Cadence leaned against the wall in the main hall of the Clinton Street Theatre, watching the various local actors of Portland shuffle off the main stage with a palpable tinge of excitement in the air. Their rehearsal went well, she assumed, based on the laughter and the playful pushing. It did run late, as she understood rehearsals did sometimes, but it made her feet hurt to stand like this after an entire day of editing other people’s work in a skirt and ankle boots.

No actionable story from her meant being a backup assistant for every other writer that already had their story in full swing. Extra research there, rewrite this paragraph here, fact-check this skeezy politician’s calendar—the tedious details that weren’t very fun when you had no say in the story in the first place.

But Alec let her leave a couple hours early for her to research her own story, at least. A plus for that. So now that her official work day was over, Portland wore clouds like a coat and offered a mid-afternoon drizzle. Cadence stood for far too long in a hallway with no central heating, waiting for people to stop rehearsing something they knew by heart before they even auditioned. As the small crowd made their way through the hall covered in sweat, she shivered at the breeze they let in from opening the main doors. Cadence contemplated taking her jacket out from hanging through her purse handles, but ultimately left it there in favor of watching for her target exiting the stage.

A few actors waved, some just nodded as they passed by. Unhelpful interviews she lied and said were better than how they actually turned out. Maybe in general, the regular actors would come together and realize that there were several questions they couldn’t answer about the mysterious magician, especially consistently, even though they had been working with Antony for years. Some of them, the better part of a decade. And yet, no information Cadence hadn’t already gleaned. Was it weird she couldn’t just accept the lackluster answers when everyone else could?

Well, not completely lackluster, just no useful information about where this guy came from or what his deal was. He liked to swim in Lake Oswego with the people that played Brad and Janet in the Rocky Horror Picture Show cast in the summer. He liked to treat the Repo! Cast to Dairy Queen Blizzards when there was a new cast member introduced. And yet none of these people could say where he moved here from, or even if he traveled anywhere else, or what he did when he wasn’t here. His entire world was limited to this theatre, the people in it, and the shops surrounding that he frequented.

The woman Cadence anticipated coming out of rehearsal, Cece Angeles, was one of the last in the line of people she thought to talk to. Blonde, tall, perfect skinny frame. She was adorable and exactly what Cadence expected to find when trying to dig into Antony’s dating history. According to the actor who played Meatloaf, they had a fling just a couple weeks ago that ended as fast as it started. Jilted lovers were a goldmine of information…though nothing indicated very much jilt about Cece. Could have been a false lead. At the very least, attempting to get this interview got her out of the Oxford Comma debate Rupert started before she left.

As Cece Angeles approached the door to exit the theatre space, Cadence broke away from the wall and shoved her hand through her purse handles, under her jacket, to grab her notebook. It got stuck in the small opening, no matter how much she jostled it. She took her eyes off of Cece for just a second to try and maneuver everything around—why did she have so much crap in here? She didn’t even like that flavor of Cliff Bar or need all these receipts.

By the time she got her notebook free, the crowd, and Cece, already funneled through the front doors of the theatre to take shelter from the light drizzle under the marquee, taking much of their noise and excitement with them. Now, Cadence could clearly hear the owner of the theatre not too far away in her office.

“Great…to…meet…you!” she dictated loudly and carefully. Cadence craned her neck to try and see what the fuss was about. Almost immediately, Cadence dropped the notebook she’d just grabbed back in her purse and started her way down the hall. Cece could wait. Antony Devrue had a guest.

Irene enthusiastically grasped the hand of a man a little taller and broader than Antony, with black hair buzzed to his scalp and a long, crimson shirt with a Mandarin collar. He seemed partially overwhelmed, blinking too much, clearly uncomfortable.

Antony feigned confidence as he spoke goodbyes to Irene. This was the kind of moment she’d been waiting a week for. A time when she could see how he might interact with someone else as he doffed that very purposeful performance.

In the few moments after the theatre owner backed away to shut her office door, Cadence watched the two men exchange glances. The guest grit his teeth so hard he almost sneered; something in the way he held his brows to a close furrow gave an impression that something brewed behind his eyes, some set of distasteful connections joining together. In response, Antony’s Adam’s apple bobbed like he waited for the results of an important test, not too dissimilar to the face he made last week before all but shoving Cadence out the door. An invisible string pulled him at attention as he crossed his arms over his chest, defensive. Like if he added his arm muscles to the fibers of his tee that he’d have a shield thick enough to hide from whatever thoughts his guest held behind a grimace.

Interesting. To spare him the nerves of awaiting his friend’s judgment alone, Cadence cleared her throat.

“Good to see you again, Devrue. Care to introduce me to your friend, here?”

