Page 28 of The Trick of It

“It certainly was,” he grumbled.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” she said firmly, turning her face with a click through the window, blinking away the unbidden memory even as it overtook her.

Even as it haunted her.

The Changeling had been their crowning glory as an illusionist duet, a pair of sparkling youngsters who had drawn crowds in those late summer throngs. It had been a trick of misdirection, choreography, and folklore. A combined effort of illusory genius and stage chemistry that might have made them rich if they hadn’t ruined it.

If he hadn’t ruined it.

If she hadn’t.

She squeezed herself tighter, that bright summer day clawing at her temples. She had made him disappear and reappear. He was supposed to do the same.

She had just chosen to never resurface.

She had fled the pavilion entirely.

She had left him there to be humiliated. Alone.

And he had deserved it.

“I’ve just never been able to figure out why you did it,” he grumbled, like he could hear her thoughts. “I’ve run it through a thousand times. And I’ve never landed on why.”

“If you haven’t figured it by now,” she said, brisk and snappy, “you likely never will.”

“You could always bloody tell me,” he pointed out.

And to that, she didn’t respond at all.

*

It had started to drizzle by the time the carriage had reached Lewes, which somehow both thickened the fog and segmented it into long, jagged tufts like crop rows, at least on the grassy outskirts of the city.

Farther in, the cobbles dispelled most of the ground-level fog, leaving only an odd, head-height cloud mist to muddle through.

In any event, it was lunch time, even if Rhys couldn’t see the damned sun, and he was starving.

“Lunch?” he said as he hopped out of the carriage, landing on the pavement a few feet behind Persephone Boswell. His voice was a bit raw from having to sit in silence for so long. Or perhaps it was a remnant of his sniffle.

Either way, it wasn’t his fault.

Seph spun around, as though the mere act of him daring to speak to her had slapped her across the face, those wide, blue eyes blinking in disbelief. “With me?”

“Well, I’d ask the horses, but I have a feeling we’d disagree on fare,” he said, shooting her what he hoped was an easy smile. “How many shops do you have to visit today?”

She hesitated, then gave a little sigh and turned toward him completely. “Three,” she said. “I sent orders ahead of time to two of them and the third always has enough stock for me to simply stop in and make my purchase.”

“Three shop visits won’t take us until midnight,” he pointed out. “Let’s eat first, go to your three shops, and then I get to choose three, to keep things fair.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Is that fair? I’m doing actual business, not mere sightseeing.”

“And I’ll buy luncheon,” he threw in. “More than fair. And no reason you can’t do both, Seph.”

“If you say so,” she agreed, though that wariness had not left her tone. “But I need to go to at least the first shop ahead of luncheon. I’ve an appointment.”

He nodded and sank his hands into his pockets, following her along. He was wearing gloves, of a sort, but he always cut the fingers out of them. It was a trick Hughes had taught him, all those years ago.

He’d tried, of course, to wear respectable gloves. Or worse, mittens.