Christmas Angel by Eli EastonThey reached Green Park and paused at its southern end to take it in. It was surprisingly well-attended. The broad lawn, with its distant view of St. James, was dotted with couples and families who strolled the park’s broad paths in their coats and muffs, furs and tricorne hats, enjoying the unseasonal weather. Many carried lanterns so that dozens of flames danced here and there in the park in spectral fashion.
“Would you care to take a turn around the park?” Trent asked. “Or would you rather head back? You must be tired after a long day.”
“No. No, please. How could we resist a scene like that? It looks like a fairy kingdom. We must walk it,” Alec said with feeling.
Trent gave a low chuckle. He half turned so that he could gaze at Alec’s face. “I’ve noticed you’ve a fondness for the fairy kingdom. Your sculptures have a hint of it.”
“They may do,” Alec admitted. “But—”
The words evaporated when Trent pulled the glove off his right hand and raised the backs of his fingers to Alec’s cheek. “Not too cold?”
How his hand could be so hot was a mystery. Or perhaps Alec’s cheek was just that cold. But the touch seared him. His eyes watered, and his insides swooped as though his heart were a bird diving into the sea. He had a strong urge to lean into that touch. He swallowed, his voice gone.
Trent’s smile faded, and he gazed at Alec so seriously for a moment. Then he dropped his hand. “You’re not too cold to go on?”
“No,” Alec said quietly.
“Then let’s promenade, my fairy prince.”
That was so patently absurd it made Alec laugh and the spell was broken. Trent switched to Alec’s other side and this time he took Alec’s arm without asking. Instead of clasping him above the elbow, he threaded his arm through and wrapped it around Alec’s bicep. It was a more secure hold, and it brought them together hip to shoulder, almost huddled against the chill.
They moved onto a path, Alec’s heart once again thudding heavily, his mind a whirlwind.
He can’t truly be interested in me that way, a voice whispered in his head. Only it was getting harder to believe. Honestly, Alec was less interested in believing it.
Trent couldn’t be interested in him professionally. Alec had never witnessed a murder or committed any crime. And while sodomy was illegal, Alec had never done the act. Surely a Bow Street Runner would not set out to entrap a lonely sculptor who was minding his own business.
No, Trent had found the shop because of the angel. The question was: why had he kept coming back?
He decided to broach the subject because his heart couldn’t take much more of this. And it was awfully hard to stand on one’s principles and reject a thing if one wasn’t even sure the thing was on offer.
“You said you are not married,” he began.
“No. Nor do I ever intend to be.”
“Because your profession is dangerous?” Alec asked, then cursed himself. He was so used to skirting around the subject he found it difficult to get even close without shying away in the opposite direction.
“No,” Trent said, squeezing his arm. “No, Mr. Allston. I will never marry because there will never be a woman I want in that way, and to force one to live with half my affection would be wrong.”
“Ah.”
It was like a dash of cold water in the face, one meant to wake the sleeper. Trent couldn’t be more clear. A trill of fear went through Alec at his boldness, at what he was very nearly saying out loud. He remained silent.
They continued down the path. Trent’s hand was firmer now because Alec’s legs had gotten weaker and he was barely going on. They passed two older gentlemen in black tricorne hats with gold trim, both smoking cigars. They all nodded to one another.
“Pardon me if I’ve offended you,” Trent said after the two men had passed. He sounded worried, and Alec realized he was not as brazen as he appeared.
“No. No... I.” He kicked himself for his hesitancy. He wouldn’t be a coward now, not when Trent had put his neck on the line. “What I mean to say is, I am also far from a Lothario when it comes to the female sex. I’m not made that way. That’s why I... why I have decided to remain unwed. And to dedicate myself solely to my work.”
“You’re talking about a life of celibacy.”
Alec swallowed. As usual Trent’s bluntness was a little shocking. “Yes. It’s not so rare. Those in certain professions—priests, for example—have abstained for centuries.”
“That’s bollocks,” Trent said strongly. “And from what I’ve heard about priests, they’re not as celibate as all that.”
