The Magician's Lie (9 page)

How do we know what love feels like? Especially the first time we feel it? I was unprepared. For the first few days, I couldn't stop stroking my lips with my fingers, grazing them against my chin, touching the places he had touched. He was more than on my mind. He was everywhere I looked, even when he wasn't. Had he thought me a silly girl, too simple and too forward, or would those tender moments ripen into something more lasting? I wouldn't know until I could talk to him again.

Janesville, 1905

Two o'clock in the morning

When she falls silent, he speaks into the silence, softly. “And did you grow up to marry this young man?”

She cocks her head and says, “Was your wife your first love, officer? We love more people than we marry, most of us.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“No, I didn't.”

Her even, logical tone makes him angry. It's a tone for discussing a tedious sermon, not danger or love or murder.

“I'm going to ask another question. And this time, I want you to answer. Do you understand?”

“Officer.” She sighs. “I don't want to talk about the murder.”

“I know. That's not what I'm going to ask about. I want to ask about your magic.”

“My magic?” She says it with a slight laugh.

“Yes,” he says, “your magic,” and reaches out to touch her throat, holding aside the edges of her lace collar to see it clearly. He was right; the bruise there is completely gone. The whole of her neck is pale and unblemished.

His fingers still on her throat, he looks into her face and says boldly, “The magic that helps you heal. You mentioned it. You realized, at Biltmore, that you were making it happen, that you were healing yourself. With a wish.”

She eyes him out of the half-brown eye with something resembling respect. Perhaps she thought he'd forget, given the length of the night and her story. Then again, she must know the claim is extraordinary. “I suppose we could dance around it, but what's the point?” she says.

A different air altogether has come over her. There's a new tilt to her chin, a different angle in her carriage. She's proud of what she can do.
As
well
she
should
be
, he thinks.

“So,” he says, thinking of her neck, her wrist. “Bruises. Cuts. What else?”

“Bruises disappear. Cuts seal themselves up. Broken bones become whole again. As simple as that.”

“How long does it take?”

“Small things, just a matter of hours. Longer for something more serious. As I'm sure you've figured out from what I told you.”

He remembers the story of the leg broken in her fall, the fingers crushed by a horse's hoof. How quickly she healed afterward in both cases. The story she's telling him may or may not turn out to be the story of the murder, but it has very useful information in it all the same. Information that could, he's now realizing, change everything. He doesn't just have to decide what to do. He has to decide what to believe.

“So Ray was right.”

She flinches, hard. He immediately regrets saying it.

“He was wrong about himself,” she says, her mouth tight. “He couldn't heal. But me, yes. I can.”

“It's served you well.”

“It's helped me survive,” she says.

“Where do you think it comes from?”

“How could anyone know that?”

“You must have ideas. Ray thought he—”

“For God's sake,” she says sharply, “don't talk about him. I'll tell you what you want, all right?”

“All right.”

“It might have something to do with my father, whoever he was. That was one possibility, that he had some kind of power and so I inherited it from him. Or it could have something to do with the fairy eye.” She points to her half-brown, half-blue eye, the dim light glinting in its depths. “But I'm telling you, I don't know. I only know what I can do. And now you know it too.”

“I know what you claim,” he says, suddenly skeptical. This whole story, he has only her word to believe. He knows what he thought he saw. A bruise that was there and then wasn't. But he doesn't truly know what her powers are, if that's where her magic starts and ends. He needs another way to investigate.

Then a dark shape on the floor catches his attention. He can't believe he's forgotten it until now. He'd been in such a hurry to get her into the chair that he'd thrown these things aside. He reaches down, shakes the cloak away, and puts his hands on what the cloak has been hiding. A little charge of excitement runs through him, toes to fingers. People can resist questions and bend the truth until it breaks. Objects can't.

“Where did you get that?” she shouts when he lifts the valise up onto his desk to open it. The wooden chair legs clatter against the ground, almost like a horse's hooves.

“When I brought you here. I brought this too.”

“Don't open it. You hear me?” She rattles her cuffs. “I said don't open it. Those things are private.”

“If you want privacy, you should probably not kill people,” he says, opening the bag up and shaking its contents out across the wooden desk top.

