The Friday Society (6 page)

10
½

The Show

N
ELLIE WATCHED THE
Japanese girl lay out all the weapons on the table before her. It was a strange combination of items. There were swords she recognized, but then there were also odd-looking daggers and sticks on chains that looked pretty threatening. Then there were the parasol and gentleman’s walking stick that seemed totally out of place.

The girl noticed her watching and looked at her suspiciously.

“Hi there!” said Nellie with a wave. The girl just looked back down at her weapons. “Nice to meet you, too,” muttered Nellie to herself.

She returned to unpacking, which was pretty much what everyone backstage was doing. There was a manic energy in the air that Nellie found energizing. But she knew the Magician hated it. That’s why he was in the corner currently, meditating. Adorably, so was Scheherazade, standing on the floor beside him, her eyes shut tight.

Ridiculous bird.

Nellie looked herself over in the mirror. Her makeup was perfect, her hair gorgeous, and yet . . . there was a dead body waiting for her at home. Okay, so maybe that had nothing to do with how she looked, but that’s how her mind was working right now. Change into her costume. Dead body in living room. Set up the props. Dead body in living room. Flirt with the cellist from the quartet. Dead body in living room.

They’d moved the body from the hall to the large sofa in the living room when the Magician had returned. Nellie had insisted they cover it with a sheet. She just didn’t think it was right to have a body lying on the sofa, like it was some friend staying overnight or something.

As to their investigation of who the mystery man might be, the Magician had learned only one thing from his contacts. He’d learned that the bird on the ring was the emblem of the Society of Heroes, a group of science-minded gentlemen who met on occasion. To what end, the Magician had not been successful in determining.

“Heroes? Well, they think highly of themselves, now, don’t they?” Nellie had said.

“It’s actually very interesting. They are named after an ancient Greek scientist, named Hero or Heron. A gentleman who evidently invented the steam engine centuries before our time.”

“Heron . . . so that explains the bird, then.”

“Exactly.”

So the guy was a scientist. Or liked science. Or liked societies. Fantastic. Still didn’t change the fact that there was a dead body in their living room!

She glanced at the Japanese girl in the mirror. Maybe she should ask to borrow a weapon.

Yeah, like she’d know what to do with one of those things.

And like a weapon would be much use against an already dead guy.

Sigh.

* * *

T
HE BLOND GIRL
was staring at her again. Why did she keep doing that? Probably for the same reason everyone stared at her. She was “different.” None of them seemed to understand that, to her, all of them were different, too. That they all looked a little wrong to her. And so many of them in one room totally freaked her out. The tall pasty one who was speaking with Callum at the moment looked particularly unpleasant and sweaty.

Focus on the task ahead. Michiko looked at the weapons now laid out in front of her on the table and started to put them in performance order. The
katana
was placed last, and for a moment she thought of the far more elegant and deadly version of the weapon hidden in her wardrobe at Callum’s. She would never dare use it in a show. Even with Callum’s stupidity about weapons, he would recognize one he didn’t own. And there was no mistaking the Silver Heart.

She felt a great welling of emotion fill her up again, and she had to close her eyes for a few moments to calm herself. She’d noticed that the dark man from the market was actually meditating. But she felt too vulnerable to do the same.

There was a sudden quiet, and Michiko opened her eyes. The show had started. Five acts were scheduled to perform. She knew that she and Callum would be last, so she moved over to the wings, from where she could watch the stage.

The show began with a musical number, something very funny, it seemed, because the audience laughed often. Michiko liked the melody. It was happy, and it raised her spirits. She should have been filled with joy after being given her gift this afternoon, but the moment had been so confusing. And she couldn’t help but feel unworthy. Worse, the pressure to be worthy of it all was daunting. She’d gone from pure joy to pure panic pretty quickly. Now she was just feeling depressed. So the happy music was more than welcome.

