel the thrill he convinced himself he was going to feel earlier. The urge to reach forward and grab that intangible fire kindled in his stomach.

    ¡°Fine,¡± she said tersely. ¡°I don¡¯t do magic, never did, never¡ª¡±

    ¡°Wait,¡± Antony blurted, holding up a hand. He hesitated, struggling to find the words he wanted as he gestured to the notebook in her lap. ¡°I-it¡¯d be writing for you, right? If this¡ª¡± He shrugged to indicate the dingy room they sat in, ¡°is my vocation, yours is¡­writing? Right? Or¡­.¡± In waiting for her response, he was rewarded with seeing something click for her, like the world un-paused and resumed color in just that moment to offer that tiny flame a whisp of air to feed on.

    ¡°Hm.¡± She nodded as the irritation melted away from the lines in her face. ¡°Yeah. And I suppose the answer¡¯s the same for me.¡± And the feeling of narrowly dodging a land mine must have felt the same as this did for Antony. Not only in seeming like he was being more cooperative for her questions, but in the way she let her eyes rest not far away, digesting the implications. Vocation was a strong word for something he couldn¡¯t even truly define, but it satisfied her enough.

    Her gaze was more focused when she looked back to him. ¡°Why magic at all, then?¡±

    ¡°Performing,¡± he softly corrected, ¡°feels¡­.¡± Part of him wished she wasn¡¯t looking at him, so he could shrink back into the couch and mumble out his answers. But her genuine attention was hypnotic, like she brought what he meant to say to the top like heat waves lifting ash over burning coals. ¡°It¡¯s another¡ªanother way of being me. Makes me feel whole.¡± And even though he could tell by her smile that she knew what he meant, she remained silent, urging him to elaborate.

    Antony had to look away to try and formulate the thoughts together. Performing magic shows here was his vocation, was what made him feel whole. Different from when he performed at the Gemma Imperii¡ªif it could even be called that. Antony Devrue, host of the Gemma Imperii, might have told more physical truths about his life lived; but Antony Devrue, magician at the Clinton Street Theatre, felt like the kind of person he was supposed to be.

    ¡°I get to¡­pretend with people,¡± he said eventually. ¡°It¡¯s like, I propose an impossible thing, and for a moment we share a world where we live in that amazement together, separate of everything else, all the other¡­noise. And then I get to do it again with someone else. If¡­that makes sense.¡± It wasn¡¯t until a sharp pain shot up from his finger that Antony realized he¡¯d been picking at his cuticles, that he¡¯d pulled a piece of loose skin and nearly created a cut right by his nail. Thankfully, no blood. That would have caused some¡­interesting complications.

    Cadence wasn¡¯t writing anything down, or even examining him like a hawk at that moment. She smiled softly to herself as if remembering a joke.

    ¡°You¡¯re telling a story,¡± she said, ¡°a new one every trick.¡± They locked eyes again. ¡°A new story for every person, connecting with them¡ªtruly connecting with them¡ªin your own language that¡¯s made only you two to understand.¡± Antony didn¡¯t even need to nod. He couldn¡¯t have, even if he could feel his limbs.

    He would have felt less exposed stark naked in front of an audience than sitting on his own couch, in his own private haven right now. In this place that was just for him, hearing words describe a feeling he could never explain before. And she said it so easily, so naturally, like she read the definition from a dictionary. Every other time he tried to describe performing for an audience as intimate, he failed so spectacularly that it only left him feeling alone. The intensity of finally getting even just a hint of validation was almost too much.

    Cadence allowed him several long moments to marinate in what she¡¯d said, how she said it. She described and exemplified it so succinctly, so effortlessly. And in the simplest explanation, she shrugged and added, ¡°Like with writing. I like writing while I think about what the audience brings to it, too. Like we¡¯re writing it together. A story is never the same twice, never finished without its reader or listener.¡± She paused just a moment. ¡°In the same way I¡¯m guessing no trick is ever the same twice, and has to, you know, have an audience.¡± He watched her carefully form her words and the gentle way she breathed each sound; the buzzing from the ceiling light could have easily drowned her out, if he didn¡¯t stare so intently, watch for any twitch of movement.

    She offered him silence, space. Not only did she completely understand what he chased, but somehow she knew the impact she just had in just a few words. An oasis in a desert, even. Not everyone was as starved for this feeling as he was, but she at least recognized it in him.

    In that same moment he reveled in the fullness in his chest, the charged energy rushing through his veins, did everything douse itself in cold water. This wasn¡¯t something he could let himself feel here. He couldn¡¯t be an open book and bare his soul for her to read, no matter how naturally she did it. No matter how incredible it felt to be truly seen.

    Now the ceiling light buzzed again. Now he could feel the stale air on his skin, feel the rumble of a distant vacuum against the theatre floor. In reluctantly reappearing back to reality, he almost missed her question.

    ¡°¡­family connected to magic like this? Siblings, Mom, Dad?¡±

    Antony forced himself to look back at the carpet. This tiny and windowless room, this lighting felt so stifling now. Suffocating him.

    ¡°I-I¡¯m an only child.¡± His own voice sounded miles way. ¡°And my mom doesn¡¯t¡ªdoesn¡¯t see it the same way.¡± The seams of his linen pants scratched his skin. The couch cushion may as well have been a concrete bench.

    ¡°Your dad?¡±

    Antony dug a fingernail into the fresh cut he gave himself moments ago, just to force himself to remain in the present rather than slip into whatever bubble that so easily formed around them.

    ¡°That would be another question.¡± From the corner of his eye, he watched Cadence straighten in her seat, fiddle with her unused pen.

    ¡°Okay,¡± she said quietly. ¡°Um, I¡¯m the only one in my family that likes fantasy. The closest my older brother gets to stories is in his photography and how he likes to play with colors in the natural world. And the twins, well¡­. The closest they get to writing is when they lie, which is stupidly often, but they¡¯re still in school. They¡¯ve got time to figure things out.¡± Antony nodded to show he was listening, but didn¡¯t look up.

    He needed to get her out of here without pushing her out, himself, or she¡¯d just come back more curious, more convincing, with this alluring feeling that he wanted nothing more than to fall into: Whole. Connected and belonging, like he had a reason to be here, in a place that rejuvenated him; rather than fed on him like a parasite, like home. Now he had a word for it, a goal to aim for¡ªand he shouldn¡¯t.

    The reality was that he was not supposed to be here, and playing with that falsehood was a roulette wheel Antony spun every time he walked on this ugly carpet. Everything he studied as a child showed him horrifying proof that trying to be only subjected his ancestors to brutal, bloody torture and near eradication.

    He could not let one beautiful moment destroy everything else.

    Cadence started to formulate another question, but he¡¯d already made up his mind by then. It was time to smother the flame. The best defense he had was to¡­well, be offensive.

    ¡°What is this?¡± he asked before she could even finish speaking. If he squinted hard enough, this yellow light could be a spotlight. The sputtering vacuum across the theatre could be a murmuring audience. This could be an illusion he manufactured and controlled, if he wanted it to be.

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± Cadence seemed to take just as long as he did to return to the real world. He turned to look at her, but avoided her eyes.

