The Meridian Gamble (31 page)

She wears a bright yellow dress
that fails to flatter her figure, and Marjorie looks to me with a satisfied
smirk when she sees it.

“Tell us, what is your name, my
dear?” Count Jerome bellows to the crowd.

“I am Philippa. Philippa
Price-Pearce,” she says, timidly.

“And what a lovely blossom you are,
dear Philippa. Perhaps a daisy, one might say. Or a sunflower who’s face widely
blooms,” Count Jerome offers, in a mocking tone. And poor Philippa stands there
awkwardly with a dim-witted expression, not understanding his slight.

I lean in to Marjorie.

“That dress is hideous,” I say.

“It is quite vile,” Marion adds,
from her other side.

“She looks like a thick-waisted
bumblebee,” Marjorie says.

And Marion looks to us with
interest.

“Do you know this girl?” she asks.

“Sadly, we do,” Marjorie hisses,
under her breath. “She is the fiancée of a man who toyed with my affections.”

“And that will prove to be a very
poor choice on her part,” Marion says.

Marjorie smiles in delight, and we
both giggle, though I’m not sure why.

The performance continues onstage,
and I can now detect some of our friends in the audience; the Lawlors are here,
of course, as well as the Price-Pearces. And I suspect I see the Edmingtons as
well, hiding behind their masks. And they all watch the show unfold with rapt
attention.

“Now, Philippa, my dear,” Count
Jermone continues. “To be my assistant, one must be able to pull a rabbit out
of a hat. Do you think you’re up to the task?”

“Well, I don’t know. I am not quite
sure that I can,” Philippa mutters, almost so softly that we cannot hear.

“But if a man as simple as myself
can perform such a feat, certainly a young lady of your good breeding could do
the same, wouldn’t you say? Oh, why not give it a try and see if you surprise
yourself?”

Count Jerome offers his top hat to
Philippa. She hesitantly reaches inside, and her expression brightens to one of
delight, as she pulls a fluffy white creature from its depths, to the amazement
of the crowd.

They applaud her success.

“Good show! Now let’s try something
a bit more difficult. A giraffe, perhaps? No, I know. Something even more
challenging. A porcupine …”

“A porcupine?”

“Yes, yes. It’s quite safe, I
assure you …”

Philippa reaches in once more with
a look of trepidation, and pulls out what appear to be several quills. But she
squeals in terror, and drops whatever she holds back in the hat. And Count
Jerome tips the bonnet onto a nearby table, as a plump, young porcupine crawls
out.

The trick is amazing. I cannot
imagine where the beast came from, as the illusionist was holding the hat in
midair and the animal could not possibly have existed within its depths. But I
feel sorry for poor Philippa, as she appears to be hurt. She holds her hand to
her mouth, sucking on her finger, and when she extends it, I can see a drop of
blood, even from this distance.

“Ow,” Philippa says. “You said it
was safe, but it hurt me.”

“And can one assume you’ve never
been pricked before?” Count Jerome asks.

The crowd laughs, as her face drops
in disappointment.

“Worry not, my dear, you are fine.
And I suspect this is but the first of many.”

Philippa looks annoyed and perhaps
a bit angry, and I suspect she might leave the stage. But before she can, the
curtains part again, and two men roll out a device that looks like a white box
made of stone or marble, one that is speckled with tiny holes over its surface.
But I realize the contraption is not quite a box, the back is raised, as well
as the sides, and it almost resembles the shape of an armchair, though not
quite. And it gives me a chill, just to look at the thing.

The assistants unfasten several
latches, and pieces swing open in the front and over the arms, to reveal an
actual seat that has been carved into the contraption, filled with tiny holes
of its own. And it would seem that Philippa is meant to sit in the device. But
she looks at it, hesitantly.

“And now, if you feel up for it,
let us try our next trick. This one I call, ‘The Human Pincushion.’”

“Well, I’m not quite sure that I
should. Perhaps someone else could …”

“But, I’m certain you don’t want to
disappoint your adoring fans. Now, do you?”

Count Jerome waves his hands, and
looks to the crowd, slyly. And they begin to cheer her on. Philippa smiles,
encouraged by their adoration, and acquiesces. The magician gently helps her to
take her seat, and he and the others clamp the box shut, leaving only her head
showing.