Next was some kind of scientific demonstration. An older man with white whiskers sticking out of his chin was holding on to a small box with two small wheels on it. When the man pressed a button on the side, a model of a bird sitting center stage took off in flight around the room. There was something green glowing deep inside it, causing a green light to follow it along the ground wherever it went. When the bird was sent out over the audience, the eager faces of the spectators glowed green, too.

After that was a dance presentation. Not very exciting after the mechanical bird, and really, really weird. The music seemed to be a combination of many different styles. She even recognized some Japanese-like melody lines. The dancers also seemed to be doing every different style of dance, from ballet, to Chinese opera, to something reminiscent of the dances the old geisha woman had shown her. None of it worked well together. And the dancers just didn’t seem that good. Maybe Michiko was being a bit judgmental, but as she once again took a peek at the audience, she didn’t think she was the only one thinking this.

Then. Then was the magic show.

* * *

C
ORA NOTICED THAT
the audience got extra quiet all of a sudden. The orchestra started to play a strange exotic melody, a tune that evoked sand dunes under a red-hot sun. Then a young woman stepped through the curtain, and the audience began to applaud. If they were that impressed by a girl walking out onstage, what would they do with themselves after the first trick? Cora wondered. She assumed, rightly, that many in the audience had already seen the Great Raheem perform with his stunning blond assistant and that she was pretty popular in and of herself.

Cora could see why. It wasn’t just her startlingly bright hair that drew attention; she was pretty much just perfect-looking in general. She wore an emerald green sleeveless dress with a skirt that went just below her knees, and matching green stockings like the dancers wore in Paris. The whole ensemble was covered in a glitter that, from the audience’s point of view, made her look like she had an angelic glow. Her hair piled high on her head was accented by a marvelous peacock feather, and on her shoulder was the most beautiful bird Cora had ever seen. With a squawk, it flew off her shoulder and, imitating the mechanical bird from earlier, did a full tour of the room, until it landed on a perch to the side of the stage.

The Magician’s assistant wheeled a large box into the center of the stage and opened its side to reveal its emptiness to the audience. She closed it again and covered it with a thick cloth of deep silver that sparked and flickered in the candlelight. Then, after turning the box around in one full circle, she climbed up on top of it, pulling the cloth up to her chin as if she was about to change behind it. Cora imagined that most of the audience would have been quite happy just to watch that. But then there was a huge bright flash that caused a collective gasp, and the assistant pulled the cloth high to cover her whole person, held it for less than a moment, then dropped it, revealing the Great Raheem himself standing in her place. Going from a petite blonde in green to a dark man over six feet tall wearing a turban and gold robes was pretty amazing.

There was a huge round of applause at his appearance, and after he jumped down to the stage, the applause turned into cheers when he revealed his attractive assistant lying on her side, knees up to her chest, in the previously empty box.

“How on earth did he do that?”
Cora asked herself, absolutely amazed.

* * *

M
ICHIKO WATCHED THE
man from the market. She had never thought she would see him again, let alone twice on the same day. When she’d seen him the first time, she’d almost thought he was some kind of vision; he had appeared and vanished so quickly. But here he was again. And there was nothing remotely mystical about him. He was, it turned out, nothing more than an illusionist.

How disappointing.

And yet.

Michiko couldn’t help but be impressed with his opening trick. Even standing to the side with a view the audience couldn’t see, she’d no idea how he’d done it. The fact was, even if he wasn’t anything more than a magician, at least he was a skilled performer, and there was something to respect in that.

She watched as the Magician and his assistant went from trick to trick. Every move was choreographed, she could tell. But only once did she get a fleeting glimpse of the inside of a trick, when she noticed the ear of a second white rabbit hidden in the small black table.

She worried that there was no way she and Callum could top this performance. She also thought it was odd that they were going last instead of the magic show, which would have been a much grander finale. Then the thought struck her that it was probably Callum’s fault. He’d probably pushed for the last spot. Michiko sighed. There was no doubt about it. Callum was just the sort of man to do something so stupid.

