When the Curtain Rises (5 page)

Circus Animagicus consisted of half a dozen tents
and wagons set up in a loose half-circle. Painted
wooden signboards outside each tent advertised
all kinds of marvels: fire-eaters, sword swallowers,
bearded women. There were only a few other people
in sight as I entered the largest canvas tent. The sign
outside said
Dr. Inferno, Master of Mystery.

“Show's not 'til four,” a skinny youth informed me. “No admittance until three thirty.”

“I'm here to see Dickey,” I said, hoping I sounded
more confident than I felt. “I have a letter of
introduction.”

The boy shrugged. “I wouldn't go looking for Dickey
until at least two o'clock, if I were you. Three o'clock is
safer. Oh—and if you value your Irish skin, you won't
make the mistake of calling him Dickey to his face. It's
Mr. Dickens, or Dr. Inferno, if you prefer.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled. “And where would I find
Mr. Dickens after three o'clock?”

The boy gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “In the yellow wagon, behind this tent.”

I paced outside the tent, periodically looking up
to check the position of the sun in the sky. When I
judged that it was mid-afternoon, I approached the
peeling yellow wagon behind Dr. Inferno's tent and
knocked softly on the door. Half a minute passed in
silence, and I knocked again with more force. This
time loud thumping and banging erupted from inside
the wagon.

“What is it?” a voice thundered.

“Mr. Dickens?” I said nervously. “I have a note here
for you from Harry Kellar.”

“From who?”

“From Mr. Kellar, the magician.”

There was cursing and the sound of a latch being
drawn. A grotesque head appeared in the doorway. Albert Dickens' black moustache and beard were
tangled, and his swollen cheeks were webbed with tiny
broken blood vessels. “Well?” he demanded, squinting
into the afternoon light.

“Mr. Dickens,” I stammered, taking a step down
wind of the sour alcohol on his breath. I held the envelope up.

He snatched it from my hand and tore out the letter
that was inside. When he was finished reading, he
looked me over and swore. “Bloody hell! The last thing
I need is one of Kellar's castoffs!”

“Mr. Kellar thought you might be happy to have
some assistance,” I said, my voice strained.

“You got any skills?”

“I know a few coin tricks. I've still got a lot to learn,
but—”

Dickens cut me off with a wave of his meaty hand. “I don't know what fantasies Kellar put into your head,
but you can forget about the amateur parlor tricks he
taught you. If you want to eat, you'll have to earn your
keep.”

My first assignment was to pick up litter from the
carnival site. Half an hour before the first magic show
of the day, I was called over to help collect money from
the eager spectators lined up outside Dr. Inferno's tent. When I'd collected the last admission, I slipped inside
the tent to watch the show myself.

Dr. Inferno stumbled out onto the stage wearing
a dirty cape and a wild black wig that reached past
his shoulders. His act was a disappointment from the
start. Cards and coins slipped from his fingers as he
was performing, and silk scarves peeked out of their
hiding places in his pockets and up his sleeves. Worst
of all, with every slurred phrase he sprayed saliva over
the unlucky audience members sitting in the first few
rows.

Chloe turned the page and continued reading. As bad as Dr. Inferno's magic act was, Dante was still fascinated by it. It didn't take Chloe long to figure out why. Dickens' clumsiness made it easier for Dante to see through his illusions. Dante was learning from the magician's mistakes.

I was a faithful observer at the back of Dr. Inferno's tent
every afternoon and evening for three months. By the
end of that period, I had succeeded in figuring out all
of my employer's secrets. I improvised my own make
shift props from scavenged bits and pieces and practiced
my new tricks whenever I was alone. I realized late one
summer night that I had learned everything I could. There was no future for me in Circus Animagicus. Before sunrise the next morning, I was packed up and
on the road.

Chloe let out an involuntary cry when someone tapped her on the shoulder, bringing her abruptly back to the present.

“Sorry. ” Nyssa grinned as she dropped down on the grass a few feet away from Chloe's bench. “I didn't mean to freak you out.”

“That's okay,” Chloe said, trying to catch her breath.

“Must be good, what you're reading. You were really zoned out. I said your name twice, but you didn't hear me.”

Chloe closed the book. “It's my great-grandfather's memoir. It's weird,” she said, shaking her head. “I kind of go into a trance when I start reading it. It's like watching a movie or something.”

“Dante Magnus? That's his memoir?”

Chloe nodded. “Right—I forgot you know who he is.”

“When my father told your great-aunts I was interested in magic, they invited me over and taught me a few things that their mother had passed on to them. Just a few basic tricks that she learned before Dante disappeared, but it got me started.”

“Dante had to start from scratch too,” said Chloe, “and he became famous. Or so I'm told. I haven't got that far in the story yet.”

“He's in
The Magician's Encyclopedia,
” Nyssa said. “But I didn't know he'd published a memoir.”

“He didn't publish it. This is his handwritten manuscript.”

“Cool. I won't keep you from it,” Nyssa said as she pushed herself up from the grass. She pulled a folded piece of paper out of the back pocket of her shorts and held it out to Chloe. “I just came by to give you this.”

It was an entry form for the Little Venice Junior Talent Show. Chloe folded it up again and slipped it between the pages of Dante's book. “Thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “But why are you encouraging the competition?”

“We'd be entered in different categories,” said Nyssa. “Anyway, I'm just doing the show for fun. Not like you— you've got prize potential.”