“But.... If you can keep your mind pure, surely that’s a state to be wished for. To live for art and higher ideas. Particularly if one’s predispositions are not... are not in the natural way of things. I think—”
“Let me ask you something,” Trent interrupted with a hint of impatience. “Would you find it admirable if a man never ate? So that he became skin and bones and got ill and abandoned his duties? And all the while he looked to the heavens with pious eyes and insisted God wanted him to starve to death because gluttony is a sin. Is that something to be admired? Or would you think he had a bat in the belfry?”
Alec pressed his lips together. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Or what about a man who refused to shit? Just kept it all bottled up inside because he felt it was beneath him?”
“Mr. Trent!” Alec gasped.
“We are physical beings, Mr. Allston. We must eat and shit and drink and move and make love. If you ask me, denying any part of our physical nature is not only a tragic folly, but it’s bound to lead to misery in the end. If you want to be happy in life, honor your physical nature, in moderation, with an eye to not harm anyone else, and, indeed, to do good where you can. Art and the church and politics and the law, they enrich a man’s life, to be sure. But the physical self is the base of well-being.”
Trent talked passionately, and Alec had to admit, he made a good argument. He thought of the way William had spoken about denial of the body’s longings as the highest aim, that purity was the only possible state for a man of elevated consciousness.
Yet now a very unhappy thread of doubt crept in. Did William espouse that course merely to avoid intimacy with Alec? Was it his way of holding Alec at arm’s length? Surely, he wasn’t planning to be celibate with his wife. There were the heirs to secure, if nothing else.
Damnation, he didn’t want to think about William and his bride. Tonight, of all nights, he didn’t want to think about William at all.
“But what if... what if one’s physical self, one’s innate appetites, would lead one to acts which are immoral and illegal? In that case surely it’s better to abstain entirely?”
Trent stopped walking. He turned to grasp both of Alec’s arms, as though he wanted to shake him. But he only held him firmly and stared intently into his eyes.
“Do no harm. Does it harm anyone if two people come together who want each other? If they give one another pleasure and warmth and smiles?”
He made it sound so innocent. “But they arrest men for it. Men have been executed!”
Trent’s expression grew pained. “Well I know it. A fellow I board with, Stockbridge, was caught up in that witch hunt in ’26, poor sod. Before that nobody much cared, then the Reformation societies got it in their heads that London was a pit of wickedness and God would destroy it like Sodom if they didn’t ensure that no one ever had a lick of fun again.”
“I’m familiar with the type,” Alec said dryly. He saw them often on the street corners passing out their pamphlets and raging about sin. “They’re terrifying.”
“They are,” Trent agreed. He sighed and took Alec’s arm again and they began walking. “I don’t know if you’ve heard much about their tactics, but back in ’26 they sent agents provocateurs into the molly houses in Holborn and Moorfields and entrapped men, spied on them. They threatened the younger boys with trial and execution if they didn’t testify against their regulars. It was a bloody rout.”
Trent sounded disgusted. Alec said nothing, but his heart was heavy. This was precisely what he feared.
“But,” Trent said firmly. “They’ve found other bushes to beat, and men have gotten shrewder and more secretive, and there hasn’t been a fuss made in some time. One must be careful, but, for God’s sake, we can’t stop living.”
Alec thought about that. “You see no conflict in breaking the law given your profession?” He asked not as an admonishment, but because he truly wanted to understand this complicated man.
“I’m a great respecter of the law. And there are cases which should be pursued. Children despoiled or forced into prostitution, people injured for the sake of another’s pleasure, rape. But not every law is reasonable or fair. Some things are simply misunderstood, minds blindered by tradition. And I return to my earlier point, do no harm.” He sighed. “I suppose you think me a bloody hypocrite.”
“I don’t think so. Not unless you arrested men for doing what you do yourself.”
“That has never come up, and if it did, I would refuse. Fortunately, Judge Fielding is a practical man. He doesn’t apply himself to the cause of London’s morality. We have work enough with real crimes.”
A family with a pretty, round-faced wife in a bonnet, a pleasant-looking husband, and a boy and girl of around ten approached. They greeted the family and received cheerful salutations in return.
