When the Curtain Rises (6 page)

When a wide-enough opening had been created, Chloe squeezed through and found herself in a room that was about half the size of the nursery. Dusty sports pennants hung on the wall above a single bed, and black-and-white photographs of uniformed schoolboys sat on a wooden desk. Chloe picked up the nearest photograph. There were no familiar faces among the young men who stared back at her, their arms folded across their chests.

“There you are,” a voice called from the far side of the room.

Chloe jumped, and then she relaxed again when she saw that it was only Abigail, peering in from the other side of the opening.

“I see you found the secret passageway into Henry's room.”

“This was my grandfather's bedroom?”

“Yes. Not much has changed since he left,” the housekeeper said. “Going on seven decades now.” She made a clucking sound with her tongue. “What this house needs is a good clearing out. Get rid of all the cobwebs and ghosts in one fell swoop.”

“Ghosts?” Chloe asked, her eyebrows rising hopefully.

Abigail lifted her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “Sorry—just an expression. I came to tell you that two hungry women and a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches are waiting downstairs for you.”

Chloe was helping Abigail with the dishes after dinner that evening when Nyssa appeared at the back door.

“Want to ride down to the lake with me?” Nyssa asked.

“I don't have a bike,” said Chloe.

“No problem. I can double you.”

“Go on,” said Abigail. “Just a few pots left anyway.”

Chloe dried her hands and went to tell her aunts where she was going. She followed Nyssa outside and around to the front of the house where Nyssa's bike was leaning against the gate.

“Hold on tight,” Nyssa said as Chloe climbed onto the bike behind her. “It's all downhill from here.”

“I've got something I want to show you,” Nyssa told Chloe when they reached the beach a few minutes later.

“What?” Chloe asked as she sat down on a log.

Nyssa reached into her backpack and brought out a deck of cards, a small black box, a plastic container and a wand. “I'm still working on this,” she warned as she opened the plastic container to reveal three eggs, “so don't expect too much. It's one of the tricks your great-aunts taught me.”

“Really? One of Dante's tricks?”

“It was one of the tricks that Dante performed, but he didn't invent it. Lots of magicians do this one. Houdini even did it.”

“Cool,” said Chloe, leaning forward.

Nyssa cleared her throat. “Okay, here we go.” She shuffled the pack of cards, and then she fanned them out, facedown, in front of Chloe. “Take one. Don't show it to me; just tear it up.”

“Like this?” Chloe asked as she tore a Jack of Spades into half a dozen pieces.

“That's right. Now put the pieces in the black box.”

When the torn pieces were inside the box, Nyssa closed the lid. “Wait, I forgot.” She opened the box again and put her hand inside. She withdrew a single torn corner and handed it to Chloe. “Take this and hold on to it. At my command, I'm going to make the rest of the card appear inside the egg of your choice.”

“Really?” Chloe said skeptically. “And how are you going to do that?”

“C'mon,” said Nyssa. “Just choose an egg.”

Chloe pointed at one of the three eggs.

“Good. Now remove the other two eggs.”

As Chloe obeyed, Nyssa held up her wand and waved it three times over the sealed black box. She whispered an incantation and jabbed the air above the egg that Chloe had selected. “Now watch carefully,” Nyssa commanded her friend.

Chloe watched as Nyssa forced the tip of her wand through the egg's shell, breaking it open. A rolled-up card emerged from the gooey interior of the egg. “Can I pick it up?” Chloe asked.

Nyssa nodded, and Chloe pulled the card out, wiping it off against the edge of the container. “It's my card,” she said in amazement. “But it's in one piece! It's just missing the corner I'm holding in my hand!”

“Do they match—the piece that's missing and the piece you tore off?” Nyssa asked.

“You know they do,” said Chloe. “How did you
do
that? That was amazing!”

Nyssa gave a shallow bow. “Thank you. A magician doesn't usually tell her secrets, but I'll make an exception for you. After all, you
are
the great-granddaughter of Dante Magnus. First, the card you tore up is still in the bottom of the box. It's a trick box with a secret compartment. I only pretended to take out the torn corner that I gave to you. That piece really came from a second card.”

“Okay,” said Chloe, “but how did
that
card get inside the egg?”

“The second card was rolled up inside my hollow wand. At the same time I was breaking the egg, I was forcing the card out with a rod hidden inside the wand. It all happened at once, but you couldn't see it because of the bits of shell and the broken egg yolk in the way.”

“I get it,” Chloe said, nodding slowly. “Except how did you know which card I was going to choose?”

“That was the easiest part.” Nyssa grinned and held up the pack of cards. She fanned them out, face up this time.

Chloe groaned. “They're
all
the Jack of Spades.”

“There, I've let you in on one of my best tricks. Now you owe me,” Nyssa said as she began gathering up her props.

Chloe handed her friend the two unbroken eggs. “Owe you what?” she asked suspiciously.

“Don't panic. I don't want your money. I just want to know what it's really like, staying in Dante Magnus's house. People say it's haunted, you know.”

Chloe felt goose bumps rise on her arms. “Haunted? Like how?”

Nyssa shrugged her shoulders. “Mostly it's just what kids say. You know. Any house that big and that old has got to be good for a few ghost stories.”

“Do they say anything about Dante's disappearance?”

Nyssa zipped her backpack and sat down again. “According to most of the stories, Dante didn't really disappear. They say he's either hiding or trapped somewhere in the house.”