The Great Raheem’s performance was over after twenty minutes, though it seemed like he’d been onstage for much less time. He’d even brought the Prime Minister’s son onstage to help him with one trick. The boy had turned a deep red when it was explained that he’d have to tie the assistant’s wrists together.

Michiko could feel the familiar fluttering in her stomach as the Great Raheem and his assistant swept offstage, the applause still loud and appreciative from the other side of the curtain.

“Death!” came an abrasive squawk, and Michiko looked up at the Great Raheem’s parrot, now resting on some trunks. It sat, in profile, looking at her through one eye.

“Death”
was one of the few words Michiko understood. A word that she’d learned very early on when practicing the art of combat.

Startled, she stared back at the bird, and it, unblinking, returned the gaze. Was it a threat? Was it a sign? Was it a coincidence?

The Magician’s assistant called out, and the bird spread its wings and took off with a few labored flaps in the air. Michiko watched it fly over to its cage and stroll inside.

“Michiko!” Her name. She turned to see Callum gesticulating toward her wildly. She imagined that meant she was on. She grabbed her parasol and double-checked that her daggers were secure at her waist.

And then, in what seemed like a magic trick itself, she was on the rickety stage in front of a crowd of one hundred or so and in the middle of demonstrating a fight. She and Callum always began with props belonging to the typical English lady or gentleman so the audience would be able to relate and understand right from the start how useful Callum’s self-defense system was. Michiko never much enjoyed fighting with the parasol, but she could fight with anything, and the freedom she experienced in any fight made her feel most like herself. It made up for feeling totally stupid fighting with a lacy umbrella.

Soon it was time to move on to other weapons—“real” weapons—and then, finally, Callum presented her to the audience. This was Michiko’s favorite part because this was when she got to do her
kata
, albeit with his very cheap
katana
. She loved this moment for two reasons: First, and most importantly, the
katana
was her weapon of choice.

Second, it was a solo act. No Callum.

* * *

C
ORA WATCHED THE
young Japanese girl perform a strange, dancelike routine with the slender sword. It was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen. Of course, the girl herself was beautiful, her thick, long black hair flying across her face as she moved across the stage. She was such a slender creature. Cora had been impressed at how effortlessly she’d managed to fight off Mr. Fielding-Shaw’s aggressions toward her earlier in the demonstration. But now the girl was on her own on the stage, and Cora could see that she didn’t use fighting just to protect herself. It was an art. It was . . . spiritual.

It occurred to Cora that possibly the girl was more than just an assistant. She’d noticed that whatever weapon the girl picked up, even the parasol, it had instantly become an extension of herself. Fielding-Shaw was pretty skilled with the weapons as well, but they always appeared gripped tightly in his hand, as if he was afraid he might lose them at any moment.

He’d introduced her as “Michiko.” A fellow student in Japan. Cora wasn’t so sure that this was the truth. Or if it was, Fielding-Shaw and the girl certainly hadn’t been in the same class.

The sword dance was over, and Michiko bowed low. There was a silence as she did so, a collective breath held by the audience. And then she stood upright and gazed out at the crowd with a defiant expression.

The audience erupted into cheers and rose to their feet. Michiko bowed again, and Mr. Fielding-Shaw joined her. Whether he’d meant for her dance to end the demonstration, it was impossible to know. The fact was, there was nothing he could do now except bow with her.

And, with that, the show was over.

Cora decided it was time to seek out Lord White. She glanced around the room and found him sitting just down the row next to her, slumped in his chair, eyes shut tight. Cora could hear the rhythmic breathing from where she stood. Instantly, she was at his side, giving him a firm shake.

“What? What?” Lord White’s eyes popped open in their usual startled fashion.

“You were asleep,” Cora hissed into his ear.

“Hardly criminal,” replied his lordship, blinking hard a few times.

“You missed some truly spectacular presentations.”