What a strange world it was, Alec thought, with so many configurations. Young and old, large families and small, elderly couples, newlyweds, gentlemen who perhaps were bosom friends but would be horrified at the idea of more. And those who got up to things behind closed doors of which no one was the wiser. He supposed it must be so. He and William had carried on their dalliance, mostly in letters, true, but no one had guessed. And who knew but that the butcher’s wife had been secretly in love with the baker for decades? It reminded him of his shop where shepherdesses lounged on tables next to African beasts and King George in his coronation robes was arranged across from a humble field mouse.
Alec had thought himself a solitary figure, set up upon some high shelf, removed from it all. But here he was.
Summerfield's Angel by Kim Fielding
Chapter 1
December 1888
New York City was bigger than Alby Boyle remembered, and noisier. Carts, wagons, carriages, and omnibuses rattled down the packed streets, and a hundred pedestrians’ conversations flowed around him at once. The smells were overwhelming too: human and horse excrement, wet wool, piles of garbage and spoiled food. He couldn’t imagine what the reek would be like in summer— which he supposed should make him glad it was late December. Except New York was also colder than he remembered. Not the clean, numbing freeze of Nebraska winters, and nowhere near the killing temperatures that had changed his life the previous year. New York cold wrapped damply around him, triggering shivers that felt as if they’d never stop.
Alby hunched his shoulders inside his duster and tipped the brim of his Stetson downward, hoping to deflect some of the sleet that spat from the stone-colored sky. Buildings towered over him in every direction, dwarfing him, keeping him from getting his bearings. He wasn’t at all sure he was headed in the right direction, but he reckoned he ought to cross the street here. If he was wrong, he’d reach either the Hudson or East River soon enough, and then he’d know which way to go. Maybe.
Instead of crossing, he turned toward the nearest building, where a row of large and brightly lit street-level windows battled the gloom outdoors. Some of the windows showcased dresses so elegant he couldn’t imagine them worn by real human beings, and the men’s suits were adorned with velvet trim and silver buttons. Other windows contained children’s clothing, leading him to wonder what it would be like to grow up attired in such finery. Wouldn’t the children be afraid to even move? And the final window, where Alby lingered the longest, had a table draped in lace and set with gleaming crystal and china, as if the owners of the fancy clothing might sit down at any moment for dinner. The thought made his mouth water.
But what truly held his attention was the Christmas tree beside the table. It was covered in tiny electric lights, glittering ribbons, and colored glass baubles. At the very top perched an angel with shining red hair, wearing a golden gown and with her wings spread, smiling down at him as if bestowing a benediction. Someone had crafted her with great care. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.
But glory such as this wasn’t meant for the likes of him, and after emitting a longing sigh, Alby turned away.
Head down, he stepped off the curb, took a stride forward— and was yanked violently backward by one arm. He lost his footing and landed on his ass, but almost before he could register the shock of the fall, a pair of horses trotted by just an arm’s reach away, pulling a trolley down the tracks.
“Are you drunk, sir? Or simply insane?”
Alby blinked up at his savior, a young man whose complexion was shifting from snow-pale to an alarming red. “I, uh….” Alby shook his head.
“You can’t simply walk in front of a trolley! You were very nearly killed, sir!”
Alby’s hat had fallen off and landed in an ice-rimmed puddle. He fished it out, gave it a good shake, and got to his feet. But the other man, apparently still not confident that Alby had all his wits, grasped Alby’s arm and tugged him back onto the sidewalk. As they stared at each other, the crowds parted and rushed by, like a stream flowing past a stone.
Now that he’d had a moment to catch his breath, Alby got a better look at the other man— who still held his arm, as if Alby might make a mad dash for the trolley. The fellow appeared a few years younger than Alby’s thirty, with a handsome beardless face, pale blue eyes, and thin eyebrows the color of a palomino horse. He was taller than Alby but much slighter in build, and he wore a heavy black coat and a tall top hat.
“I’m sorry,” said Alby. And he was, because he realized now that his brush with death had truly frightened the young man. He added a half-truth by way explanation. “I ain’t from here.”
“That explains the exotic attire.” Now that the danger had passed, the man’s expression relaxed. A spark of what might have been amusement animated his face, making it beautiful.
Not that it should have mattered to Alby.
“Thank you for saving me.”
“I’m pleased I was able to round out my day with a good deed.”