    ¡°This.¡± He gestured between them. ¡°Showing up to my dressing room at, what, eight thirty at night? To ¡®get to know¡¯ me better?¡± Antony dug deep into his stomach to manage a light laugh. ¡°What, is asking me out too bold for you?¡±

    Cadence¡¯s face fell to a frown in a way that almost made him forget what her smile looked like. He achieved what he wanted, that tiny hint of disgust, the annoyance she showed during the performance at his exaggerated gestures.

    Whatever story they wrote in a language only they understood now floated down a murky river and started to disintegrate.

    But Cadence¡­.

    ¡°So it¡¯s that bad, huh?¡± she asked.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Whatever you don¡¯t want me to figure out.¡±

    His heart jumped to his throat. ¡°I¡¯m¡ªI¡¯m not doing anything.¡± No part of what he said was convincing; he knew she didn¡¯t believe him, either. But maybe she understood him enough, brief as it was, that whatever shared story they wrote ended now.

    ¡°I should probably go,¡± she interrupted. But she didn¡¯t move, just stared at him, watching¡ªand undoubtedly seeing the relief he tried so hard to bury. Mercifully, Cadence dropped her notebook in her purse and rose to her feet. Antony couldn¡¯t even gather the energy to stand with her.

    Her footsteps were heavy as she made her way to the door. She stopped when she¡¯d opened it, turned back to him. He could only stare at her shoes.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to help me,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m going to figure it out myself.¡±

    He knew his grimace wasn¡¯t convincing when he said, ¡°Not hiding anything.¡± Her genuine laugh was too infectious; he looked up at her, let her stare into him one last time.

    ¡°Have a good night, Antony.¡±

    ¡°You too, Cadence.¡± But neither of them could fake a smile anymore, and she shut the door, leaving him feeling more alone than he ever had.

 Chapter Four: Behind the Glass (I)

    Antony remained on his not-quite-dumpster couch, slumped and still, up until the moment Irene gave her predictable knock at the door of his dressing room.

    ¡°Come in,¡± he called quietly. She entered, like normal, holding a fat roll of low denomination cash as she found him on the couch. He must not have seemed to be in a good mood, with the way her brows furrowed.

    ¡°Got your cut here.¡± She gestured with it until he started to rise up to meet her. He put on his smile, started to thank her, but right as he reached for the money, she pulled it back. Irene hesitated, looking him up and down, thinking carefully for just a moment. But his stance at this moment must have been convincing enough, because she shrugged as she came to a decision.

    ¡°Well, couple things came up since the end of your show. You¡¯re a popular guy tonight.¡± That didn¡¯t sound ominous at all.

    Antony raised a brow. ¡°What now?¡±

    She smiled and crossed her arms over her chest, now, tucking the cash against herself to hold his attention hostage. ¡°Lenny said he turns sixteen next week.¡±

    ¡°Okay, happy birthday to him¡­.¡± Irene let him hold his look of confusion for a few extra seconds than necessary.

    ¡°Yeah, he wants his birthday present to be to work here.¡± Right as Antony was about to say it, Irene added, ¡°What a dumb gift.¡± He laughed. ¡°Anyway, he wants to be your assistant¡ªlike you were to Michael. Literally how he said it, too.¡± The humor faded. Unsmiling, he shook his head right as Irene dismissed it with a wave. ¡°I know, I know. But he¡¯s such a good kid. I didn¡¯t want to just say no right to his face so fast. So I said I¡¯d talk to you about it.¡± Yes, leave the breaking of Lenny¡¯s heart to him. How thoughtful. Antony took a step back and gestured to Irene with his hand.

    ¡°Well, what about you? I can¡¯t imagine you enjoy dealing with tickets and microphones all night. Maybe he could do that or something instead.¡±

    Irene snorted. ¡°I¡¯m not paying someone something I do for free. Or close to free or something.¡± She uncrossed her arms and started to gesture with the wad of cash again. ¡°I know my time isn¡¯t free-free¡ªmy point is I¡¯m not adding to the list of employees out of the goodness of my heart.¡± Now came her pointed look, both eyebrows up, squinting, waiting for him to make a suggestion she all but danced around. The real reason she didn¡¯t just flat-out tell Lenny ¡°no.¡±

    Now it was Antony¡¯s turn to roll his eyes. ¡°Fine,¡± he said. ¡°Take it out of my cut, whatever.¡± This wad of cash would eventually go with most of the other wads of cash he collected over the years: with the dust and dirt under the floorboards currently holding up the couch.

    ¡°Gentleman and a scholar,¡± was her simple reply. Now she offered him his money and let him actually take it. ¡°Next thing: got another reporter asking about you. I already said you were a part of the mob with the last one, so I was thinking with her, I can say¡ª¡± She trailed off when he shook his head. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯ll work on this one,¡± Antony said. He didn¡¯t think it was possible for his heart to jump and sink at the same time. All it did was make him nauseous. But at the sight of his change in demeanor, Irene¡¯s smile sparked and spread.

    ¡°Oh! She already got to you! I was the follow-up!¡± Her glee only fueled his irritation enough to turn around and set the cash on the vanity.

    ¡°Follow-up,¡± he echoed. His shoulders ached with how much he had to fight the urge to curl into a ball.

    ¡°Oh, yeah. If she already talked to you, and she¡¯s going around to everyone that works here¡ª¡± Irene laughed. ¡°You¡¯re so fucked.¡± After a few more chuckles, she sobered. ¡°So, um, does that mean you¡¯re gunna get deported or something? I don¡¯t know your situation and I don¡¯t wanna know, but¡ª¡±

    ¡°No,¡± he reassured. ¡°She can ask all the questions she wants and make whatever assumptions. Doesn¡¯t mean anything¡¯s going to change.¡±

    ¡°So what do you want me to do about the next time she shows up, or when she starts talking with everyone?¡±

    He shrugged. ¡°Whatever you want. If you brush her off, she¡¯ll just show up again.¡± He wasn¡¯t sure what kind of fake secret he could start planting to make the reporter stay away, anyway. He¡¯d have to think on that.

    Irene grabbed the door knob to start to make her leave. ¡°Well, whatever article comes out of it gives the theatre more publicity, so forgive me if I exaggerate a couple of your exploits. Don¡¯t be surprised if people start to suggest you¡¯ve slept with the entirety of the Rocky cast.¡±

    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    Antony smirked. ¡°As long as no one tells the entirety of the Repo! cast.¡±

    After Irene left his dressing room, Antony decided against hanging around. He grabbed the wad of cash off the chest of drawers in one hand, then placed his other hand on the face of the top right drawer of the vanity. His finger brushed against the keyhole of the lock, and it clicked to indicate he could now open it. Inside the drawer was a stack of thick looseleaf parchment papers, a box of simple matches, a folded pocket knife, and the one contraption he searched for: a fat, closed fountain pen casing. Lazily, he just set the cash in that drawer and locked it upon shutting it.

    Antony stepped up to the standing mirror with the pen in his hands, twisting either side of it.

    This pen, made of a brushed gray metal, had a cap on either side twisted into place. The first cap he removed turned out to be the wrong side, the felt tip used for writing. He twisted off the other side. It was the end of a needle with quite a large gage like a syringe without a plunger. He didn¡¯t need a plunger, though, when he shoved the needle into the palm of his left hand.