Antony did what she expected: he acted like he wasn’t surprised, turned his tightly wound nerves into an unnecessary laugh. But his friend watched him, too. It was the stranger’s look of slight discomfort to intrigue that brought a smile to Cadence’s lips. This was someone unfamiliar with Antony’s mask. Perfect.

Antony patted his friend on the shoulder, turning them both to face Cadence as he gestured. The words that flew out of his mouth were not an introduction, though. In fact, they were so fast and fluid, and not-English, that it was difficult to figure out what he could have possibly been saying. His friend didn’t even turn to look, just nodded.

“Cadence Conway,” Antony said with a smile that didn’t seem to fit on his face. “Meet Victor Livis.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Victor,” Cadence said carefully as she offered a hand. Antony went to speak, but his friend interrupted him.

“Hello. My listening in English is good.” His words were deliberate, with every letter pronounced not unlike how Antony spoke when he was out of breath. “My talking in English is very slow. I don’t speak it often.” Cadence couldn’t hide her joy. Finally, the vague semblance of an origin.

“Perfectly good English!” she reassured with a firm shake of his hand. Victor seemed pleased by the feedback; it was difficult to tell which part of this exchange made Antony look like he was attempting to hold back vomit. He stepped forward with his hand still on his friend’s shoulder, pushing him back a bit and out of her handshake, separating them. Something in the way he leaned back against his friend left Cadence with an odd feeling, but she couldn’t quite place why. It almost looked like a protective motion. Were her questions that much of a threat? Or was it his friend's judgment from before that Antony tried to push away?

“Thanks, but we’ve unfortunately got to—”

“Leaving so soon?” Cadence interrupted. Her smile felt like it weighed a ton, but she kept it in place as she faced him. “I was hoping to have a chat with Victor.” Now she looked up to him, and in a slower and more even tone, began to ask, “Did you just move here, or are you visiting? Are you from the same place as Antony?” He said his English understanding was good, but she didn’t want to risk any miscommunication by getting too excited and talking too fast.

Tenacious as before, Antony shook his head. “Sorry, we—I was just about to, um, show Victor—”

“She should join us,” answered Victor. There were no wrinkles by his eyes indicating that his smile was genuine. It was perhaps the only time Cadence thought to maybe listen to Antony’s dismissal, but she ignored the urge. “He is showing me a—it’s called a…torn…a tour. He is showing me a tour of this place. Come with us.” It became abundantly clear with the way that Victor shoved off his friend’s hand that she had stepped between some sort of disagreement, or at least reminded them of one from before. Nerves and judgment gave way to some sort of hidden aggression; now she acted as a sort of physical buffer between them. But despite the growing tension, the trio turned toward the narrow hallway that led to the dressing rooms: Cadence’s boots clicking against the wafer-thin carpet, Victor all but stomping along, and Antony silently trailing behind them.

“Tony said you are writing a story? About his, um….” Victor hesitated as he gestured to the walls around them. “Is that why you…meet…meeting?”

Cadence put her smile back on, offered what she hoped sounded like a charming laugh. “That’s how we met, yes, because of his show.” Her attempt to force a more polite aura to their walk went ignored; while Victor returned to trying to hide his irritation, it almost looked like she added to whatever distasteful conclusion he drew earlier when she interrupted them.

“Saw my show first,” mumbled Antony behind them.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Oh!” Victor sounded with a laugh as he pointed to the upcoming door. “Your name! I did not see this before!” They approached the very door he indicated, the infamous dressing room. “Very popular in this place, Port-land, then?” There seemed to be a right answer to this question as the two men stared at each other. An silent, secondary conversation only in expression passed between them; it was a little frustrating to not know what it was about. Antony started to shake his head.

When Victor’s expression didn’t lighten, Cadence thought to try to answer instead: “Oh, yes. Portland’s very own celebrity.” This must have been what he expected to hear. He nodded and reached for the door to push it open. Well, she knew what that room looked like. It didn’t give off the impression that someone was well received…. Quickly, Cadence added, “Yes, see—down the hall is everyone else’s dressing room, shared.” She gestured, but Victor didn’t look. “He gets his own.”

“His own,” echoed Victor. Something about his tone didn’t quite feel right, but he regarded the room thoughtfully, his hand touching the door frame as if it held some kind of secret. The man stepped in, giving Antony just enough time to stare at Cadence with an intensity that took her breath.

“Stop,” he whispered. They stood together in the doorway in that suspended moment, with Antony rigid and holding his arms over his chest like a shield once more. His eyes, for just a second, resembled thunderous and intimidating clouds. But she didn’t react, didn’t look away. She waited, as if waiting out an actual storm, and by the time he drew breath, he couldn’t seem to maintain this facade of someone in control. His insecurity broke through and the hiss of his word had even less bite.

Their attention was stolen by the flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling, flashing on and off over and over again as Victor flicked the switch on the wall.