Marjorie, Mother and Father are all
mesmerized by the antics onstage, as is the rest of the crowd. It seems out of
character, at least on my parents’ part; this is the sort of entertainment one
would find in a grotesque show on one of the lesser stages in London, the kind
of place my family would never visit. In the past, I would beg Mother to take
us to see a mentalist who could hypnotize an audience, or have deceased family
members contact one from beyond the grave. I would ask to see magicians perform
their disappearing tricks, but always my parents would refuse. Yet, here they
sit now, with their eyes firmly focused forward.

Count Jerome searches the crowd
once more.

“I am afraid that for this trick, I
will need more assistance from the audience, from a man far stronger than
myself,” he says.

Without even waiting to be chosen,
Roland’s fair-haired brother Tom raises his hand, and approaches the stage with
a good-natured grin on his face. And the crowd parts for him, seemingly by
unspoken command.

From behind the strange chair,
Count Jerome pulls out what looks like a quiver of arrows.

“And what would a pincushion be
without pins?” he says.

“I think I may need to take off my
coat for this,” Tom says with a laugh.

He does, and you can see the
muscles bulging beneath his shirt. Marjorie smiles at them appreciatively. Even
Philippa seems to notice his beauty, despite Gregory’s presence in the
audience, and her eyes follow Tom from her trapped position within the torture
device.

The magician offers the quiver to
Tom, who pulls out a long, gleaming straight pin from inside it, which is like
no other pin I’ve seen before. It must be a foot or two in length, and shines
brightly, like a piece of silver from Mother’s jewelry box. Though I detest
Philippa, I am suddenly afraid for the girl. And a wary expression crosses her
face.

“Is this going to hurt?” she asks.

“Well, of course it’s going to
hurt. That’s the whole point,” Count Jerome says, with a laugh. “So think of
your poor pincushion’s tribulations the next time you choose to sew a pretty
frock.”

Tom unceremoniously plunges the
needle into one of the holes on the contraption, apparently above her arm, and
the girl screams in shock and dismay. I am startled, and my hand goes to my
mouth, to stifle a gasp.

The crowd looks on in amazement,
twittering with excitement, as Tom takes another pin from the quiver. Philippa
still screams, and looks to the needle in terror.

“No. Please, no more!”

“No more? But that is impossible!
We have so many left to go. Please do be a good sport and try not to complain.”

Tom plunges another one into the
other side, through what I imagine is her right hand. And I have never heard
wails of pain like the ones that issue from Philippa. It horrifies me.

“No, for the love of God, no!
Please, someone help me!”

But none move to assist the girl.
Instead, the crowd watches, talking amongst themselves, seeming to hunger for
more. And Tom plunges another pin through her stomach without mercy, as
Philippa screams and screams and screams. The tears flow profusely from her
eyes.

My sister leans over and whispers
to me.

“If only this was real,” she says.

And I am horrified and confused,
because I begin to suspect that it is. It is impossible that Philippa could be
such a good actress. Yet, it is equally unbelievable that she is being tortured
before our eyes. How can the others see this as entertainment? How can those
around me allow this to happen?

I look to Roland, pleading with my
eyes.

“Please, make this stop.”

“But it’s only a show,” Roland
says, filled with confusion.

“One that is far too real.”

“And is that such a bad thing?” he
says. “Is this not what you wanted? To have Philippa Price-Pearce gone, so that
your sister could marry young Mr. Lawlor?”

I hesitate. I look to Marjorie, who
doesn’t even seem to hear us. And she is so filled with glee to see her rival
suffer.

“But not like this. I did not wish
to see Philippa hurt,” I say.

“But there is no other way,” Roland
says, sadly. “The girl must be removed. She blocks the road to your sister’s
contentment. And unfortunately, even if we were to convince Mr. Lawlor to
reconsider, we cannot afford to let the Price-Pearces gain allies through other
marriage proposals. They are trying to block some of my family’s business
ventures … our business ventures. And we must not allow them this chess piece
to move about in the battle.”

“But … death,” I whisper.