    It stung, like usual, but other than remembering that it hurt, he didn¡¯t give the action much more consideration.

    The pen, still stuck into his flesh, absorbed the blood he willed to fill the well inside. The felt tip of the other end began to glisten, and so he pulled out the needle from his skin and replaced the cap to cover it.

    His palm bore the puncture wound for only a moment. The very second his blood touched oxygen, it activated and darkened to the point of looking almost completely black. It spread around the puncture mark and got to work repairing the skin cells so that by the time he stepped up and pressed the felt tip of the pen to the antique glass, it looked as if he never stabbed himself in the first place and the remaining blood soaked back into his body.

    Antony carefully wrote his command on the mirror: his apartment address in its entirety and the instructions for the mirror to open and connect to the designated one there. His pen already began running out of his blood-ink by the time he¡¯d gotten to the last letter, but the mirror still soaked in the words. They dissipated just as the glass began to ripple and dull to indicate it was open and ready to step through. And so, after capping and pocketing his pen, Antony did.

    Traveling through a mirror this far¡ªfrom his dressing room in Portland to his apartment in Onyx¡ªwas not the most pleasant of feelings, compared to when walking through them at home. The mirrors between his apartment and his dressing room were one minute and twenty-six seconds apart: one minute and twenty-six seconds of shoving his very being through time and space or whatever it was that separated the two worlds. He could never physically figure out how to move in that uncomfortable liminal space or entertain more than very simple thoughts; and because he opted to go through so often, he hardly registered the time it took anymore.

    Antony stepped into the mirror from the slightly stuffy and artificially warm air of Portland, Oregon of Earth and into the humid and fresh air of Onyx, Limen of Umbra.

    It wasn¡¯t all that different, though. Perhaps at first glance, the change in air was all that indicated he was somewhere else entirely.

    Antony mentally reached out to the ceiling lanterns and ignited them, bathing the main room of his apartment in a yellow-orange hue. He stepped out of a mirror three times the size as the one he stepped into; this mirror, though, was designed for being used as a travel hub all the time. It was built against the stone and concrete walls of the main space of the apartment, nestled between two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that held various literature he and his roommate had collected over the years and pieces of art that depicted favorite memories.

    In a cove to the right of this hub was a simple, wooden door that led to the public hall of this apartment complex. The door had no lock on it; the handle, itself, reacted to only the tenant¡¯s blood and will. In addition to the security it offered, apartment doors were linked to the complex entrances, so residents could bypass the entire system of complicated hallways and step out directly onto the street.

    Beside the front door cove was one of the main walls of this space, with two accordion shades that opened to Victor¡¯s and Antony¡¯s bedrooms, respectively. The wall directly beside that one held a privacy shade for the bathroom, which seemed to have been occupied at the moment, based on the sound of flowing water into the drain on the tiled floor.

    The rest of this apartment was dedicated to where Antony stood now. The outcropping across the way that held the cooking spit, butcher block, and ice chest was just as understated as it was supposed to be: a corner to cook and bring the food to this main opening, and not much else.

    Antony stood in front of one of the more important pieces of furniture in his home: the dining table. Low, wide, with a beautiful mosaic pattern, this was where the majority of anyone spent their time here. Long, low chaises lay across from each other and this table, perfect for eating dinner or taking a nap.

    This modest apartment was where Antony and Victor called home for the past few years (since the last one burned down). It served its purpose, of mostly a place to wait between when he would go to one theatre or the other. And for some reason, though he never had a strong reaction one way or another coming home, looking at it all now just weighed him back down to that feeling from before when he realized he needed to end the interview with Cadence.

    As he sat down on one of the couches, he struggled to shake off that impossible lowness, a twinge of nerves punctuating it. He could see why worlds were destroyed over that feeling, and he only had a brief moment of fooling himself into thinking his belonging anywhere mattered. Maybe it was worse to get the promise of it, then to pull away and know it couldn¡¯t be had again.

    He didn¡¯t hear Victor finish up in the bathroom, or even step out at first.

    ¡°¡­feeling alright?¡± his friend asked. Antony glanced up without fully registering the words. Victor stood in the hallway, still dressed from work¡ªa long, heavy set of draping robes over his simple day clothes. This morning he had long, shoulder-length hair, but now wore it cropped close to his scalp.

    Antony knew to expect this sudden change, as this ceremony his roommate returned from was similar to one for boys coming of age: shave away the old, let the new grow in its place. For boys, it was their first beard. Maybe for Victor rising to the status as a city representative on the council, a beard wasn¡¯t enough and he had to shave his head, too. It certainly made him look older, more intense.

    ¡°Tony?¡± Victor began to take off his braided stole, then the sash that kept his robes together.

    Antony hardly remembered to switch to his native tongue before he asked, ¡°Say that again?¡± Talking to Victor in English was a surefire way to spill his secrets when he felt like this.

    ¡°You¡¯re back early,¡± Victor said, taking off yet another one of his layers. Only the slate gray base robes remained; otherwise, his clothes were not that different from Antony¡¯s: linen pants, plain shirt. ¡°I was asking if you were feeling alright. I just got back from the rites ceremony, myself.¡± His rites ceremony of promotion, the one thing that should have been on Antony¡¯s mind this entire time, but he instead selfishly focused on¡­Earthly worries.

    ¡°I, um¡ªI was just lost in thought,¡± Antony said, rising from the couch with his arms outstretched. ¡°So, tomorrow¡¯s your first day as the Junior Representative of Onyx! I wanted to¡ª¡± Be a good friend and host celebrations in any fashion Victor wanted, not sit there and mope on the couch. ¡°Um¡ªwell, see what you were up for, as far as celebrating. If you want to go out before and after dinner, I can get a replacement for work tonight¡ª¡±

    Victor beamed as he draped his last robe over his arm.

    ¡°Yes! That¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about!¡± He hardly opened his room¡¯s partition, just tossed his clothes in there, and shut it again. ¡°My final official night as a freeman without those extra standards attached. I was hoping you were up for causing some mischief.¡±

    In reality, not anywhere close. But Antony slapped on an excited facade anyway.

    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s see if they can revoke your status before you even earn it.¡±

 Chapter Four: Behind the Glass (II)

    Antony should have been quite thankful that Victor¡¯s chosen celebrations involved so many loud and distracting¡­festivities. The man didn¡¯t want to stop shouting and bragging to everyone that would listen that he was destined to save their crumbling world from the future of desolation they raced toward. While Antony did think his ideas, the ones that got him selected by the council in the first place, were good, he wasn¡¯t sure if getting drunk and high off of opium-wine and shouting at passersby was really the way to sell it.

    At least anywhere but the streets of Onyx after dinner, randomly shouting at night would get them fined. But Onyx had carved itself its own spot in the province of Limen to be the hub for anything uncensored and unforgiving. Onyx housed the best casinos, theatres, brothels, dens of all kinds, arenas, sports venues¡ªanything anyone needed to escape daily life and its associated responsibilities. This thriving urban sprawl was where free people all over the province flooded to let go of their daytime statuses and tasks to truly celebrate the intense emotions of life.

