Page 25 of The Trick of It

“Is it true,” he asked, “that you cried? When I died?”

She huffed, a little noise through her nose, but did not answer.

“I hope it is true,” he said. “But you don’t have to tell me, I suppose.”

“Yes, I imagine you do,” she said without any sharpness. “My tears would be the ultimate feather in your cap.”

“The premiere feather,” he said, chuckling.

“Premiere,” she repeated, her eyes drifting up to the sky again. “Maybe it just meant first. Brighton’s premier illusionist. She with the longest tenure. Not best. I did start doing tricks at the pavilions before you did. When I was very small.”

“I remember,” he told her.

“And people hardly know you’re back yet,” she continued. “You only performed once since inheriting your venue, and it was for a local funeral. One full season on the seaside and you’ll have overtaken me, I’m certain. I only perform anymore from the confines of my shop, and it’s the same half a dozen tricks, over and over, to sell the kits.”

“Well, if that’s true, it’s a waste,” he said easily. “A real waste.”

“Perhaps it is,” she answered, sounding a little farther away than she had before. She gave a sharp sniff through her nose and straightened, brushing her hand over her face, her voice snapping back to briskness. “I would like to leave early on the tenth, if it suits you. We can arrive in Lewes in time for shop openings and I can resupply my puzzle boxes and dioramas.”

“Ugh,” he moaned, frowning at her. “How early?”

“Daybreak,” she said. “Unless you want to find your own way into town and somehow track me down before midnight.”

“No, thank you,” he grumbled. “Fine.”

“Good,” she said. “Now, shall we go inside? I’m half frozen. I don’t know why you’re not.”

“Magic,” he suggested, standing and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

And perhaps it was magic.

And a bit of chili dust on the fruit in his pockets besides.

*

He did catch sick, a little.

For the next three days, Rhys nursed a sniffle and a weight of lethargy that kept him bedbound and deeply displeased about the matter.

He had written to Seph immediately, instructing her to plan any necessary logistics for the tenth via written message rather than having her come by and also get sick. So, of course, she had immediately violated that directive and shown back up at the Rest.

She had evidently brought several tins of her bizarre confections for his siblings, and for him, she appeared in his room grinning and proffering a familiar pink tin. “I thought you liked them,” she said, shaking it, “since you stole all the rest of the ones in my flat.”

“I don’t,” he told her, somberly and masculinely, and then ruined it by sneezing six times in a row while she stood there and grinned.

She was wearing orange and a dark, slate gray that day. She always wore two colors. Always had.

“The chili will speed the sniffle,” she told him, tossing it onto his bedside table. “And if you get me sick, I shall find a way to maim you. Eat them and rest. I’ll be back at dawn on the tenth.”

“Did you see the mouth plants?” he called as she turned to leave, which did give her pause.

“Not yet,” she said, frowning. “I saw them still all shriveled and black. Errol says they need another few days. They don’t have teeth.”

Rhys returned her frown. “No? Gummy little buggers, are they?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “They have a fringe of little feelers on the outside of their lips, like antennae or tentacles. Perhaps those are the teeth.”

“He’s going to have to find things to feed them,” Rhys mused, sniffling and dabbing at his nose again. “He won’t like doing that. Errol doesn’t like dead things.”