Jonathon explained the idea for the new illusion, Nigel approved it, and Arthur made several suggestions for music until they finally settled on a piece. Only then did Ninette ask the question that had been in her mind since her shock. “What were those flames?” she asked. “They were not even warm, but they looked so real!”
Jonathon chuckled. “Pure illusion, not stage magic, but one that ordinary folks can see. As a Fire Master I know everything there is to know about Fire and its creatures, and as a consequence, I can call up real fires, or summon up what is nothing more than the illusion of fire. That’s how I intend to burn down the Sultan’s Palace at the end of our production, except the fires will be partly my illusion and partly stage-craft.”
He held out his hand, and a moment later, there was a flame dancing on the palm. “Don’t touch that one, that’s real,” he said cautiously. He held out the other, and a second flame sprang up, but with the two side-by-side, she could see that there were differences. The illusory one was paler, and rather than flickering and moving randomly, this flame kept the same side-to-side motion, as if it was some sort of clockwork pendulum.
“That’s the problem with illusions,” Jonathon continued, turning both hands into fists to banish both flames. “Unless you concentrate all you have on it, you always wind up with a second-rate imitation of the real thing. Still, it wouldn’t do for me to burn down the stage, or my apprentice either.”
She smiled slightly. As witticisms went, it was rather feeble, but she was determined to hold the high ground and not show any further displeasure with him.
“By the way, Mademoiselle.” Arthur said thoughtfully, “How did you know about Jonathon’s regrettable tendency to make his assistants so angry at him that they leave his employ? He must go through two or three in a year.”
Jonathon flushed, and Ninette restrained a smile. She guessed that Arthur was also tired of Jonathon’s pranks, and was using that question as a means to show the magician that his behavior had not gone unremarked.
“The stage hands,” she said, after thinking quickly about what the cat had said. “When he did not arrive with one, they talked about it. Frankly, they did not seem surprised, only anxious that one of them not be dragooned to serve as his victim in the illusions.”
Jonathon flushed with embarrassment, which well he should, given the circumstances. Whether the cat had known about it from some previous acquaintance and had lied, or it really had been the stagehands, it was rather unpardonable behavior.
“I well, I suppose I am notorious,” he said, with an artificial laugh. “Do you think we can get a spot of something to eat before the performance?”
She almost said something, then changed her mind. “I’ll send one of the boys out for something,” Nigel replied. “I wanted to talk with you both about whether or not you’d—noticed anything, or anyone, that seemed too interested in Mademoiselle Nina.”
They exchanged a glance. “I am not certain I would,” she said, finally, and shrugged. “You should ask Thomas.”
“I did. He looked inscrutable. By which I think he means that he has sensed something, but that it is nowhere near. Certainly not in Blackpool, probably not in the county, Possibly not in England. But I suspect that whatever it is, it will be here soon. So I suggest we plan for its arrival.”
Ninette could only look baffled. She could not imagine who among the circles of Elemental Masters good and bad, could be holding a grudge against her.
“All right. I suggest that you and I, Nigel, have our creatures watching for any other new Master that enters the city,” Jonathon said with a nod. “Now, the Master might be able to conceal himself to a greater or lesser extent, but Elementals gossip, and that’s something no Master has ever been able to break them of.” He grinned. “Even if he has Wardings on him, he’ll still cause a ripple in his element just by existing, and the other Elementals will sense that.”
Nigel nodded.
“Then what?” Arthur asked.
“Then we wait for him, or her, to do something,” Nigel replied. “We cannot act against him, there are rules about that, and I don’t want to face someone like the Old Lion for breaking the rules. Besides, unlikely as it seems, we might get another Master in here just as a visitor to Blackpool, and it would be very unwise to launch an attack of some sort on some hapless stranger.”
Jonathon shuddered. “The Old Lion would fry us for that.”
“Besides, if you are clever, he will not know that you are there, or that you know what I am supposed to be,” Ninette said, after a moment of silence. “I think it would be wise to wait. No?”
Yes.
All eyes turned to the window, where the cat sat on the sill, although he had not been there a moment before.
Our enemy does not know about me, either, Thomas pointed out. “Laying low,” as our American cousins would say, is the wise choice here. But be prepared, because it is possible an attack will not come from magic, at least not at first.
Ninette stared at him.
“Perhaps I should round up a solicitor then,” Nigel replied, half in jest.
That might be wise, replied the cat, not at all in jest.
10
NINETTE stopped in astonishment at the door of her dressing room. It was full of flowers.
She had been dancing in the performances for two weeks now, and had been acting as Jonathon’s dancer and assistant for one. Last night she had added a fourth dance to her routines, a skirt dance with special colored lights playing on it, a la Loie Fuller. Sure that had not been the occasion for all of this!
There were bouquets of every size and color, from a little nosegay of violets on her dressing table to an enormous creation that practically required a table of its own. Her maid, Ailse McKenzie, had collected the cards and arranged them on her dressing-table. She opened each one, to see messages of admiration . . . and five different names. Well! It seemed she had a suite of admirers!
For a moment, she felt a warm glow, and a smile passed over her lips. This was wonderful! This was exactly the sort of adulation that the etoiles enjoyed, and it was a harbinger of more substantial offerings to come. From flowers, the tributes usually rose to flowers and fruit, then flowers and chocolates, then flowers and jewelry . . . or they did, if several men were vying to become one’s benefactor. Of course, there was no telling how rich any of these men were. It was nearly summer, and flowers were not as dear now as they were in winter. She didn’t know enough to tell which were in season in England, and thus inexpensive, and which were not and thus expensive, but these extravagant floral tributes could represent the limits of extravagance of any or all of them. A starving poet could and would spend his last farthing on a bouquet for one whose looks excited his imagination. Poets and other artists were hardly the most practical of creatures. Still! It would be wonderful to have the men that had given her all these flowers crowding her dressing room after the performances, and even nicer if one of them took her out for dinner afterwards. . . .
“I’ll be accepting visitors after the show, Ailse,” she said, slowly and carefully, for Ailse did not always understand her heavily accented English.
“Gemmun visitors too, ma’amselle?” the girl asked.
She nodded. The girl nodded, though Ninette thought her face showed a trace of disapproval. That was only to be expected. She had never served theater people before, and likely had no idea that the dressing room of a principle served as a kind of drawing room for the etoile. Or perhaps she did not think that Ninette should be encouraging so many men.