    A great place to visit, possibly. But for anything else, like raise an angry kid, probably not. And, having been raised on the border of Onyx by his single mother, Antony would agree. He just couldn¡¯t seem to escape it unless he crawled through a mirror.

    By the time the temperature dropped to something a little more bearable in this humidity, Antony had successfully toured Victor through half of their chosen itinerary locations for the night. His friend looked genuinely happy, hopeful. He toasted with strangers to the future, to their health, to Umbra as a whole thriving. For a couple of those toasts, Antony got lost in the celebrations.

    But while Victor continued celebrating, Antony started to sober. A flirty woman in a flowing, floor-length dress captured his attention, asking for the story as to why Victor celebrated like he just shaved his first beard and earned the right to drink wine without food.

    ¡°He, uhm, is a Junior Representative of Onyx now,¡± he was happy to inform while using an armchair as a crutch. ¡°He¡¯s got¡ªgot lots of ideas to, uh, to fix the¡­energy crisis.¡± As he spoke, he waved away a bartender¡¯s offer to fill his cup. ¡°Had these¡ªuh, these plans since we were kids. Now he gets to do ¡¯em.¡±

    Gravity made his limbs heavier, so Antony swung around the chair to fall into it with an ¡°oof.¡± Somewhere behind him, someone began a chant, ¡°Carpe vinum!¡± as a way to get the attention of whoever held the carafe. Antony raised his cup in cheer, but didn¡¯t join in.

    His momentary companion fell into his chair as well, draping her legs over his and an arm around his neck. It took him an extra couple seconds to actually feel the crook of her arm on his skin, though, further justifying his self-imposed cutoff.

    ¡°And you?¡± she asked him as she snuggled into his side. ¡°What do you get to do?¡± The very question he¡¯d managed to avoid answering all night.

    Antony hesitated as he attempted to capture the details of the face in front of him. The lights, purposefully dulled for this time of night, made it difficult to distinguish too many distinct features of any one person, showering rays of different hues to highlight reflective accents carved into the floor and along the mosaic walls. The lavish and colorful decorations were meant to keep people here, ingesting and spending. Likewise, this woman emphasized different parts of her face with different ink stains and designs to keep people staring and giving her attention.

    As drunk and melancholy as Antony was, he didn¡¯t have the ability or will to distinguish where her face started and her paintings ended. He instead opted to try and look her in the eyes, only to be disappointed. When he focused on them, a thick, smoky veneer revealed itself, indicating that she was using an illusion to change their perceived color. From physical ink to mental imagery, she covered every part of herself.

    Attempting any sort of authenticity at a time like this was bound for failure. Still, he¡¯d give it a try. Maybe repeating Cadence¡¯s words aloud, rather than let them swim silently in his head, would make something different happen.

    ¡°I perform on a stage¡ªbut I talk¡­one-on-one,¡± he said awkwardly, ¡°to people. Big performance, but intimate¡ª¡± He went to gesture with his hands, but instead ended up sloshing some wine on the ground. ¡°It¡¯s like sharing a language only you two speak.¡± Dark as it was, he could tell from the woman¡¯s expression that she didn¡¯t quite understand what he was saying. Maybe attempting to recreate a sober moment while drunk off his ass wasn¡¯t a great idea.

    ¡°You¡­teach different languages on a stage?¡±

    Antony decided to give up. ¡°Yeah, sure.¡± It didn¡¯t matter anyway.

    Performing wasn¡¯t exactly a high-end profession here. Whereas in Portland, people admired him¡ªor at the very least didn¡¯t discount him¡ªhere, it was just another way of selling himself. Legal, protected by the council, somewhat decent wages, but at the end of the day, it was still his time he sold for rich people to enjoy. People didn¡¯t seem to understand how little difference there was performing on a stage to just talking to a stranger you wanted to impress one-on-one. But at the end of the day, he was the one that wanted to make a living pretending to be someone else, so he was the one worth less than the next person.

    As the woman on his lap attempted to maintain some surface level of conversation, Antony raised his cup and knocked back the last remaining contents to the back of his throat. The pergola that sheltered them from the night air was specifically woven with vines and lights twisted around one another until they were hardly distinguishable, bulbs of light and bulbs of plant-matter together. The flowers budded at this time of night, hiding their beautiful petals for when the sun would rise in a few hours.

    The sight of these tiny flowers opening up was usually the final alarm to inform people to get shelter, that the sun was about to rise and douse the world in intolerable radiation. In Portland, the sunrise was beautiful and peaceful. In Onyx and on Umbra, the sun emerged for a few hours each day¡ªa few hours of intense, blistering heat that people generally couldn¡¯t handle for more than a few minutes at a time without third-degree burns or worse.

    As Antony stared at the pergola and the lights, he found himself wishing to see the petals open. But the sun-fed flowers weren¡¯t safe here, and he¡¯d have to wait until he could steal away to Earth to see any blooms safely.

    That wouldn¡¯t be for a long while, though, and it ultimately was up to Victor to determine when stop celebrating and move on with life. Until then, Antony had to keep pretending.

    ?

    Portland, Oregon saw more of Antony that week after Victor¡¯s celebrations. He didn¡¯t venture out too often, but with his roommate¡¯s suddenly demanding schedule for his first official week as a Junior Representative of Onyx, it felt safe enough for Antony to come out and take a couple extra walks in the icy air under the sun, something he would have never thought he¡¯d enjoy until he came here as a teenager.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    Even when the weather took a darker and colder turn, Antony still spent the extra time through the mirrors indoors, just browsing different stores or sitting and watching the clouds roll by through the window of the coffee shop. Perhaps this was the sort of quiet reprieve he needed, especially after one of the worst hangovers of his life. After putting his kidneys and liver through Hell, a couple quiet days walking along Lake Oswego must have been what his soul needed, because by that Thursday, that melancholic twinge that haunted him since talking with Cadence lessened.

    Antony lay on his dressing room couch that afternoon, eyes closed, drifting into a light slumber. He still had a few hours before he had to return home to get ready for work at Gemma Imperii. For that theatre, his script was written for him: introduce various acts and banter with the audience until someone with a name worth remembering walked on.

    He forced his thoughts to this theatre, this show. Tomorrow he had his usual seven o¡¯clock performance, and he still couldn¡¯t quite decide if he wanted to specialize it or not.

    This week on Earth, people celebrated some sort of commercialized love day. He contemplated trying to match all of his illusions and tricks to that theme, but it didn¡¯t quite feel right. He¡¯d never been in love before, and apparently he was too honest about that. Bellona, his ex, dumped him for refusing to lie to her face about it just last month. And here, with all the advertisements pushing people to express their love and get married, Antony had his doubts about other people¡¯s honesty with it, too. Maybe it was in bad taste to follow a theme he couldn¡¯t even understand.

    By the time he¡¯d settled on foregoing any theme for his show tomorrow night, something about the air around him grew tight.

    ¡°So is this a glorified napping hideaway, then?¡± At the sound of another person¡¯s voice, Antony¡¯s eyes shot open. He should not have been able to hear that language¡ªhis native language¡ªhere. ¡°Bit of a journey for a shitty closet.¡±

    ¡°Vic¡ª?¡± Antony sat up and twisted around all at once, spotting his best friend pocket a pen made for transporting between mirrors. A high-pitched whine filled Antony¡¯s ears as he scrambled to his feet; Victor remained calm, emotionless, just watching, but it was just for show. The more Antony stammered and stumbled and started and stopped sentences, the more it chipped away Victor¡¯s mask. Feigned curiosity rather than fury and hurt in that sneer.