The fellow seemed to realize he still held Alby’s arm and dropped it quickly. A touch of pink briefly tinged his cheeks, but he didn’t walk away. Neither did Alby, perhaps because this was the first friendly face he’d encountered since getting off the afternoon train.
“Do you reckon you could help me with something else?” asked Alby.
“Perhaps.”
“Can you point me in the direction of Baxter Street?”
All traces of humor left the other man’s face. “You should not go there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s dangerous. The most terrible squalor imaginable and the worst sorts of ruffians.”
“I can hold my own if I got to.” Alby had been in more than one fight, and he’d spent years managing animals much heavier than he was.
“You look—” The man swallowed audibly. “Quite strong. But these are low men who will sneak upon you unaware, who will outnumber you and set upon you with weapons. They have no morals or honor at all.”
“I can hold my own,” Alby repeated. “Now if you’d just set me on my way?”
After a pause, the man gave a small nod. “Very well.” He pointed. “You can continue down Broadway until you get to Broome, and then turn left.”
“Thank you.”
“But do be careful, sir, and not just of the trolleys.”
Alby touched his hat brim in a gesture of gratitude and took a step in the direction he’d been told.
But once more the handsome man grasped his arm. “I’m sorry. But if you don’t mind my asking, what business takes you to such a rough part of the city?”
A heavy sigh escaped Alby’s lungs. “I was born there.”
The buildings grew no more familiar as Alby neared Baxter Street, nor did the faces of the people he passed. But something struck a chord of recognition within him. Maybe it was the layers of rags everyone wore in an effort to keep warm, or the bleakness in their eyes. Maybe it was the hollow-cheeked children who skulked about him, staring at his strange clothing and, he was certain, sizing him up. To these children, all adults were either potential predators or potential prey, and they were trying to decide which side Alby fell on. He kept a firmness in his jaw and a narrow glare in his eyes, and the children scampered or sidled away.
And finally there was Baxter Street, the pavement cracked and crumbling. The buildings loomed here too, but these were piecemeal collections of deteriorating bricks and rotting wood hung with rickety, sagging balconies. Windows were small, many of them broken, many more covered with blankets or newspapers in attempts to keep out the chill. Laundry hung on lines, although it would never dry in this weather. Store displays showed tottering piles of cheap cookware, dusty bottles and boxes, faded bolts of cloth. No glittering fairy lights or golden angels to be found here. Stalls and pushcarts crowded the sidewalks, offering fruits and vegetables, loaves of bread, cheap jewelry, household goods, small trinkets, and used clothes. The luckiest peddlers huddled under shop awnings with their goods. Men and women haggled loudly as they shopped, some of them pausing to stare at Alby.
Finally, he came to something he did recognize: a wooden building with clapboards in disarray and a roof in danger of imminent collapse. In Alby’s memory this building had no sign— and there was still none today— although he knew what he’d find should he venture inside. Filthy walls and floors, splintery tables and chairs, a long bar with the wood marred by thousands of nicks and scars. And there’d be exhausted men in patched clothing, each of them drinking away a hard day of work. Or a hard day without work. Alby’s father used to frequent this place, and when his mother grew afraid there’d be nothing left of his pay, she sent Alby or one of his brothers to fetch him home. Sometimes their father came. Sometimes he cursed and cuffed their head instead.
Alby wouldn’t find his father there today, because the old man had dropped dead years ago, when Alby was only seven or eight. Where he was buried, Alby neither knew nor cared. He didn’t go inside the saloon, instead turning into the narrow alley that ran between it and the brick building next door. How many times had he walked down here, hearing the noises of laughter and yelling and crying from tenement apartments, the calls of ragpickers on the street, the barking of dogs? Sometimes he’d even slept there, when the heat was too oppressive indoors or his father’s temper too explosive. And today, children who might have been avoiding their own homes— if they had any— stared at him from stairs and doorways. Men would be watching him from the shadows as well. He kept his hands balled into fists. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but he was no fool.
Alby reached the back corner of the saloon building and came to an abrupt halt.
It was gone.
He looked around frantically, as if he might be mistaken about the location. But no. The familiar saloon was here, and he could see the church spire rising two blocks away on Mott Street. And there, under a stairway, was the dark alcove where he and his brothers had spent more than one hungry night.
