The Masquerading Magician (15 page)

A cathedral.

Twenty-Nine

There was even more
to
Not Untrue Alchemy
than I had imagined. Alchemists love codes, using them out of necessity from a time when they were persecuted, but also, I suspected, because they like to feel clever. This was a deeper level of hidden meaning than I'd ever encountered. The woodcut illustrations weren't only coded images themselves, but worked with a trigger.

But even with my breakthrough in the book, I didn't know enough to save Dorian. The cathedral had no identifying features. It could have been one of a hundred cathedrals. Even if I could identify which one, what did that tell me?

It was mid-afternoon when I returned home, but I'd been too sick with worry to eat anything. I was falling into old patterns. I forced myself to drink the last of my healing lemon balm–infused tea, and I found lentil and cucumber salad leftovers. I brought the late lunch to the back porch overlooking my half-thriving, half-depleted garden, and forced myself to eat. Before I'd finished, I heard the sound of someone approaching. A moment later, Brixton dropped his bike next to the porch.

“Aren't you supposed to be helping your mom at the teashop after school?”

“Since there aren't any pastries today, there's hardly anyone there. My mom's teas aren't nearly as good as Blue's.”

“Come inside, Brix. There's something I need to tell you.”

“Mom said you were too sick to cook today, so I already know it's Dorian who's sick. What's wrong with him? I thought you were going to heal him. I brought over some Stumptown coffee for him.”

“That was thoughtful. But he's not here.”

Brixton gave me a look that suggested I'd sprouted a second head. “It's daytime. He has to be here.”

“That's the problem,” I said.

“His mind is going, too, and he wandered off? That sucks. Why aren't you out looking for him?”

“He's not outside. The police took him into custody. My stone gargoyle statue is a piece of evidence.”

“How can they do that?” Brixton sputtered. “Did he get caught somewhere he wasn't supposed to be and turned to stone to save himself?”

I forced myself to keep my voice calm in front of Brixton. “You've seen how his left leg has been turning back to stone more quickly than the rest of him. His toe broke off at the theater. The man who was killed was found clutching it in his hand.”

“That doesn't make any sense! Why would he care about a piece of stone?”

“I don't know. But Dorian is now evidence in the investigation.”

“Prison break,” Brixton said. “That's your plan, right? We can't leave him in there.”

“I don't have magical powers that allow me to walk into a secured evidence facility.”

Brixton balled his fingers into fists. “Then what are we supposed to do?”

I hesitated. Though Brixton was the one person I could talk to about Dorian, he was still a kid. He was on the verge of becoming a man, but his actions continued to remind me that the transformation wasn't yet complete. I couldn't tell him that I'd had a breakthrough with Dorian's book but that it wasn't enough. That I needed the help of a backward alchemist—both to unlock the secrets of
Not Untrue Alchemy
and to wrap up the murder investigation so I could get Dorian back.

“I'm thinking about what to do,” I said. “Right now, I need to do a few things around the house. You can raid the last of Dorian's cooking from the fridge before you go.”

“You have a plan you're not telling me, don't you? That's why you want me to leave.”

“I have a friend coming to visit. I need to get ready—”

“A
friend
is coming to visit? Don't you care about Dorian at all?”

“Of course I care!” I snapped. I was surprised by how much his words hurt. “That's why Tobias is coming for a visit. He's an alchemist. I thought he could help.”

“I thought you didn't know any alchemists anymore. Or are you lying to me about everything? After what happened earlier this year, and after Ethan and Veronica's
joke
, I thought you were the one person I could trust.”

I'd hurt Brixton too. He'd been let down by so many people. Not only had a trusted authority figure betrayed his trust earlier that year, but his stepdad's absence must have weighed heavily on him. He refused to talk about his mom's absentee husband, Abel, so I didn't know the whole story. But because of Brixton's refusal to speak of him, I suspected it wasn't good.

“I only just found Tobias. I knew him a long time ago, but we lost touch and until yesterday I didn't even know he was alive.”

Brixton squinted his eyes with confusion. To someone raised in the modern world, it's pretty unbelievable to not have instant access to anyone you wanted to find.

“He's flying to Portland tomorrow,” I continued. “Only … ”

“What?”