    ¡°So?¡± his friend continued, his eyes darting around to every inch of the room. ¡°Where are we?¡± Unfortunately, his eyes fell on the poster for the Magnificent Michael. Antony instantly regretted letting himself put that up a few years ago when he found it. ¡°Port-land.¡± Victor examined the poster, moving his lips to sound out the unfamiliar words to him. ¡°So, English. Is this because it¡¯s your mom¡¯s favorite language?¡±

    ¡°This doesn¡¯t have anything to do with my mom,¡± Antony replied immediately. Victor huffed as he turned around, opening his arms.

    ¡°Do you see me wearing a sash? I¡¯m here as me. Here because you kept disappearing. And, well¡­.¡± His eyes drifted around the dressing room; it was clear from the way his lips tightened and softened that he found the sight displeasing. ¡°I learned some new mirror tricks my first week, so I could see that you left all the time. I thought maybe you were sneaking out to see Bellona, but¡­.¡± Victor¡¯s facade cracked a bit more, brows furrowed, his voice taut and shaky. ¡°I didn¡¯t think you were breaking a Founder¡¯s Law for a nap.¡±

    Victor set his expression in a way to try to hide his hurt, his worry. His oldest friend, often mistaken for a brother with how inseparable they were as kids. The one person it was hardest to keep this all from.

    Antony stood frozen and stared at him with every bit of his insides twisting into knots. ¡°Vic, you¡­you didn¡¯t have to come here¡­. Put yourself at risk¡ª¡±

    ¡°How long have you been coming here? By yourself?¡± That was not going to be a question he was going to answer willingly, so Antony remained silent. ¡°Is this about what you told me¡ªabout our idea?¡± The passing thought that because of all the similarities, it would be impossible for those of Earth to ever know someone from Umbra lived here. Antony said it from experience, to test his friend''s openness to the concept.

    For Victor, he focused on the space and resources Earth was said to have, according to the analysis from scientists. Antony preferred to think about the history that showed there never used to be a divide in the first place, proof of another chance at feeling like he mattered. But when he brought it up before, Victor couldn''t get past his anger at the current state of Umbra, or think of anything other than how he perceived Earth as dripping with spare energy they could take for themselves.

    Antony shook his head. ¡°Vic, I know you can¡¯t know any of this. Go back home.¡± He gestured to the mirror. ¡°You don¡¯t know anything, you can¡¯t be¡ªyou can¡¯t get in trouble.¡±

    Victor didn¡¯t move, though. ¡°You¡¯ve been doing all of this on your own? Without me?¡±

    ¡°Vic, go home¡ª¡±

    ¡°No, Tony. Forgetting for a second how you¡¯ve been lying to my face for however long, this is¡ªthis is was supposed to be our idea. My campaign.¡± Victor got louder; and while he doubted anyone heard or listened or cared, Antony still flinched and looked to the door expectantly.

    Victor continued with venom in his voice, ¡°I was chosen for the opportunity of a lifetime to make our dream a reality for everyone. I¡¯m supposed to prove that there is a balance of energy to be found in studying Earth. I¡¯m supposed to be creating a proposal with a list of requested resources and personnel to bring to them.¡± Victor took a step forward; despite the urge to, Antony did not step away. ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to get the time to talk to you this week to bring you in. Now I find you¡¯ve been doing this all behind my back. To what, to take all the credit?¡± It was almost a relief to hear Victor say that, to admit his fears so quickly. It made it so much easier to breathe. Victor wanted visibility, Antony wanted to blend in. This was the one time their desires coincided.

    ¡°No,¡± Antony started, but Victor interrupted.

    ¡°How many of them here know about you? How many deficiente sanguinem know about us?¡±

    ¡°None.¡± In this answer, Antony regained some of his confidence. This could still be salvaged. He could keep what he had and Victor could have his dream.

    ¡°None?¡±

    ¡°None. I¡¯ve just been¡ªthey think I¡¯m one of them. They¡¯ve never even suspected I¡¯m not.¡± He gestured behind him, to the closed door that muffled the majority of a midday rehearsal not too far away on the stage for Rocky. ¡°There¡¯s nothing about us here. We¡¯ve been erased from their history completely.¡± Possibly not even on purpose, if Antony understood the outrage around the Library of Alexandria correctly. Now how gestured to the poster behind Victor until he turned and said, ¡°Look, they celebrate not being able to explain something they don¡¯t understand, even.¡±

    ¡°This¡ªwas this man from Umbra¡ª?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Antony said before Victor could create any other wild theories. ¡°But would put on shows to pretend to do ¡®magic¡¯ and people paid him for it.¡±

    ¡°And they didn¡¯t¡ªthey didn¡¯t kill him?¡± But his friend hesitated while staring at the poster, his thoughts unfinished before he turned back. ¡°Is that what you¡¯re doing here?¡± His tone shifted from a fearful defensiveness to something closer to curiosity¡ªthough not without judgment.

    Now, Antony felt it safe to merely shrug.

    ¡°They¡¯re paying me to show them impossible things they can¡¯t explain and are none the wiser. It¡¯s a type of show they have everywhere, all the time.¡± Victor continued staring at the poster as Antony spoke. ¡°It¡¯s like we thought. They don¡¯t think twice.¡±

    Victor glanced over his shoulder to the standing mirror he walked through just a moment ago.

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you say anything to me?¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t get in trouble if you don¡¯t know about it. You wanted to be in politics, where they watch your every move. I don¡¯t. It¡¯s¡­safest for me to not tell anyone. Especially you.¡± It wasn¡¯t the full truth, but enough to be genuine in the moment. Now wasn¡¯t the time for him to admit that in protecting Umbra from Earth, that he was also, inadvertently, protecting Earth from Umbra.

    Victor repeated, ¡°It¡¯s a Founder¡¯s Law¡­.¡±

    ¡°And you had nothing to do with breaking it.¡±

    But his friend didn¡¯t seem to like this reply.

    ¡°Yeah, what¡¯s it matter when they march you to the executioner? Or when the deficiente find out and storm us¡ª¡±

    ¡°Think for a second about this, Vic. We were right. About all of it. They don¡¯t know anything about us, we can move amongst them without being noticed, and¡ªand their energy!¡± Victor¡¯s favorite topic, one Antony didn¡¯t personally care for but knew was important. ¡°They¡¯re powering everything just like us, but without blood! The oil, coal, powering light and no one has to bleed to make it happen.¡± Antony clasped his hands together in a prayer motion, silently begging for his friend to buy into any aspect of this. Antony all but recited Victor¡¯s arguments from long ago when they first thought to explore Earth, he just had to hope Victor liked to hear it come out of someone else¡¯s mouth as much as he did his own. ¡°Think what our people can do if we stop wasting our blood and energy on stupid shit like rich people wanting their clothes to change colors? What else can we do when we¡¯re not bleeding ourselves dry, putting our energy to something useful?¡±

    ¡°The energy¡­.¡± Now his friend had fully moved to disbelief, already shaking his head as he considered what was said.