But the tumbledown structure he’d once called home was gone.
It had been a sprawling wooden building, three stories high, with a roofline that swooped and bowed at dizzying angles. Outhouses and sheds had crowded the building’s base, and a tangle of clotheslines had hung between his building and the ones nearby. Even in the worst weather, many of the windows had hung crookedly open, the tenants desperate for fresh air to replace some of the fetid darkness inside.
Alby had lived on the top floor of this structure, in two tiny rooms shared with his parents, his two brothers, his grandparents while they were still alive, and whatever boarders his mother took in for a few extra dollars a month. There had been two baby sisters, but neither had survived longer than a few weeks. The family’s two rooms each had a small dormer window, and sometimes young Alby stood on a bed and gazed outside, wondering what it would be like to fly free of the place.
Eventually he had been freed, although that freedom had come at a price. Now the entire building was gone, replaced by a taller brick one that looked as if it had been there forever. He’d been gone only seventeen years. Could a brick tenement age that quickly? Perhaps. By the time Alby was seventeen, he’d felt ancient.
Now, however, he felt young and lost. Alone.
A pair of boys stalked over and planted themselves in front of him, their dirty faces scrunched up with curiosity. “What the hell are you doin’ here, mister?” demanded the older one, who looked to be ten or so.
Alby wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Looking for someone.”
“Ain’t nobody here gonna be found unless he wants to.”
“Yeah. I reckon that’s true.” Alby gave himself a small shake. “Maybe you can help. I’m looking for the Boyles. They used to live here.” He gestured at the brick building.
The boy scoffed. “Nobody ’round here called Boyle.”
That was probably not true. Even if Alby’s own people were long gone, Irish immigrants had been landing in this neighborhood for generations. “I’m looking for Charley or Bran Boyle. They’d be in their late twenties.” That was an odd realization. The brothers he’d last seen as young boys would now be fully grown, probably with wives and children. He sighed. “Or their mother, Moira Boyle.”
“Gimme a nickel and I’ll tell you,” said the boy, his chin jutting.
“I don’t have a nickel to spare.”
“Then I ain’t telling!” The boy ran off, his worn-out shoes kicking up splashes from the puddles.
But his companion remained, looking up at Alby solemnly. “He doesn’t know anyway. He’da just took your money.”
“Do you know?” Alby asked gently.
“No.” He ran off too.
Alby was suddenly so weary that his legs threatened to give, and he felt as if he’d never get up again. Deep in his heart, he’d known this was a fool’s errand. He should have headed west with the Wheelers instead of boarding an eastbound train. But would he have felt any more at home in Oregon than he had in Nebraska, than he did standing now in an alley off Baxter Street?
Here he was, and there was no use crying over spilled milk. That’s what Mrs. Wheeler used to say, and she was right. Done was done. Alby couldn’t afford to get to Oregon now, so he’d best find a way to manage where he was. He’d get a meal in his belly, some warmth in his bones, some decent rest for his body and mind, and in the morning he’d find a way to track down his family.
With a final long look at the usurping building, Alby turned and trudged back down the alley to the street.
The Magician's Angel by Jordan L Hawk
Chapter 1
December 22, 1910. Twelfth Junction, Iowa
“With any luck, this is the last Christmas we’ll spend in a small town,” Christopher Fiend said as he lifted the angel from the trunk. “It’s the bright lights of the big cities for us from here on out, old girl.”
The wooden angel looked to have passed through quite a few hands before his, though her features were still clear, the gilt on her robe and wings yet bright. She seemed to regard him with an enigmatic smile as he removed the wrappings that had protected her since the previous December.
Most of the props he used in his magic act received regular use. Traveling the vaudeville circuit from coast to coast, year after year, meant keeping only what was absolutely necessary and discarding the rest.
But performers of every type tended to be a superstitious lot. Christopher didn’t normally consider himself one for either sentiment or superstition, but the day he’d added the angel to his act had been the day he’d received the coveted “next to closing” spot on the bill. Christopher Fiend, the Marvelous Magician, was finally a headliner… even if only in tiny towns like Twelfth Junction.
So she remained in his trunk, even if she only came out around Christmas.