What I wanted to say was that since Dorian was gone, I didn't know what good Tobias's visit would do. Instead, I said, “I wish I didn't have to wait until tomorrow for Tobias to arrive.”

As soon as Brixton left, I climbed to the attic and rooted through a box until I found the object I was after. I held it up. The copper hadn't even rusted.
Perfect.

I waited five minutes, then slipped out of the house. I put “Accidental Life” on the cassette player to give me courage, and drove to the theater.

The police tape had been removed, and the magicians' SUV was parked in front of the theater. I banged on the back door until Peter opened it.

“I told you not to open the doors,” Penelope's muted voice could be heard behind him.

“I know what you are,” I said, pushing my way past Peter into the dark backstage area, and onward to the stage where I could see them clearly. “And I know what you're doing here. I'm not interested in exposing you. I don't care that you're after the Lake Loot—”

“Call the police, Pen,” Peter said. “Zoe Faust is unwell. Delusional, I'd say.”

“Hear me out,” I said. “If you help me, I won't tell the police that I know the real reason you're in town—”

A cell phone materialized in Peter's fingers. His sleight of hand was good.

Penelope put her hand on top of Peter's. Her red lacquered nails caught the light and for a moment it looked as if her fingertips had been dipped in blood. “We're not calling the police.”

“But—” Peter protested.

“Didn't you hear what she said? She
knows
, Peter. I could tell she knew. That ruse with the gargoyle … ”

“How?” The muscles on Peter's neck looked like they were ready to pop out. I only hoped he didn't have an aneurism before he could help me. “How did you know? I took steps so no one would piece it together.”

“Never allowing your photo to be taken was a good try,” I said, “but there's a photo in a book from the 1970s on Portland murders.”

“Damn. I went to all the trouble of taking down that website, but a real book … ” He shook his head and pursed his lips.

“How did you do it?” I asked. “It was backward alchemy, wasn't it? I'm not judging you. It's why I think you can help me—”

“Help you?” His eyes widened and then narrowed. His mouth followed suit, as if he was struggling for words.

“Don't lie to me!” I said. “I have nothing more to lose.”

For the next few moments, the three of us stood staring at each other, sizing each other up.

Penelope cleared her throat. The sound echoed through the empty theater. “Are you wearing
chain mail
under your blouse?”

Chain mail was the object from my boxes that I'd taken as a precautionary measure. I may have been acting somewhat recklessly by venturing to the theater alone, but when confronting a man who had killed before and his knife-throwing wife, I wasn't going to be
completely
defenseless.

“Are we on
Candid Camera
?” Peter asked. “As you know, I
hate
cameras. I'll never consent to being featured on television.”

“I don't care what you've done,” I said. “I'm not going to turn you in
. Going to the police is against my interests as well.”

“We didn't kill that man,” Penelope said. “That hasn't got anything to do with the loot. We're not doing anything illegal.”

“Even better,” I said, playing along. “Then you won't mind helping me with this.” I pulled two photographs of Dorian's book from my bag. “Please. It's important. It's a matter of life and death, or I wouldn't be asking.”

Peter's expression was even more perplexed than before. “What does this have to do with the riches my father was accused of stealing?”

“Your
father
?”

“Franklin Thorne. You said you'd figured out my secret and that we're back in Portland to find his hidden treasures. But you've only got half the story. I don't care about the money. I'm back because he was innocent. I'm here to clear his name.”

Thirty

“You're not Franklin Thorne?”
I said.

“
What are you talking about?” Peter said. “He was killed in 1969. I know theater makeup can do wonders, but you really think I'm ninety-five?”

Peter Silverman
wasn't
an alchemist who'd used backward alchemy to recover from a shootout with the police after he killed a man. I had the same biases as everyone else. I saw what I expected to see. What I
wanted
to see.

Before I could think of how to respond, someone else spoke up.

“No way!” a young voice said from the shadows.

Brixton? It couldn't be. He stepped onto the stage, the squeaking of his sneakers' rubber soles the only sound in the nearly deserted theater.

“I don't know how you're here,” I said, “but we're leaving.” I put my hands on his shoulders to steer him back outside. “Sorry to have intruded,” I called over my shoulder.

Brixton shrugged free. “You should be better at checking the back of your truck before you drive off,” he said. “I could have been an axe murderer! Anyway, I knew you were up to something. Hi guys, I'm—”

“
Not
telling them your name,” I said sharply.