    ¡°The sun, the wind¡ªthey even use their own movement to produce energy to power their things.¡± Antony stepped closer to his friend, urging for him to not get lost in thought. ¡°And they don¡¯t die from using it. No one dies from needing wind to power a battery. Can you imagine? It¡¯s your campaign. Right here.¡±

    Victor took a long moment in silence, face contorted in concentration, staring at the ugly carpet that was put in twenty years ago.

    Antony lowered his voice and clasped his friend on the shoulder. ¡°Do you understand? We were right, but we just¡ªwe can¡¯t just dive into it.¡± Not like he did nine years ago, careless and without thinking about what it would be like. ¡°And you don¡¯t have to risk your idea getting rejected and being ousted for bringing it up. It¡¯s already here. Proof of concept.¡±

    Finally, Victor glanced up to Antony, his lips pursed as he considered everything. There was still a distinct and palpable tension in the air, a deep anger that wouldn¡¯t go away with just one argument. But amongst all of that, Victor still showed curiosity.

    He hummed, the curiosity winning the moment.

    ¡°Fine. Show me.¡±

 Chapter 5: An Answer Looming

    Cadence leaned against the wall in the main hall of the Clinton Street Theatre, watching the various local actors of Portland shuffle off the main stage with a palpable tinge of excitement in the air. Their rehearsal went well, she assumed, based on the laughter and the playful pushing. It did run late, as she understood rehearsals did sometimes, but it made her feet hurt to stand like this after an entire day of editing other people¡¯s work in a skirt and ankle boots.

    No actionable story from her meant being a backup assistant for every other writer that already had their story in full swing. Extra research there, rewrite this paragraph here, fact-check this skeezy politician¡¯s calendar¡ªthe tedious details that weren¡¯t very fun when you had no say in the story in the first place.

    But Alec let her leave a couple hours early for her to research her own story, at least. A plus for that. So now that her official work day was over, Portland wore clouds like a coat and offered a mid-afternoon drizzle. Cadence stood for far too long in a hallway with no central heating, waiting for people to stop rehearsing something they knew by heart before they even auditioned. As the small crowd made their way through the hall covered in sweat, she shivered at the breeze they let in from opening the main doors. Cadence contemplated taking her jacket out from hanging through her purse handles, but ultimately left it there in favor of watching for her target exiting the stage.

    A few actors waved, some just nodded as they passed by. Unhelpful interviews she lied and said were better than how they actually turned out. Maybe in general, the regular actors would come together and realize that there were several questions they couldn¡¯t answer about the mysterious magician, especially consistently, even though they had been working with Antony for years. Some of them, the better part of a decade. And yet, no information Cadence hadn¡¯t already gleaned. Was it weird she couldn¡¯t just accept the lackluster answers when everyone else could?

    Well, not completely lackluster, just no useful information about where this guy came from or what his deal was. He liked to swim in Lake Oswego with the people that played Brad and Janet in the Rocky Horror Picture Show cast in the summer. He liked to treat the Repo! Cast to Dairy Queen Blizzards when there was a new cast member introduced. And yet none of these people could say where he moved here from, or even if he traveled anywhere else, or what he did when he wasn¡¯t here. His entire world was limited to this theatre, the people in it, and the shops surrounding that he frequented.

    The woman Cadence anticipated coming out of rehearsal, Cece Angeles, was one of the last in the line of people she thought to talk to. Blonde, tall, perfect skinny frame. She was adorable and exactly what Cadence expected to find when trying to dig into Antony¡¯s dating history. According to the actor who played Meatloaf, they had a fling just a couple weeks ago that ended as fast as it started. Jilted lovers were a goldmine of information¡­though nothing indicated very much jilt about Cece. Could have been a false lead. At the very least, attempting to get this interview got her out of the Oxford Comma debate Rupert started before she left.

    As Cece Angeles approached the door to exit the theatre space, Cadence broke away from the wall and shoved her hand through her purse handles, under her jacket, to grab her notebook. It got stuck in the small opening, no matter how much she jostled it. She took her eyes off of Cece for just a second to try and maneuver everything around¡ªwhy did she have so much crap in here? She didn¡¯t even like that flavor of Cliff Bar or need all these receipts.

    By the time she got her notebook free, the crowd, and Cece, already funneled through the front doors of the theatre to take shelter from the light drizzle under the marquee, taking much of their noise and excitement with them. Now, Cadence could clearly hear the owner of the theatre not too far away in her office.

    ¡°Great¡­to¡­meet¡­you!¡± she dictated loudly and carefully. Cadence craned her neck to try and see what the fuss was about. Almost immediately, Cadence dropped the notebook she¡¯d just grabbed back in her purse and started her way down the hall. Cece could wait. Antony Devrue had a guest.

    Irene enthusiastically grasped the hand of a man a little taller and broader than Antony, with black hair buzzed to his scalp and a long, crimson shirt with a Mandarin collar. He seemed partially overwhelmed, blinking too much, clearly uncomfortable.

    Antony feigned confidence as he spoke goodbyes to Irene. This was the kind of moment she¡¯d been waiting a week for. A time when she could see how he might interact with someone else as he doffed that very purposeful performance.

    In the few moments after the theatre owner backed away to shut her office door, Cadence watched the two men exchange glances. The guest grit his teeth so hard he almost sneered; something in the way he held his brows to a close furrow gave an impression that something brewed behind his eyes, some set of distasteful connections joining together. In response, Antony¡¯s Adam¡¯s apple bobbed like he waited for the results of an important test, not too dissimilar to the face he made last week before all but shoving Cadence out the door. An invisible string pulled him at attention as he crossed his arms over his chest, defensive. Like if he added his arm muscles to the fibers of his tee that he¡¯d have a shield thick enough to hide from whatever thoughts his guest held behind a grimace.

    Interesting. To spare him the nerves of awaiting his friend¡¯s judgment alone, Cadence cleared her throat.

    ¡°Good to see you again, Devrue. Care to introduce me to your friend, here?¡±

    Antony did what she expected: he acted like he wasn¡¯t surprised, turned his tightly wound nerves into an unnecessary laugh. But his friend watched him, too. It was the stranger¡¯s look of slight discomfort to intrigue that brought a smile to Cadence¡¯s lips. This was someone unfamiliar with Antony¡¯s mask. Perfect.

    Antony patted his friend on the shoulder, turning them both to face Cadence as he gestured. The words that flew out of his mouth were not an introduction, though. In fact, they were so fast and fluid, and not-English, that it was difficult to figure out what he could have possibly been saying. His friend didn¡¯t even turn to look, just nodded.

    ¡°Cadence Conway,¡± Antony said with a smile that didn¡¯t seem to fit on his face. ¡°Meet Victor Livis.¡±

    ¡°Pleasure to meet you, Victor,¡± Cadence said carefully as she offered a hand. Antony went to speak, but his friend interrupted him.

    ¡°Hello. My listening in English is good.¡± His words were deliberate, with every letter pronounced not unlike how Antony spoke when he was out of breath. ¡°My talking in English is very slow. I don¡¯t speak it often.¡± Cadence couldn¡¯t hide her joy. Finally, the vague semblance of an origin.