“Next year, it will be Chicago. Perhaps even New York,” he added. “All I need is a bit more of that luck you gave me back in Port Angeles.”
They were scheduled to play the Iowan Chateau Theater in Twelfth Junction through Christmas Eve. Christmas Day, they’d take a train to Chicago. Then, Monday evening, December 26, he’d perform in front of a booking agent for the Orpheum circuit. Rumor had it the circuit intended to build a new flagship theater on Broadway in New York City. If he could sufficiently impress the agent, Christopher would soon be headlining in the largest theater in the largest city in the country.
He would finally have made it.
But first, he had to get through this series of performances. As Christopher exited the dressing room carrying the angel, a woman exclaimed “Get your hands off me!” followed by the sound of a slap.
Lily.
Grinding his teeth, Christopher quickened his step. Most of the performers were busy with rehearsal; the piano accompaniment to Betty and Barbara Goldstein, the “Singing Sisters,” echoed faintly from the stage.
Two figures stood in the dimly lit hallway: Christopher’s assistant, Lily Lilac, her back pressed against the wall, her teeth bared as though she meant to bite. And Dennis Jefferson.
Of course.
Jefferson gripped her wrist with one hand, his cheek reddening where she’d slapped him. He loomed over her small form, muscles evident beneath his suit despite the gray Christopher knew lurked under his hair dye. “Listen to me, you—”
“I shouldn’t finish that sentence, if I were you,” Christopher said.
Jefferson let go of Lily as though burned. Then, seeming to realize who had spoken, his mouth twisted into a sneer. “This doesn’t concern you, Fiend.”
“Come now,” Christopher said, keeping his voice mild even though his pulse had quickened with anger, “you wouldn’t want to disorder your hair before opening night, would you, Jefferson?”
“Opening night— if you can even call it that.” Contempt dripped from the words. “A no-name theater in a backwater with more cows than people in it.”
As much as he hated to agree with Jefferson on anything, Christopher couldn’t deny his assessment. Twelfth Junction was barely a spot on the map, just large enough to have a theater, department store, and hotel.
The door into the wings opened. “Jefferson?” his partner Gerald Morton called. “We’re on for rehearsal.”
Indeed, the piano had fallen silent, and the so-called singing sisters along with it. Jefferson straightened his jacket and marched out, bumping Morton rather rudely as he did so.
“What a prick,” Lily said, when the door shut.
The tension broke, and Christopher chuckled. “He certainly is a thoroughly unpleasant sort, isn’t he?”
Lily bit her lip. “Why does a nice fellow like Gerald put up with him?”
“Gerald, is it?” Christopher teased.
“None of your business,” Lily shot back. “I keep telling him he ought to find someone new to work with.”
Christopher shrugged. Lily was young, barely nineteen, though she thought of herself as worldly beyond her years. So had he, at that age. “Jefferson was an established name even before he took on Morton. Taking a risk, starting over again from scratch, isn’t as easy as it sounds when you’re on the wrong side of thirty.” He waved his hand, dismissing the topic. “We’ll part ways with them soon enough— I believe they’re going on to Milwaukee after Chicago. Until then, let me know if Jefferson gives you any more trouble.”
She looked unaccountably glum at the prospect. Christopher briefly wondered if he should have a word with Morton as well, then dismissed the thought. Lily knew her own business, and it wasn’t for him to interfere, no matter how much he might worry for her.
“Let’s test the trap door on the prop table before rehearsal,” he suggested. “It’s been a while since we’ve used the angel with it.”
As always, the prospect of work cheered her. “Whatever you say, boss,” she said, and followed him into the wings.
“The numbers don’t lie, Tobias,” Edward said. “The Iowan Chateau is practically bleeding money. The only sensible thing to do would be to shut it down.”
The two brothers sat near the front of the house, observing the rehearsal of the vaudeville performers Tobias had lured to Twelfth Junction. For the most part, they were almost as shabby a lot as the theater itself. The two men currently on stage performing a one-act play weren’t bad, per se, but the jokes peppering their lines had been stale back when Father managed the theater.
Father, who would have hated the very thought of vaudevillians treading the same boards their mother had walked on.
