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“Once I accept them as my blood, our bond will become unbroken,” Liza said, sounding as if she were quoting from some strange carnival manual. “But not a moment before.”
Houdini promotional poster
NINE
KING OF CUFFS
DINING SALOON
RMS ETRURIA
3 JANUARY 1889
Tonight’s stage was dressed in silvers and grays—like moonlight shining through cracks in the ship’s hull, lighting on bits of broken glass, or, in this case, crystal decanters and bejeweled patrons. Diners paused, eyeing the preshow performers as they glided through the room on stilts, their movements surprisingly graceful despite the long poles they perched on.
Every part of their costumes was silver, from their masks to their sequined shoes. Tulle hung in tattered shreds that moved ethereally each time they stepped forward on their tall pretend limbs. In fact, the stilts they balanced upon resembled swords. They were bits of glittering beauty with an edge, blades ready to drop at any moment and slash those who least suspected it.
While my uncle and Mrs. Harvey spoke cordially over their meal, I stared at the twirling batons, mesmerized by the silver and white ribbons slicing through the air. An extraordinary amount of work and skill had gone into the creation of the garments, and I wondered at the person who’d made such fine stitches. They could be under the queen’s employ, though I supposed they worked for royalty of a different sort.
“You’ve got the look of someone who’s thinking of sewing corpses back together.” Thomas grinned over his roasted-duck entrée as I snapped my attention to him. It was scary how well he knew me sometimes. He lifted his glass. “We ought to toast to that. This champagne is terribly good—the bubbles go straight to your head. Don’t worry,” he added with a wink, “I’ll be sure to join you dancing on the table after you’ve had a few glasses.”
“My partner in crime and debauchery,” I said, clinking our glasses together. “I am a lucky woman, indeed.”
Thomas seemed quite pleased by the statement.
The lights dimmed, our nightly signal that the show was about to begin. I shifted, watching the ringmaster, who promptly took the stage in a clap of cymbals and blast of smoke. His suit was tailored to his body and was a charcoal so deep it could have been mined. Both mask and waistcoat were scarlet tonight, the red bullion around his top hat mimicked splashes of blood. A bold yet decent choice, considering everything that had occurred. I tried to ignore how his knee-high boots drew the eye downward, even if the eye stubbornly wished to remain on his blasted face.
Thomas inspected the young man in the same manner he studied corpses. I couldn’t tell if he desired to murder him or dissect his secrets more.
“Ladies.” Mephistopheles walked the perimeter of the stage, mask casting beams of light that cut through the chittering crowd and ended most conversations. “Tonight’s act is so fearsome you may faint from the strain. However”—he pulled out a small crystal vial—“we have smelling salts for any fits or vapors. Don’t be shy in requesting them. Our stilt walkers have plenty on hand; alert them if you’re in need.”
He beckoned to someone behind the curtain. No one appeared, which likely meant something had been set in motion behind the scenes. I swallowed a bit of roasted duck that suddenly seemed stuck in my throat. I hoped Liza was all right.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Mephistopheles paced along the edge of the stage. “You may wish to look away if you have any sort of medical condition. Particularly any affliction of the heart.” The ringmaster paused and glanced around, his gaze settling on my table. “For the brave and fearless among you,” he continued, “tonight will forever be marked as the greatest event of your lives.”
A murmur went through the crowd at that bold statement. The Moonlight Carnival was spectacular as a traveling troupe, but even their exquisite illusions couldn’t live up to that show-bill claim. A sound of thunder rolling through storm clouds be
gan a moment before a masked Liza and another assistant wheeled out a large trunk, then stepped back.
I moved my focus from the trunk to the assistants. They were dressed in sequined silver costumes that were basically just corsets, and thick white stockings. It took a moment for me to piece together that most of the colors chosen were a palette taken from the night—moon, stars, and clouds against inky skies. The ringmaster extended his moonlight revel to the smallest detail.
“Tonight you will experience a metamorphosis like no other. Tonight the impossible is possible. All the way from Appleton, Wisconsin.” Mephistopheles swept his arm in a gesture of welcome. “The great. The wonderful. The man who cannot be tamed or caged—please turn your attention over to the amazing Harry Houdini, King of Cuffs!”
The audience politely clapped, but it wasn’t anywhere near as wild as it had been for the ringmaster on opening night. Mrs. Harvey winked at me, then hefted her wine into the air in a toast as a young man in a tuxedo took the stage. I sat straighter, not wishing to miss even the slightest detail. This was the young man who’d been clever enough to win my cousin’s affections. His dark hair was parted down the middle, and when he flashed a smile, dimples greeted the crowd.
Unlike the other performers, Houdini was unmasked. There was a presence about him, though, something that felt like a charge in the air before lightning struck. Liza smiled wide, her whole body seeming to radiate joy as Houdini lifted his arms above his head. In a booming voice that was surprising for his smaller stature, he called, “Ropes!”
Liza removed a length of rope from the trunk, holding it up for the audience before snapping it through the air like a whip. Houdini pivoted, his back now turned on the crowd.
“That’s quite rude, isn’t it?” Mrs. Harvey whispered. “Bad manners to turn his back on… oh… oh, I see. That is something.”
Houdini held his arms out behind himself, nodding to Liza as she silently tied them together in a web of crisscrossing rope. I was impressed by her expert knots—Aunt Amelia would not be as pleased by her embroidery lessons being used in such a way.
“Look at those knots,” Mrs. Harvey whispered, “he’ll have a dickens of a time getting out of those. I wonder if he’s got a knife stashed in his trousers… certainly appears that way.”
Thomas choked on his water, shooting our chaperone an incredulous look.
Liza tugged and pulled, nearly knocking the escape artist off his feet. A young man at the table next to ours said quite loudly, “How boring. I bet the rope isn’t even real.”