He doesn't know what he expected to find. Several changes of clothes, perhaps, and money. Things a fleeing murderer would need. Yet the only objects that tumble onto the desk are a brown fur muff, a folded men's razor, and a small leather-bound book. Holt opens the book to its first page, and finds that he's holding a copy of Shakespeare's
As
You
Like
It
.

“Can you explain these?” he asks.

“I suppose I could. You don't give me much of a reason.”

He tries to soften his voice. “It would be a nice gesture. I'm not your enemy.”

“What a funny way you have of showing it.”

The razor has a polished bone handle, worn to a gloss with long use. He opens it up and looks at the square-tipped blade. No blood. It doesn't mean anything, unfortunately. She's not a fool. She'd be smart enough to wipe a blade clean.

He sets down the razor and picks up the book, idly flipping its pages, pretending to be casual. In truth, he wants to rattle her. If these things are hers, if she treasures them, he will put his fingers on them all. He wants her to get upset. She's an emotional creature. Other than the handcuffs, it may be the only advantage he has on her.

“Officer,” she says softly.

“Yes?”

“I'm not a monster.” But there is no force in her voice. It is barely a declaration. There are more questions than answers underneath it.

“Yes, all right.”

“Don't you see it matters to me? That you know that?”

“I don't see why,” he says.

“Because I know what monsters are,” she says. “And I can't be in that company.”

“So tell me what you are, then. If not a monster.”

“A fool,” she says.

1896

Solomon's Letter

After Christmas when we took the spruce branches down, we found that they had oozed a sticky sap over every nearby surface, and the sap had hardened while we celebrated. After seven full days of work in the laundry room, we finally had to give one set of curtains up for rags. The lesson was clear. Next year we would not use those branches for decking the halls again.

And I began to wonder where next Christmas would find me.

Would I still be here? I was a servant now, and not a bad one. But the feeling I'd had when I danced for the other servants and they applauded me, I wondered what it meant. My mother had wanted me to dance on the stage. Could I do that, if I tried? How would I go about it? I enjoyed the applause more than I'd ever enjoyed the dancing. There had to be something to it.

I made excuses to find my way into the library again over the next few weeks, and when
The
Picture
of
Dorian
Gray
was returned, I took it for my own use and read it avidly. It was not a nice book, but I could see how he'd been compelled by it. And tucked into the very last page was a simple note:
Garden, when you can. C.

The first time I went to meet him among the roses, there was only conversation. The second, I knelt next to him in the dirt while he plucked out weeds, and he drew his fingers slowly up the length of my arm as we talked, setting every inch of my skin on fire. The third, we made plans to meet in a different place—a quieter, more private one—and that was where we met thereafter.

We met in the billiard room, which saw very little activity when there were no guests. It smelled of new felt and spilled whiskey. We talked little during these meetings, fearful of having our voices heard. But when he talked, he talked of leaving. He asked if I was content washing bedsheets and sweeping floors or if I wondered what else I might do out there in the world. He said I was such a smart girl, so clever and beautiful, that I must know I was meant for larger things. An agile mind like mine was wasted in the body—such a lovely body, he hastened to add—of a young drudge so far from a city of any import. He asked if he were to leave, would I go with him? I would not, I said. And the subject was dropped, until the next time he raised it, testing to see if my answer had changed. It hadn't. If he found this frustrating, he didn't say so. He would ask, and I would refuse politely, and he would fall to kissing me again, and such talk was easy to set aside in favor of more pleasant and pleasurable things.

Almost every night, there was time for a few stolen kisses, a handful of whispered words. His words were always flattering and tender. In addition to my eyes, he complimented the fragile bones of my pinkie finger, the shell-like curve of my ear, and other parts of me that weren't strictly visible. His words were lovely, but his kisses were what truly held my attention, along with the unbearably exciting thought of where the kisses might lead.

One evening as we pressed together against a heavy oak billiard table, his lips traveling slowly and tenderly up my neck, we heard voices. Quickly we separated. He cocked his head toward one door, listening to confirm the direction of the sound, and grabbed my hand to lead me out through the other exit. We scurried along in near silence. Down the hallway, there was a staircase, and I followed him down without hesitation. At the foot of the staircase, instead of continuing down the hallway to another room, he doubled us back into a kind of storage space under the stairs, a dead end, out of the way. There we paused and waited, listening, until we'd heard nothing for several minutes but our own breathing, shallow and quick.