“No, I don't,” said Chloe, shaking her head quickly.

“Don't be modest. You've been playing the piano since you were, like, three, according to Kitty. I know the judges. Just play a few period pieces, some ragtime or something, and they'll love you.”

“Look, I know you mean well, but you've got the wrong girl,” said Chloe. “You want to know the truth? I haven't played in front of anybody in two months. I mean
anybody
. I couldn't even play a scale in front of my parents right now if you paid me.”

“Why not?” Nyssa asked.

Chloe shut her eyes. Her heart had begun to race as she saw herself back on stage again.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to be pushy. If you don't want to talk about it, I understand,” Nyssa said after a moment.

“It was just a recital,” Chloe said angrily, her eyes still closed. “That's all it was. I've been performing at recitals since I was five. It shouldn't have mattered that it was being recorded for a radio broadcast. It was important, but so what? I was
ready
for it.”

Nyssa remained silent.

“It was a nightmare,” Chloe said, her voice faltering. “My brain froze; my fingers were like wood. Chopin's Nocturne in F-sharp Major is challenging, but I
knew
it. I should have been able to play it blindfolded, but my mind just went blank. The notes were just black squiggles on the page.”

“What did you do?” Nyssa asked quietly.

“What did I do? I just sat there sweating and shaking like a complete idiot. For all I know I was drooling! Then I ran from the stage and threw up. It was the most humiliating experience of my life.”

“Lots of people get stage fright, you know,” Nyssa said. “Even the professionals. You should hear the stories my dad tells. You'd never guess what some actors go through behind the scenes. Stage fright is just a fact of life for lots of performers.”

“You don't understand,” Chloe insisted. “Stage fright cannot be ‘just a fact of life' if it prevents me from performing at all. My parents sent me to see a therapist, but it's not helping. I'm supposed to work at ‘visualizing' a successful performance. But every time I imagine playing in front of someone, my heart starts to race, and my palms get sweaty, and I feel sick to my stomach. This isn't just a case of the jitters, okay? And the worst thing is, all I've
ever
wanted to be is a concert pianist. Since I was, like, five years old. I can't even
imagine
doing anything else.”

Nyssa was silent for a few seconds. “Come on,” she said suddenly, grabbing Chloe's arm. “There's a piano in your great-aunts' house, right?”

“Yes, but I
can't
—”

“One note,” said Nyssa. “Just one, that's all. Any note you want.”

“No—”

“Come on. It's all right.”

Chloe yanked her arm free. “I said I'm not ready yet!”

“
Sorry
,” said Nyssa, holding up her hands in surrender. “Just trying to help.”

“I know. I'm sorry,” said Chloe. She took a deep breath. “It's just, when I feel pressured, it makes it worse. I know I sound like a mental case, but I have to get through this my own way.”

Nyssa shrugged. “Well, when you're ready, I'm there. I'd be impressed no matter what you played. Really. I can't even play
Chopsticks
.”

Chloe nodded and attempted a smile. “Thanks, I think.”

C
hapter
F
ive

“I
dreamt that someone was playing our old piano in the wee hours of the morning,” Kitty said at breakfast the next day.

Chloe felt her face flush. She remained silent, concentrating on the pattern the maple syrup made as she drizzled it over her pancakes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bess give her twin a pointed look.

“Wasn't half bad for a dream,” Kitty said, ignoring her sister.

After breakfast, Chloe returned to the second floor to continue exploring the house. On her way upstairs, she paused to check the painting on the first landing. “It's changed—it's not my imagination!” she said, backing away in surprise. The cluster of tents was the same, but the landscape behind them was definitely different. The snow on the mountain peaks had disappeared, and the peaks themselves had softened into gently rolling hills.

“It's a magician's house,” Chloe reminded herself. It had to be an illusion; maybe it was just the way the light hit the canvas at different times of the day. She took a few breaths to steady herself and continued up the stairs.

Chloe returned to the nursery, determined to find the secret passageway Bess had mentioned, as well as the lock that would open with her tiny key. She tackled the room systematically this time, mentally dividing it into squares in a grid. Starting under the south window and working her way slowly counterclockwise, Chloe examined every toy and every piece of furniture in her path, including a small music box that played a different tinny tune every time she opened it. There was no sign of a locked journal or chest that might welcome her key. As she made her way around the room, she carefully checked for loose floorboards and tested shelves and wall panels for signs of a hidden latch or door.

The better part of an hour had passed before she turned her attention to the bookcases that lined two walls of the nursery. Chloe pushed and pulled each section of the bookcases, but they remained fixed in place. As a last resort, she began removing books from the shelves. She emptied one shelf at a time, and then she replaced the books in the order that she'd found them before moving on to the next shelf. She glanced at the cover of each book as she removed it and quickly thumbed through its pages, just in case one of the volumes had been hollowed out and converted into a tiny treasure box or safe.

Chloe removed volumes A through P of a set of antique encyclopedias, but when she reached for volume Q, she found that it was stuck. Volumes R through Z slipped out without any difficulty, but volume Q remained fixed on the shelf, upright, all alone. Chloe couldn't see anything holding the leather-bound book in place, so she tugged a little harder. This time the top of the book tilted backward slightly, as if on a hinge. There was a distinct
click
, and the section of the bookcase directly in front of Chloe moved. She pushed the shelves gently and they began to turn, revealing a widening crack of gray light from the next room.