Magician's Fire (15 page)

“Absolutely, Artie,” said Harry.

He watched his friends. Billie was nodding at what Arthur had said, and had reached across and taken hold of his hand. Harry reached out and took hold of the other one. Arthur smiled, and Harry realized that, if he leaned forward, he could just reach across and grab Billie's spare hand. He did so, and for a moment the three of them sat like that, the fire beneath the mantelpiece warming them with its flickering glow.
Yes, things have turned out nicely
, Harry reflected…

And
we've just gotten started
.

Releasing his friends' hands and leaning back, he thought about what Arthur had said just now about researching new tricks.
Good
point
. Thrilling though the Wesley Jones cage trick was, audiences would grow bored of it eventually, and new tricks would have to be devised, ones that were even more spectacular, even more death defying.

But
that
won't be so hard
, Harry thought, feeling the warmth of the fire and glancing across at his friends.
Not
as
if
I'm on my own
. Settling back in his chair, he started wondering what the next tricks would be…

“Master Harry? This just handed in for you at the stage door.”

It was Bruno the Strongman. He was standing in the doorway, holding up an envelope. Harry rose from his chair and trod across the rug, his boots still warm. He took the letter and opened it as Bruno shuffled away. A sheet of paper, pale green in color, was inside. Burned into the bottom left corner, a symbol of a bird surrounded by black. And the letter's words were just as curious.

To Harry, Billie, and Arthur,

You have impressed us greatly. But your greatest achievements lie ahead of you—we will make sure of it.

Sent with the consent of

The Order of the White Crow

“The Order of the White Crow?” Arthur peered over Harry's shoulder.

“We will make sure of it…”
Billie inspected the letter too. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Harry said nothing. He just let Billie slide the pale green paper out of his hands and headed for the window.
Just
handed
in
at
the
stage
door
. The sash was still open, and he leaned out of it, immediately remembering the tightrope walk into the Hotel Crosby and being thrown into air by the ecstatic crowd just a few days ago.

There he was. The man in the pale suit. The one Harry had glimpsed ten stories up, the one who had written in the notebook as the crowd cheered. He was standing just a short distance down the street, staring directly up at Herbie Lemster's office window. And he stayed like that, staring, as Harry felt a strange twitching sensation in the fingers of his right hand.

He held them up. Their tips were smeared with a pale green dust. Looking closer, he saw that the greenness seemed to have become part of the skin and that traces of it could even be seen underneath the skin, dissolving into the pinkness of his fingers. But he couldn't look at his hand any longer because his legs were feeling weak and he needed his hand to grip the wall. He heard two thuds behind him.

Unsteadily, he swung around. He saw Billie sprawled on the rug and Arthur collapsed in a chair. Both of them were unconscious, their heads lolling, their bodies limp. The pale green letter stood upright, pinched between Arthur's finger and thumb. Harry took a step forward, but his legs were even weaker, and his knees slammed into the rug. He crawled to his friends. They were still breathing. They almost looked quite peaceful as they lay there, sound asleep.

The door opened. Harry watched it and tried to look up, but his head was too heavy. He saw a pair of polished shoes and the hems of some pale suit trousers step into the room. They crossed to a point just a short distance from him.

“Your greatest achievements do indeed lie ahead of you,” a voice said. “You'll discover more shortly, when you wake up.”

Harry tipped forward onto the rug. He landed right next to the polished shoes. He saw his own face reflected back to him in the gleaming leather. It was curved, out of shape. Who was this man? What was his purpose? Most importantly, what did he mean by “greatest achievements”? Harry felt those strange little twitches quivering through his body again, and his heart pounded as he readied himself for whatever lay ahead…

But, for the time being, his eyes flickered shut.

And he stopped seeing anything at all.

To be continued…

Simon Nicholson grew up in Raynes Park, London. He worked in theater for a while before starting to write stories, mainly for children. Since then, he has written plays, books, and over a hundred episodes of children's television series, and has been nominated for BAFTA and RTS awards. He lives in Winchester with his young family—and lots of books about Houdini.