We resumed kissing, but something had changed. In the alcove under the staircase, we were more hidden than before, more alone, more protected. The air felt close, intimate. My lips parted wider for his. I stepped closer, pressing more tightly against him, and in answer, he pushed me back against the wall, my bottom lip between his teeth, his knee between my knees.

Then his hand was inside my dress, his fingertips rough against the delicate skin of my breast, and I lost my breath for a moment. The world narrowed to a small, small space. The pleasure was almost too much to take. I wanted more. I wanted everything.

If the blood hadn't been rushing in my ears, all my attention on his skin against mine, I would have heard the footsteps. As it was, I only heard the voice.

“Separate at once,” the booming voice ordered, and I obeyed by instinct. We drew away from each other with a jump, although Clyde imposed himself between me and the intruder, which I took as chivalrous. Cheeks burning, wanting to disappear, I made myself look at the man who had interrupted our tryst.

It was the master of the house.

We rarely saw Mr. Vanderbilt, and even when we did, we never spoke to him nor he to us. I'd heard his voice before at a distance but never so close up. He had a lamp in his hand, casting a puddle of light around our dark hiding place. He wore a black smoking jacket over his shirt and trousers. There was no doubt who he was speaking to or what he'd seen. My mouth felt sore and swollen.

“You, Garber.”

“Yes?”

“Go to your room now. I do not want to hear of this behavior again. If I do, no matter how valuable I find your skills, I will have you dismissed. You understand.”

“I do.” He nodded briskly, turned the corner to scuttle quickly up the stairs, and was gone. I heard the sound of his footfalls fading.

I moved to follow, and Mr. Vanderbilt caught my arm. “Young lady, just a moment.”

“Sir?”

Then, oddly, he grinned at me. His teeth were white and gleaming under his thick mustache. “Oh, my dear, you look terrified.”

“Is that amusing?”

“No,” he said and let his smirk slip into a gentler smile as he released me. “I have to remember I was once as young as you. You and your young man. I was foolish too at your age.”

I couldn't help raising my chin. “I'm not foolish.”

“Oh, I know you don't think so now. When you look back,” he said, “that's when you'll see.”

I opened my mouth to protest and he held up a hand.

“Shush. I only want to give you some words of advice.”

I waited.

“When it's like this. When these things happen. You'll need to control yourself,” he said. He gestured up the dark stairs after my departed companion. “He won't be able to. Nor will any other young man.”

I stared at him dumbly.

“It's up to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It appalls me when people think they don't have agency. We all do. We all have will. So use yours where and when it counts.”

“Yes, sir.”

He waved me off and I went. I had been chastised but neither punished nor dismissed. It seemed almost a miracle. That night, I played the scene over and over in my head. The hot, sweet urgency of skin on skin. The master appearing, as if from nowhere, to deliver a message, raising his lantern like a priest with a censer. The more I considered it, the more it felt like a blessing. I'd been prevented from doing something foolish. Where it went from here was up to me.

I made myself confront the facts. I was a servant in a grand house, and I could either work hard and earn my keep and make concrete plans, or I could moon about, tumbling into sin with a boy who whispered honeyed words against my ear and made my nerves sing but who had never promised me anything in particular. Besides, I had no time to waste on something uncertain. Any spare moments I could snatch went to dancing—regular exercises in my room every morning and whenever I could slip away, taking advantage of empty ballrooms and hallways—and that was real. Could I spare the time for anything that might not be?

And if what I felt for him was real, all the worse. I'd seen what happened when people fell in love. Love was responsible for all my mother's poor choices. Without the mistake of conceiving me, without running away with Victor and sacrificing her comfortable life, who knows what she would have been? I couldn't be so foolish. I reminded myself that I had to make the right choices so as not to be subject to what others would have me do for their own ends. I would have to be levelheaded. Mr. Vanderbilt was right about that. No other heads were to be trusted.

The spring was a rainy one, full of murky, shadowed days. The garden was easy to avoid. Whenever I went through the library, I forced myself not to peek inside the books. If there were notes, I didn't collect them. The clandestine meetings halted. On occasion, I would spot Clyde from far away, and when he tried to draw nearer to me, I dodged him. I knew he wondered what had changed, and I burned to go back to the seductive simplicity of our late-night meetings. My body missed his.