“No,” Tobias said immediately. “We can still make this work, Edward. People here are hungry for entertainment. If we can just get enough of them through the door by Christmas, we’ll be… not well off, but surely we’ll have enough to stretch until the end of the season. How can you think of throwing the Chateau away so carelessly?”
Edward bit back any number of retorts. Father had always said Tobias had the theater in his blood. He’d spoken the words proudly, but they’d filled Edward with dread.
At least Tobias had followed in their father’s footsteps, not their mother’s. As for Edward, he’d gone into accounting at the first opportunity.
Which meant he knew the numbers even better than Tobias. “You’ll need to draw crowds for the next several months to overcome the debt left to you by Father. I know you’re trying to modernize the theater, but… well, I’m afraid it’s a case of too little too late.”
“I won’t give up until there’s no other choice,” Tobias said stubbornly.
“Just like Father,” Edward muttered.
“Wrong. Father clung to the past. I’m looking to the future.” Before Edward could object, Tobias held up a hand. “Now hush. The magician is coming on for his stage rehearsal, and I want to see how some of the tricks are done.”
Edward had seen the posters plastered around town for the last few days. Christopher Fiend, the Marvelous Magician! they proclaimed, beneath the sinister figure of a man surrounded by tiny, cartoonish demons. It was utterly ludicrous, the product of a flighty, fanciful mind.
Needless to say, Edward disapproved of both flightiness and fancy.
Determined to try and talk sense into his brother, Edward settled back in his chair and turned his attention to the stage. His earlier thought about the shabbiness of the performers certainly failed to hold true of the man now striding about.
Edward had seen his share of handsome men, but something about this one stood out. It was the way he moved, Edward realized after another moment of study. Like a dancer, every gesture was not just graceful but expansive, as though he told a tale with his body as well as his words.
The lights brought forth shades of gold in the man’s honey brown hair, and gilded the planes of a handsome face. His tuxedo, with its white tie and tails, was a bit out of date but scrupulously cared for, and had a pale green carnation pinned to the lapel. Edward’s throat went dry at the sight.
The meaning behind the choice of flower would pass most of the audience by— or so Edward devoutly hoped— but he recognized it from his days at university, in the company of other men whose inclinations matched his own.
As though feeling Edward’s eyes on him, the man glanced out into the house. Their gazes met, and the man’s thin lips quirked into a smile.
Heat rising in his face as well as his groin, Edward jerked his gaze away. His eyes lighted on a small table occupying center stage. A wooden angel— an ornament of some kind?— sat on it, and for a mad moment Edward was certain she smiled at him too.
A diminutive woman, wearing a coat over what was sure to be a scandalously tight costume, strolled across the stage unrolling a wire so thin it was barely visible even with the house lights up. When she reached the wings, she frowned. “Christopher, I need a ladder to reach.”
Tobias hastened out of his seat. “Allow me— I’m taller, and I’ve helped set up the Rising Cards trick before.”
With a shock, Edward realized the man who’d so captured his attention must be none other than the magician, Christopher Fiend. The posters hadn’t done him justice.
Tobias tacked up the wire, paused to admire the wooden angel and table Fiend was busy with, and returned. He jostled Edward slightly when he squeezed past to take his seat. “Sorry. Now, were you going to nag me further about the theater’s finances?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Tobias wasn’t going to listen, anyway. “I should be going.”
Edward rose to his feet and picked up his hat from where he’d placed it on the seat beside him. “Do you truly have to leave so soon?” Tobias asked. “At least say you’ll return for opening night. It’ll do you good to get out.”
“I have matters to attend to,” Edward said, though his mind remained blank when he tried to come up with any. Christmas generally wasn’t a busy time for accountants; most of his clients were farmers who had long since finished with the harvest.
“Please,” Tobias said, more softly this time. “If you’re right, if it is too late, this could be one of the last performances given here. The final opening night. Come for old time’s sake, if nothing else.”
Though Edward had left the theater behind the instant he could, he knew its loss would devastate his little brother. “Very well.”
He started to turn toward the exit, when a clear, ringing voice called, “Sir? I believe you have something of mine.”