“How very maternal of you,” Penelope said. “He's too old to be your son. Younger brother?”

“Neighbor,” Brixton said.

“I can read your mind,” Peter said casually, slowly circling the two of us, “so there's no need for you to voluntarily tell me your name.”

“Very funny,” Brixton said.

“I thought so, Brixton Taylor,” Peter said.

Brixton's voice caught.

“Stop joking around,” Penelope said. “Zoe thinks we're cold-blooded killers. That's why she doesn't want us to know her young friend's name.”

“How did you—” Brixton began.

“Check your pocket, Brix,” I said. “I bet he lifted your school ID card.”

“If I were to have done such a thing,” Peter said, “it would already be back in his pocket.” His graceful steps carried him across the stage in a flash, and he sat down at the very front of the stage, dangling his feet over the edge. “I can see how curious you both are. I can assure you, we're not murderers.”

“We're supposed to just, like, take your word for that?” Brixton asked.

Peter exchanged a look with Penelope. “Since you know the truth about why I'm here, you might as well know everything.” He pointed at the front row of seats a few feet in front of him. “Why don't you get comfortable?”

Brixton jumped down from the stage and sat in front of Peter. Short of tossing him over my shoulder, I wouldn't be able to get him out of the theater. But now that I knew Peter Silverman wasn't a reckless backward alchemist, the immediate danger went up in smoke along with the motive I'd theorized. I sat down next to Brixton.

“What are you wearing?” Brixton whispered. “This outfit is even worse than those jeans.”

“Never mind.” I tugged at the heavy chain mail.

“I changed my name because of my father's infamy,” Peter explained. He twirled three tennis balls in one hand, his fingers deftly looping the balls around one another. “I spent my childhood under the dark shadow cast by being the son of a murderer.” In the space of a heartbeat, the three tennis balls became two. In another beat, one ball became half the size of the other—father and son.

“That wasn't the worst part,” Penelope added from the other side of the stage. “It was knowing that Peter's father was framed. Franklin Thorne is innocent.”

“How'd you do it?” Brixton asked, his wide-eyed gaze fixated on Peter. “How'd you erase your identity so completely? I mean, I really thought you were like a Doppelganger or something.” Brixton glanced briefly at me, making sure I realized he was keeping my alchemy secret. “A
library book
says he didn't have kids. My friend Ethan changes stuff on Wikipedia all the time, just for fun. But a
library book
?”

Of course Ethan, the bored and entitled rich kid, would alter history for fun. But even more reliable books weren't the absolute truth. I should have known better than to take the book at face value. Recorded history isn't objective. Everyone has an agenda. Most of the time historians get much of the story right, but I've lived through plenty of events with history book descriptions that diverged from reality.

“You two both really thought
I
was the man in this photograph?” Peter's eyes darted from me to Brixton. It must have been a trick of the light, but his eyes glowed red for a fraction of a second. “You thought I could help you with cheating death? You mentioned … What was the phrase?
Backward alchemy
?”

“I was trying to act crazy,” I said with a nervous laugh, “to get you off-guard so you'd open up. The police confiscated my gargoyle statue, so they think I'm involved somehow. I was hoping I could get you to confess. Dumb idea, I know.”

“Dumb, indeed,” Penelope murmured. She strode across the stage, watching me closely, and stopped next to where Peter was sitting at the front of the stage.

“It's really disturbing to be under suspicion,” I said. “I'm sure you can imagine.”

“I can imagine a lot more than a nosy girl who dyes her hair white for attention,” Penelope said. She sighed and sat down next to Peter, letting her long legs dangle next to his. “Peter has spent his whole life running from a past that he had no choice in creating.”

“How'd you run?” Brixton asked.

“I had a skip-tracer help me write myself out of Franklin Thorne's story,” Peter said. “That's how I learned about deception and illusion, and that led me to become a magician. Being ridiculed as a boy caused me to retreat into magic. It made me simultaneously invisible and powerful. I guess you could say I'm an accidental magician.”