    ¡°Perfectly good English!¡± she reassured with a firm shake of his hand. Victor seemed pleased by the feedback; it was difficult to tell which part of this exchange made Antony look like he was attempting to hold back vomit. He stepped forward with his hand still on his friend¡¯s shoulder, pushing him back a bit and out of her handshake, separating them. Something in the way he leaned back against his friend left Cadence with an odd feeling, but she couldn¡¯t quite place why. It almost looked like a protective motion. Were her questions that much of a threat? Or was it his friend''s judgment from before that Antony tried to push away?

    ¡°Thanks, but we¡¯ve unfortunately got to¡ª¡±

    ¡°Leaving so soon?¡± Cadence interrupted. Her smile felt like it weighed a ton, but she kept it in place as she faced him. ¡°I was hoping to have a chat with Victor.¡± Now she looked up to him, and in a slower and more even tone, began to ask, ¡°Did you just move here, or are you visiting? Are you from the same place as Antony?¡± He said his English understanding was good, but she didn¡¯t want to risk any miscommunication by getting too excited and talking too fast.

    Tenacious as before, Antony shook his head. ¡°Sorry, we¡ªI was just about to, um, show Victor¡ª¡±

    ¡°She should join us,¡± answered Victor. There were no wrinkles by his eyes indicating that his smile was genuine. It was perhaps the only time Cadence thought to maybe listen to Antony¡¯s dismissal, but she ignored the urge. ¡°He is showing me a¡ªit¡¯s called a¡­torn¡­a tour. He is showing me a tour of this place. Come with us.¡± It became abundantly clear with the way that Victor shoved off his friend¡¯s hand that she had stepped between some sort of disagreement, or at least reminded them of one from before. Nerves and judgment gave way to some sort of hidden aggression; now she acted as a sort of physical buffer between them. But despite the growing tension, the trio turned toward the narrow hallway that led to the dressing rooms: Cadence¡¯s boots clicking against the wafer-thin carpet, Victor all but stomping along, and Antony silently trailing behind them.

    ¡°Tony said you are writing a story? About his, um¡­.¡± Victor hesitated as he gestured to the walls around them. ¡°Is that why you¡­meet¡­meeting?¡±

    Cadence put her smile back on, offered what she hoped sounded like a charming laugh. ¡°That¡¯s how we met, yes, because of his show.¡± Her attempt to force a more polite aura to their walk went ignored; while Victor returned to trying to hide his irritation, it almost looked like she added to whatever distasteful conclusion he drew earlier when she interrupted them.

    ¡°Saw my show first,¡± mumbled Antony behind them.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Oh!¡± Victor sounded with a laugh as he pointed to the upcoming door. ¡°Your name! I did not see this before!¡± They approached the very door he indicated, the infamous dressing room. ¡°Very popular in this place, Port-land, then?¡± There seemed to be a right answer to this question as the two men stared at each other. An silent, secondary conversation only in expression passed between them; it was a little frustrating to not know what it was about. Antony started to shake his head.

    When Victor¡¯s expression didn¡¯t lighten, Cadence thought to try to answer instead: ¡°Oh, yes. Portland¡¯s very own celebrity.¡± This must have been what he expected to hear. He nodded and reached for the door to push it open. Well, she knew what that room looked like. It didn¡¯t give off the impression that someone was well received¡­. Quickly, Cadence added, ¡°Yes, see¡ªdown the hall is everyone else¡¯s dressing room, shared.¡± She gestured, but Victor didn¡¯t look. ¡°He gets his own.¡±

    ¡°His own,¡± echoed Victor. Something about his tone didn¡¯t quite feel right, but he regarded the room thoughtfully, his hand touching the door frame as if it held some kind of secret. The man stepped in, giving Antony just enough time to stare at Cadence with an intensity that took her breath.

    ¡°Stop,¡± he whispered. They stood together in the doorway in that suspended moment, with Antony rigid and holding his arms over his chest like a shield once more. His eyes, for just a second, resembled thunderous and intimidating clouds. But she didn¡¯t react, didn¡¯t look away. She waited, as if waiting out an actual storm, and by the time he drew breath, he couldn¡¯t seem to maintain this facade of someone in control. His insecurity broke through and the hiss of his word had even less bite.

    Their attention was stolen by the flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling, flashing on and off over and over again as Victor flicked the switch on the wall.

    ¡°Vic.¡± Now Antony swapped to scolding his friend, who genuinely smiled as he flicked the light off and on one last time. Annoying, but not quite worth the tone Antony used. Whatever it was he wanted hidden now stood out in the open, waiting for someone to notice. Cadence frowned and followed Victor into the dressing room, her mind made up. The answer was here. She was going to figure it out.

    ¡°First visit here, Victor?¡± she decided to ask. The man approached the vanity against the wall, squinting at the dusty mirror as he nodded. He reached forward to the dust, swiping at it with a finger. ¡°How long have you and Antony known each other?¡± Unimpressed by the mirror, as pretty as it probably was under the dust and rust, Victor moved on to the drawers.

    ¡°Known¡­um¡­decem¡­. Eighteen years,¡± was his answer as he pulled the first one open. While Cadence sat with the shock, Victor let out a loud laugh and pointed at what he found in the drawer, face full of amusement as he looked for his friend¡¯s reaction. Cadence could only guess what he found if he started laughing like a twelve-year-old (especially given who she was originally going to interview), and opted to ignore it. Why was he digging around and touching everything like a child at a hotel for the first time?

    ¡°Eighteen years is a long time,¡± Cadence noted as Antony shoved past her to shut the drawer. ¡°You must have missed him.¡±

    ¡°Missed?¡± Right as Victor asked, Antony started spouting something in a different language, fast and in a murmur. He definitely explained something, but it wasn¡¯t a translation, and his words seemed unpolished and sloppy.

    Eager to not have her question dodged, Cadence said, ¡°Missed, as in wanted to see him but couldn¡¯t, and feeling sad?¡±

    Now Cadence could hear what Antony said a little better, the louder her got, desperate. Common root words amongst romance languages, from chrono and geo. It was fascinating to hear a language that felt so familiar, but that she couldn¡¯t place. Some sort of Spanish dialect, maybe, if it had so much Latin influence?

    ¡°Novem annos!¡± Victor exploded. His hand slapped the top of the vanity so suddenly that Cadence jumped a step back. Her hand flew to her chest, gripping her butterfly necklace as if it could fly out and protect her. None of the energy was directed at her, but it certainly pushed her back. The adrenaline brought forth a vivid memory from her Introduction to Latin class from her first year of college. Victor had just repeated what Antony last said: nine years. Okay, that was strange.

    Antony bolted away from his friend, to the door, to shut it as he cried out, ¡°Simulare¡ª!¡± in a hushed tone. Cadence couldn¡¯t hide her confusion, but didn¡¯t say anything. She was far from an expert, but it almost sounded like they were speaking Latin, like they stood there and recited parts from The Twelve Caesars like she once did. But she couldn¡¯t even find a good question to ask¡ªnot one that would get a direct answer, anyway.