Startled, Edward looked at the stage and found Fiend watching him, a small smile on his lips. Fiend’s eyes were a warm gray, and when he extended his hand, his entire body bowed gracefully toward Edward.
Heat flushed through Edward. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” he managed to choke out through the sudden tightness in his throat.
That enchanting smile remained fixed on him. “Check your hat.”
Startled, Edward glanced down and saw a single playing card neatly tucked into the band.
How on earth had the devil done it? Edward had been painfully aware of Fiend’s location every moment since he’d come on stage, and knew he hadn’t drawn anywhere near the house seats.
Well, if Fiend expected him to react like an awed country bumpkin, he was doomed to disappointment. Keeping his expression stony, Edward started for the stage, card held at arm’s length. Before he took more than two steps, however, Fiend withdrew his hand and straightened. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really need it until tonight’s performance. Though if you’d be so kind as to return it at intermission, I’d be grateful.”
And with that, Fiend turned away and began to issue orders to his assistant. Thoroughly nonplussed, Edward made his way out of the theater, the card still clutched in his hand.
He didn’t think to look more closely at it until he reached the street. Uncurling his fingers, he beheld the King of Hearts.
That evening, and against his better judgement, Edward took his place in the box seat reserved for the family. Not that there was anyone left save for himself and Tobias. At one time, his father had watched every performance from this lofty view, while his mother performed below. Edward could dimly remember how proud he’d felt when he’d been judged old enough to sit here.
He shook his head in annoyance. There was no sense in reliving old memories. These days, with funds tight, Tobias worked as a stagehand as well as a manager, on the theory it was one less employee to pay. Given the fine layer of dust on the chairs, it had been some time since he’d had the luxury of simply enjoying a show.
A few of the other boxes had occupants, though not all of them by any means. The mayor and his wife sat across from Edward, and the owner of the grain mill occupied an adjacent box. The seats below, however, had more people in them than Edward had expected. Indeed, more and more crowded inside, until nearly every row was filled.
Perhaps the approaching holiday had brought some of the outlying families into town to shop, and they’d remained to see the show. Or perhaps Tobias had been right, and a varied, indeed modern, program was what his customers wanted.
If the next two nights, combined with the two matinees, could pack the house as full as tonight, Tobias might indeed put off closing the Chateau’s doors, at least for a few months.
While the patrons found their seats, an acrobat flipped and tumbled on the stage. His dark skin contrasted with his bright costume and props, and Edward found himself admiring the fellow’s skill as well as the lean muscles displayed by his rather form-fitting attire. According to the superlative-laden bill, he was “Peter Freeman, the greatest solo acrobat on either side of the Mississippi.”
The house lights went down as the last few attendees found their seats. A hush fell over the theater as Freeman was replaced by “The Singing Sisters, Betty and Barbara Goldstein, whose lively performance will lift the heart of even the most downcast.” The two women, outfitted in identical dresses, performed a roster of popular tunes, including “Down by the Old Mill Stream.”
They in turn gave way to “Dennis Jefferson and Gerald Morton, presenting the sketch ‘Morning Coffee.’ Continuous laughter!” As the comedians took the stage, Edward realized that intermission followed the sketch.
Nervousness let loose butterflies in his belly, while anticipation whispered in his blood. Did he truly intend to seek out Fiend during intermission to return the playing card?
Not that it was really about returning a card. Fiend’s invitation had been clear enough.
Edward took a deep breath and tried to focus on the act, but couldn’t prevent his mind from returning to Fiend. Surely Edward wasn’t really going to slip backstage, find the man’s dressing room, and suck his prick. It wasn’t the sort of thing Edward did. Yes, he’d had his share of furtive encounters at university, but they’d all been with sensible, sober men like himself. Not a theater person, for God’s sake.
Still, Fiend was damnably handsome. Not to mention, he’d leave town in a day or two. Edward would never see him again after tonight, which would alleviate any future awkwardness.
The comedy sketch ended and the house lights came up for intermission. Edward pulled the card from his pocket and held it in hands that had suddenly grown slick with sweat. The King of Hearts smirked up at him.
To go, or to stay in the box?
It had been so long since anyone had touched him.
Edward stood up. Not letting himself think too hard about where he was going, he swung open the door, and found Fiend lounging against the wall outside.
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