“Do not worry for poor Philippa. As
it turns out, she is quite sad over her impending marriage, as she is convinced
that Gregory Lawlor loves another. In fact, she has written her farewell note,
and I would not be surprised if she were to take a long walk along the beach
after the party tonight. What’s left of her will be found washed ashore,
riddled with jellyfish stings.”

“But … how on Earth do you know
such things?”

“Because we had her write the
note,” Adam says from nearby, with a playful smile. And he watches my reactions
with great interest.

I look around, no longer worried
for Philippa, but rather, for my fiancée and his brethren. Because it would
seem that they are admitting to a crime in front of their own guests. Roland
seems to notice my concern.

“Do not worry, they cannot hear
us,” he says. “Their attention is easily distracted. They are cattle who are
meant to be led. Unlike you, my dear.”

And looking around, I see them all
staring at the stage, ensorcelled. Marjorie, Father, Mother and the rest of the
guests. And it does not seem possible. Is it magic? Or is Count Jerome really a
wizard who can hypnotize minds? If he is, his power is formidable, as every
last person around me focuses on Philippa and her screams, as Tom slowly works
another needle through her shoulder.

“Can you imagine? In Paris, you
must survive 10 of the pins before you are allowed the transformation,” Marion
says. “And the girl is only on her fourth.”

“Transformation? Into what?” I say.

“She does not know?”

“No, Marion. Not quite yet,” Roland
says. “But she will find out soon enough.”

And I look to the stage, wondering
what this transformation is that they are talking about, what grim secrets they
wish for me to discover. Roland puts his hands on my shoulders, and stares at
me, seriously.

“I know. I know you have many
questions, my dear. And I promise that all of them will be answered on this
night. It’s why I’ve brought you here. And though you may see things which
might seem odd, I promise that nothing here will hurt you. But for now, I must
have your decision. If we do this thing to Philippa, it must be by your choice.
Everything must be your choice, even to be with me. I will not have you be an
unwilling victim. If you do not wish to see this happen to the girl, simply say
the word, and we will set her free, and find another way.”

Roland says such strange things,
about questions being answered and my not being hurt. And I look to poor
Philippa, squirming in pain.

Somehow, I knew this, in my heart.
That Roland was different, that there was something otherworldly about him. I
knew it from the way he appeared in my room, from the way he swept in and
changed my life. He had a magical air about him, and I wanted to know more
about his secret, I wanted to taste of his power.

And he said it before, that it was
my choice to marry him, not my family’s. But I had no idea how serious he was.

On the stage, Tom seems to
emphasize his point, by holding one of the needles in front of Philippa,
smiling at me. And he points it toward her heart. She looks around, this girl
who caused my sister so much pain, and she cries out for mercy, though no one
responds to her. Somehow, she notices me from across the crowd, and seems to
sense that my mind is the only one not ensorcelled. And Philippa calls out to
me.

“Caroline, please. Please, help
me!”

I look to Marjorie, who smiles so broadly
at her pain, who so desperately wants her out of the way. And I really have no
choice. Because I will never let Philippa stand in the way of my sister’s
happiness, nor allow the Price-Pearces to block my family’s business ventures.

And whatever Roland’s secret is, I
must know it. My fate lies with these people, and I must follow this course to
its end.

“Do it,” I say.

In an instant, another scream
erupts from the stage, as Tom plunges the needle into her heart. Philippa
slumps over. Her hair is matted down with sweat, and the magician lovingly
wipes it aside, to give us a better view of her face.

“It would seem our lovely flower
has wilted,” Count Jerome says. “But let us give her a moment to rest, as we
all do the same. Quite luckily, I believe Miss Arianne Kremble is about to
begin another song. If you would like to go inside, we shall listen for a
while, before dinner is served.”

Two servants come out and hold open
the doors to the house, and everyone files inside. I watch in shock and dismay,
as Father, Mother and Marjorie all walk with the others to listen to the
beautiful music that is about to begin, leaving me behind. Gregory Lawlor goes
with his parents and the Price-Pearces, following the rest of the crowd, all of
them seemingly unaware of the husk that was once poor Philippa that’s left on
the stage.