    Victor¡¯s loud laugh started high-pitched, forced, for a few seconds before he relaxed a bit into quiet chuckles. ¡°I apologize,¡± Victor continued with his tight laugh not far behind. ¡°Tony, um, is¡ªhe remind me of¡­something.¡±

    Antony slowly made his way back to where he was standing before, his arms crossed so tightly that a vein protruded from one of his forearms. Somehow, Cadence now watched the two of them stare at one another, one trying to hide he was furious, and one far more practiced and successful at hiding whatever sea of emotions he held to himself. Practiced, but not perfect. Antony may as well have been sweating bullets, desperate to convince his friend to pretend¡ªsimulate¡ªsome sort of new set of instructions.

    The silence that fell amongst them could have been interrupted by a pin dropping. Things didn¡¯t add up. They interacted like brothers, like they spent a lot of time together. They knew each other for eighteen years, and yet Victor was more than shocked to learn Antony had been here for nine. If Victor hadn¡¯t been here before, it meant that whatever time they had spent between when Antony moved and now, that Antony visited him. And yet Victor lived far enough away that English wasn¡¯t used often. Quite a lengthy travel time in able to be back and prepared for a show every single Friday. Above all, why hold two such distinct lives at all? Why was this side of Antony¡¯s life, public to everyone else, hidden away from someone clearly so important to him?

    ¡°Antony,¡± Cadence murmured quietly. Breaking the silence seemed to allow everyone to move. Victor¡¯s almost-glare softened as he shook his head. He took her speaking as a sign that he could return to the vanity and open the second drawer on this side, as if this sudden slip-up gave him cart-Blanche to return to being a child. He wasn¡¯t as gentle with this drawer, though. Cadence waited for Antony to look at her before she asked, ¡°If I published this article, would that put you in harm¡¯s way?¡± He seemed to successfully hide whatever reaction that would have otherwise granted her. ¡°Are you in, like, Witness Protection or something?¡±

    Victor actually snorted as he pulled out a tape measurer from the drawer he dug into. ¡°Us? Witness-protecting?¡± Clatter, back into the drawer and onto snooping in the next one.

    ¡°Okay,¡± Cadence sounded, rolling her eyes, ¡°so you¡¯re just hiding from your past?¡± Again, Victor let out a sound of disapproval and shut the drawer, and started to move on down the room, to the poster of the Magnificent Michael. Antony only gave him a passing glance before shaking his head at Cadence.

    ¡°I¡¯m not hiding from anything.¡± Another sound from Victor as he moved onto inspecting the standing antique mirror. Well, that made it clear that she and Victor had at least that much in common, Antony keeping massive secrets they longed to uncover. Before the foreign friend could get in trouble for poking and prodding probably the most expensive thing in this room, Cadence stole Antony¡¯s attention again.

    ¡°So you¡¯ll tell me why you¡¯re speaking Latin, of all languages? What, were you raised in a monastery or something?¡± Even Victor twisted around to shoot her a weird look over Antony¡¯s shoulder. But just as fast, he turned around and¡ªwait, what was he doing? She couldn¡¯t quite see over Antony¡¯s shoulder.

    ¡°It¡¯s not any of your business,¡± Antony spat, uncrossing his arms. Oh, now she hit a nerve. Cadence scoffed. He could have a fight with his friend, fine, but to suddenly turn on her as if she was the one yelling? After even trying to talk him up?

    ¡°You could have just declined to answer from the start, but instead you wanted to dance around half-answers and be a total dick, so if you¡¯re not actively in danger by me publishing an article, I¡¯m going to keep digging¡ª¡±

    ¡°No, you¡¯re not.¡± Antony sounded confident, like his word was law, but even Victor, as he began to walk back to the vanity from the mirror, gave his friend a look of skepticism.

    Cadence shook her head. ¡°Yes, I am¡ª¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Antony drew in a breath, rolled his shoulders back in an attempt to make himself look bigger. ¡°You won¡¯t because you¡¯re¡ªuh¡ªyou¡¯re¡ªbanned.¡±

    ¡°Banned?¡± As she echoed this, Victor returned to the door. Now sweat started to gather at her hairline. Was she about to literally be thrown out the dressing room? Her hand tightened around the handles of her purse as she tucked it further into the crook of her other elbow. There was enough random crap in here to do some solid damage, if they tried to touch her. Unless Irene the owner kicked her out, herself, there was no way in hell she was leaving. Not when she was this close to figuring something out.

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    She stammered. ¡°You can¡¯t just¡ª¡±

    ¡°Vic, what are you doing?¡± Cadence didn¡¯t even have time to be confused. She watched Antony¡¯s expression turn from anger to annoyance, to confusion up until he gasped.

    But turning around to see what was the matter wasn¡¯t an option now, because she was falling forward.

    No. Not falling. She was pushed. Though it wasn''t Victor''s hands shoving her, it felt closer to a powerful gust of wind knocking her off-balance. Worse still when she face-planted right into Antony''s chest, the force didn''t let up. She didn¡¯t bounce off like she should have for someone built that solidly. It was like gravity itself changed and it was easier to push him rather than fall back.

    In trying to anticipate what would happen next, she imagined they would crash into the mirror¡ªand yet, Cadence continued to propel toward Antony, and he continued to act as her unyielding cushion for this strange, sideways free-fall.

    At first, the only passing thought that formed together in time was the impossible notion that she could feel the frame of the antique mirror scrape by on either side of her arms. The only sensation she could even comprehend beyond that got lumped together in a confusing, twisting, pulsating sea of vertigo. The only sense of control granted to her was the fact that she definitely directed where Antony fell¡ªsomewhere beyond¡ªthough no wind blew at them, no sounds of something whooshing past, nothing beyond the inkling of change that tied her stomach into knots.

    She wanted to open her eyes and see what was happening, but they refused. Her body was stuck on a spinning carnival ride that went faster and faster, upside-down and in loops she would have never signed up for in person. Worse still was each and every heartbeat struggling to pump her blood, to keep up with the shifting pressure. Fluttering, slowing, skipping every few beats until she gave up trying to keep track of it at all. Walking through thigh-high ocean waves took less effort than just trying to get her knee to stop burying into Antony¡¯s.

    Nothing hinted to when this would stop, or that they were even physically moving in the first place, but Cadence still managed to white-knuckle Antony''s shirt as if she could use it to steer back to where things felt less like the inside of a washing machine. In forcing her awareness to her fingers gripping the cotton, Cadence began to count.

    One alligator, two alligator, three alligator, four....

    Fifty-five alligators later, something finally changed. Light attempted to perforate her eyelids, wind finally caught up to resist the two of them falling through space, and her throat finally let out the the shout she''d tried to express in vain until now. The subtle eucalyptus scent that she''d been shoved into intensified, mixed with lemon and some sort of warm spice like she walked up to someone wiping down a kitchen after dinner. Gone was the well-loved book smell, the antique wood oil, the mustiness of well-trodden community theatre carpet.

    Gravity returned to her feet, standing on top of Antony''s, preventing him from catching his balance and toppling him backward. Still clutching his shirt, he went from being pushed by her, to being the only thing that separated her from the impossibly loud cacophony of something shattering and snapping. This sea of crashing ceramics and glass stifled their fall until it ended with Antony''s out-of-breath, ¡°oof!¡± and a heavy, final thud of his head smacking on the floor.