“He'd be long dead by now,” said Chloe. “He was in his early fifties when he vanished, and that was, like, almost a century ago.”

“Well, his bones then.”

It was a warm evening, but Chloe shivered anyway.

“Sorry,” said Nyssa. “Didn't mean to freak you out. It's just a story kids tell when they're bored.”

“I don't know.” Chloe rubbed her hands over her arms. “There are some weird things going on in that house.”

“Like what?”

“Like this, for starters.” Chloe held up the tiny key hanging from the chain around her neck. “It came with the invitation my great-aunts sent me. Thing is, no one seems to know what it's for or how it got into the envelope.”

“Okay, that's a little creepy, but
someone
must have put it there. Is there anything else?”

“What about a picture that changes every time I go past?” said Chloe.

Nyssa listened to Chloe's description of the painting of the carnival on the first-floor landing. “Maybe the painting just looks different as the light changes,” she suggested when Chloe was finished. “Kind of like an early hologram.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I don't know,” Nyssa said. “But there has to be some kind of rational explanation. Like the obvious one, maybe, that someone is switching them on you as a practical joke.”

Chloe shook her head. “But who would do that? And why?”

Nyssa shrugged. “No idea. You're the one staying there.”

“Okay, let's say there's an explanation for the painting and the key. But what about the dreams I've been having?” Chloe demanded. “Ever since I arrived in Little Venice, I keep dreaming that someone's trying to send me some kind of message. And then there's Dante's book. It's like a
waking
dream; I almost get hypnotized every time I start reading it.”

“You're obviously a very suggestible person with a fantastic imagination,” said Nyssa.

Chloe didn't even try to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Easy for
you
to say. You're not the one having weird dreams day and night.” She stood up. “The sun's almost down. I'd better get back.”

“Sorry,” said Nyssa. “If I'd known your aunts' house was such a touchy subject, I never would have brought it up.”

Chloe shook her head. “I'm sorry,” she said as she fingered the key hanging at her throat. “No matter how crazy it sounds to you, there
is
something going on in that house. There's a reason I'm here this summer; I can feel it. If I could just find the lock that goes with this key, I know it would all start to make sense.”

C
hapter
S
ix

C
hloe was still feeling a little unsettled when she took Dante's book to bed with her that night. Her conversation with Nyssa had made her more determined than ever to finish Dante's story, even if reading the memoir was a slightly disconcerting experience. She opened the book to the next chapter and immediately entered the story.

When I left Circus Animagicus, it was my intention to
find a magician who would be willing to take me under
his wing until I had enough experience and enough
money to launch my own act. I expected it would take
a year or two at most to accomplish what I wanted. But somehow more than a decade flew past in a blur
of canvas tents, crowded railcars and musty theaters. I made my way from one touring show to another,
always working in the shadows of other performers. The money I earned assisting magicians or performing
ten-minute crowd teasers on the vaudeville circuits was
not nearly enough to buy the elaborate props, costumes
and promotional materials I needed to introduce myself
properly on the world stage. I became increasingly
frustrated, but I did not give up. I whispered the same
words over and over again before I fell asleep each
night: “I will be the world's greatest magician. I will be
the world's greatest magician.”

I was performing with a traveling show in Vancouver
in the summer of 1897 when I heard the news of the
Klondike gold strike. I was ecstatic. Here at last was
my chance to get the money I needed to produce my
own show! Three other men agreed to travel with me
to Dawson City in the Yukon: Thomas Rankin, a juggler and fire-breather; Li Yung, a knife thrower; and
Antoine Langlade, a snake charmer.

In spite of our impatience to be underway, it took
us the better part of a month to complete the necessary
arrangements for our expedition. In mid-August we
finally made our way down to the wharf with our pro
visions—two-thousand-pound “outfits” that consisted
of enough food, clothing and essential gear to last each
of us an entire year.

It was a difficult journey from the beginning. Our steamship was designed to carry fifty or sixty
passengers, but there were more than four hundred
people crammed on board for the voyage north. When
we were still many hundreds of miles from our final
destination, the ship anchored at the end of a long inlet
on the Alaskan coast, at the makeshift settlement of
Dyea.

Twice a day for the next three months, the four of
us and countless others trekked back and forth through
the rain and mud with fifty-pound loads on our backs. When we had succeeded in carrying all of our provisions from Dyea to the base camp at the foot of the
Chilkoot Pass, it was time to tackle the dreaded pass
itself. Earlier trekkers had carved an icy staircase of
over a thousand steps into the steep mountain. After
resting for a few days, my companions and I made our
first ascent up what was called the “Golden Staircase.” It took us almost six hours to reach the top. Over the
next month and a half, we each repeated this climb
forty times.

Six months after we'd left Vancouver, our group
finally stood together on the far side of the Chilkoot
Pass. We looked like walking corpses. Our cheeks were
hollow, our beards were ragged and our clothing was
shredded and filthy. But if we were exhausted, we were
also thrilled to have survived.

We slid down to Lake Bennett on homemade sleds,
laughing all the way. Our journey was temporarily
interrupted when we were forced to set up camp on the
frozen lakeshore for the next four months. While we
waited for the spring thaw, we built a boat that would
carry us down the Yukon River the rest of the way to
Dawson. There were a few close calls during the last
watery phase of our journey, but on the ninth of June,
ten months after setting out from Vancouver, the boat
we'd built carried us around the last rocky outcropping. We let out a cheer. There, stretched out for miles along
the bank, was the fabled Dawson City.