I groaned. Along every step of the way, I'd seen only what I wanted to believe. People dismiss anything that suggests I'm older than twenty-eight because it doesn't fit their worldview, and I was just as guilty. Because
my
worldview involves alchemy, that's how I'd interpreted the clues. But Peter Silverman wasn't a centuries-old alchemist who hung onto old-fashioned ideas; he was a lonely boy who'd latched onto ideas from the past because they were more comforting than his present-day reality.

Even the theme of death and resurrection in the
Phantasmagoria
stage show didn't necessarily suggest Peter was a backward alchemist. The macabre theme is common across cultures and eras, and just because it wasn't popular in this form at the moment, I'd jumped to my own erroneous conclusion. The little things he did that I took as clues were simply the actions of a skilled performer playing the role of Prometheus.

“It's not about big changes,” Peter said, “it's the
small
changes that count. Feeding tiny errors to different sources—a different error each time. That obscures everything.”

I'd known other children who had to grow up too fast, my brother and myself included. Years after growing up, it's easy to forget how much young people are capable of when they're thrown into adverse circumstances. Especially when they're shunned by their peers.

“So you just erased yourself from history?” Brixton asked.

“Not exactly. Pieces of me are there. First, one agency was informed that there was a mistake in their records. Franklin Thorne didn't have a son; he had a daughter. Another agency was given a different birth date. And another a note about a foreign adoption, with no biological children at all. When my mother had a breakdown, she moved us across the country to live with her sister, my aunt, providing another opportunity. She started using her maiden name, Oakley, to distance herself from the Thorne scandal. I registered for school with a different surname. For the first time, I was my own man. ”

“Wicked,” Brixton whispered.

“As for my first name, I wasn't born Peter. But I played Peter Pan in high school. I was smaller and had more muscle strength than all the women, so they cast me. The nickname ‘Peter' stuck. And when I turned eighteen, I took my aunt's married name, Silverman. Of course if anyone
really
looked into my past, they'd be able to figure it out. But I was more concerned with getting through my life each day. In time, people forgot about me. But they never forgot about him.
A murderer
.”

“But even the press reported Franklin Thorne had no family aside from an older, childless sister,” I said.

Peter nodded. “Those first few days, sure. I remember it well. My aunt on my father's side was fiercely protective. She took over and answered all the calls from the press.” He laughed sardonically. “As a kid, I thought she was protecting us—my mom and me. But she was only protecting herself. She talked about him being a loner and having no family. She wanted to distance herself from him, and not make him seem sympathetic by having a family. She needn't have worried. As soon as reporters did a little digging, they found us. It took ages to undo what they put me through.”

If only I'd read more newspaper accounts, I would have discovered Franklin Thorne had a son! It was the same problem I was having with Dorian's book. I was pulled in far too many directions. The necessity of studying the “quick fix” to prevent Dorian's immediate death had kept me from delving deeply enough into my alchemy practice to find real answers.

“My aunt had it all wrong, though,” Peter continued. “He was
innocent
. You thought we killed that man to keep the secret that we're here to find the Lake Loot and keep it for ourselves?”

“He and his friend were treasure hunters,” I said, “so I figured they were on to you.”

“If they were,” Peter said with a shrug, “I had no idea.”

“Why do you think your dad is innocent?” Brixton asked.

“And how do you think you can clear him?” I added.

“As
lovely
as this evening interlude has been,” Penelope said, “now that your big mystery is resolved and you know why we're here and that we had no reason to kill anyone, why do you two care?”

“The police confiscated my statue,” I said through clenched teeth, “and they think it might have been involved in the murder. I'm involved whether I like it or not.”

“The murder,” Penelope said, “has nothing to do with us.” She paused, then shook her head and swore. “You think that poor man found out that Peter was Franklin's son, and thought Peter could tell him more information that would lead him to the loot?”

Peter began to juggle three oranges. I wasn't sure where they came from, and I wasn't entirely certain Peter did either. The look on his face made me wonder if juggling was such an unconscious action that he didn't realize he was doing it.

“If that's true,” Peter said, “I suppose you think that gives me a motive. But I didn't kill him. I didn't even know he was here before the show that night.”

“Zoe,” Brixton whispered to me as Peter ranted. “Look at your phone.”

Brixton had texted me, presumably as a more secretive way of passing along a message:
Wallace was in the newspaper as treasure hunter, remember? P & P must have known. They're lying.