Over the weeks and months, I altered my routine to avoid walking through the still, silent library altogether. I couldn't help but see and feel his absence every time the sound of my footsteps echoed off the walls. It was easier just to close the doors and take the long way around.

***

Half a year after Biltmore's first Christmas was my sixteenth birthday. We generally didn't fuss over birthdays, but Mrs. Severson thought that it would be good practice for the servants to prepare a birthday cake and plan a birthday party, knowing that soon the house would begin receiving more and more guests. It was good that she had us practice. There had been some turnover in the staff since the Christmas feasts, and Mrs. Hartwell in the kitchen had to bake three cakes before one turned out right.

I played the guest's part and was led blindfolded out of the house across the lawn. When the blindfold was removed from my eyes, I gasped aloud.

The garden was utterly transformed. It was like a fairy story, the kind where little elves set out a banquet during the mortals' sleep. The roses were in bloom, a riot of color, almost too perfect. A long table was laid among them, with a white tablecloth and all sorts of lovely silver, and candles for when the sun went down. My chair was decorated with yellow-hearted peach roses. When I took my seat, a wreath of miniature white blossoms was set upon my head. I felt like the Queen of the May.

I cut the cake, listened to the whole host singing, and acted appreciative, as I was asked to. There were games and music. Hours went quickly.

It was a lovely party. I told Mrs. Severson so and added, “Isn't it a fine day?”

“I have something for you to make it even finer,” she said.

She handed me an envelope, and I slide the single sheet of paper from it.

“From your mother,” she said, and I froze. Because I could see the writing on the fine paper, and although someone had signed my mother's name to the bottom of the page, I knew it was not her handwriting.

“How?” I asked, but I wasn't listening to the answer. I was reading:

I could not be happier to hear that my darling daughter is safe with you. It will be a week before I can make the proper arrangements, but I shall arrive the day after her birthday for a visit. I long to see her again and treasure the chance for reunion. You do not know how happy you have made me.

My mother had certainly not written it. I didn't know for sure what Ray's writing looked like, but it wasn't Mother's and it wasn't Victor's, and I knew who had the best reason to be deceitful. The cold shiver this knowledge sent up my spine erased the warm summer day around me, turning it winter.

The housekeeper was saying, “…and I couldn't help but share it. Though perhaps you would have been happier with a surprise.”

I must have mentioned Jeansville to her or to another servant; all she would need was that and my name, which she had. The town was small, and anyone would know where such a letter should be delivered. Mrs. Severson couldn't possibly know what she'd done. She thought I'd be happy, but this was the end of everything. So suddenly. My new life, over. My safe place, gone.

“Miss Bates?” she asked.

Quickly I realized I shouldn't show my anger. “Thank you. There are no words.”

“Tomorrow will be a free day for you. So you can spend it with her.”

“Again, thank you.”

She smiled brightly, an uncommon sight, and I returned the smile as best I could. Tears came to my eyes. I hoped she would think they were happy ones.

Then I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to escape. I turned my back on her, on the whole party, in the gathering dusk. Someone called to her and she didn't follow me. Instead of striding across the grass back to the house, I ducked into the garden shed.

The shed was musty, and only a bit of light crept in through the slats. The smell of raw earth was overwhelming. I sat down on an overturned bucket, careless of the dirt, and put my head in my hands. The wreath of flowers slipped from my head and fell to the ground. Ray was coming for me. I hadn't escaped him. He was on his way, and tomorrow he would be here. I was too stunned to cry, but my head was buzzing so loudly with thoughts and fears and panic that I almost didn't hear the door to the shed creak open and then closed again.

“I wish you a very happy birthday, Miss Bates,” came a familiar voice.

I stood, watching his shape in the half darkness, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I knew that shape.

“Ada?” he said, softer this time, less sure.

“Mr. Garber,” I said. “Thank you for your kind wishes.”

He drew close. “Are you quite all right?”

“I will be,” I said, not believing it.

Then he was nearer, and nearer still, and he lowered his face to mine for a kiss. I had nothing in me to resist. There was something in the familiar smell of his skin and the warmth of his breath that took away the present pain, and I clung to him, lost.

After a few moments, he pulled away and said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I wanted to tell you some news.”

I nodded silently, granting permission.

He said, “I'm leaving.”