“Vic.” Now Antony swapped to scolding his friend, who genuinely smiled as he flicked the light off and on one last time. Annoying, but not quite worth the tone Antony used. Whatever it was he wanted hidden now stood out in the open, waiting for someone to notice. Cadence frowned and followed Victor into the dressing room, her mind made up. The answer was here. She was going to figure it out.

“First visit here, Victor?” she decided to ask. The man approached the vanity against the wall, squinting at the dusty mirror as he nodded. He reached forward to the dust, swiping at it with a finger. “How long have you and Antony known each other?” Unimpressed by the mirror, as pretty as it probably was under the dust and rust, Victor moved on to the drawers.

“Known…um…decem…. Eighteen years,” was his answer as he pulled the first one open. While Cadence sat with the shock, Victor let out a loud laugh and pointed at what he found in the drawer, face full of amusement as he looked for his friend’s reaction. Cadence could only guess what he found if he started laughing like a twelve-year-old (especially given who she was originally going to interview), and opted to ignore it. Why was he digging around and touching everything like a child at a hotel for the first time?

“Eighteen years is a long time,” Cadence noted as Antony shoved past her to shut the drawer. “You must have missed him.”

“Missed?” Right as Victor asked, Antony started spouting something in a different language, fast and in a murmur. He definitely explained something, but it wasn’t a translation, and his words seemed unpolished and sloppy.

Eager to not have her question dodged, Cadence said, “Missed, as in wanted to see him but couldn’t, and feeling sad?”

Now Cadence could hear what Antony said a little better, the louder her got, desperate. Common root words amongst romance languages, from chrono and geo. It was fascinating to hear a language that felt so familiar, but that she couldn’t place. Some sort of Spanish dialect, maybe, if it had so much Latin influence?

“Novem annos!” Victor exploded. His hand slapped the top of the vanity so suddenly that Cadence jumped a step back. Her hand flew to her chest, gripping her butterfly necklace as if it could fly out and protect her. None of the energy was directed at her, but it certainly pushed her back. The adrenaline brought forth a vivid memory from her Introduction to Latin class from her first year of college. Victor had just repeated what Antony last said: nine years. Okay, that was strange.

Antony bolted away from his friend, to the door, to shut it as he cried out, “Simulare—!” in a hushed tone. Cadence couldn’t hide her confusion, but didn’t say anything. She was far from an expert, but it almost sounded like they were speaking Latin, like they stood there and recited parts from The Twelve Caesars like she once did. But she couldn’t even find a good question to ask—not one that would get a direct answer, anyway.

Victor’s loud laugh started high-pitched, forced, for a few seconds before he relaxed a bit into quiet chuckles. “I apologize,” Victor continued with his tight laugh not far behind. “Tony, um, is—he remind me of…something.”

Antony slowly made his way back to where he was standing before, his arms crossed so tightly that a vein protruded from one of his forearms. Somehow, Cadence now watched the two of them stare at one another, one trying to hide he was furious, and one far more practiced and successful at hiding whatever sea of emotions he held to himself. Practiced, but not perfect. Antony may as well have been sweating bullets, desperate to convince his friend to pretend—simulate—some sort of new set of instructions.

The silence that fell amongst them could have been interrupted by a pin dropping. Things didn’t add up. They interacted like brothers, like they spent a lot of time together. They knew each other for eighteen years, and yet Victor was more than shocked to learn Antony had been here for nine. If Victor hadn’t been here before, it meant that whatever time they had spent between when Antony moved and now, that Antony visited him. And yet Victor lived far enough away that English wasn’t used often. Quite a lengthy travel time in able to be back and prepared for a show every single Friday. Above all, why hold two such distinct lives at all? Why was this side of Antony’s life, public to everyone else, hidden away from someone clearly so important to him?

“Antony,” Cadence murmured quietly. Breaking the silence seemed to allow everyone to move. Victor’s almost-glare softened as he shook his head. He took her speaking as a sign that he could return to the vanity and open the second drawer on this side, as if this sudden slip-up gave him cart-Blanche to return to being a child. He wasn’t as gentle with this drawer, though. Cadence waited for Antony to look at her before she asked, “If I published this article, would that put you in harm’s way?” He seemed to successfully hide whatever reaction that would have otherwise granted her. “Are you in, like, Witness Protection or something?”

Victor actually snorted as he pulled out a tape measurer from the drawer he dug into. “Us? Witness-protecting?” Clatter, back into the drawer and onto snooping in the next one.

“Okay,” Cadence sounded, rolling her eyes, “so you’re just hiding from your past?” Again, Victor let out a sound of disapproval and shut the drawer, and started to move on down the room, to the poster of the Magnificent Michael. Antony only gave him a passing glance before shaking his head at Cadence.

“I’m not hiding from anything.” Another sound from Victor as he moved onto inspecting the standing antique mirror. Well, that made it clear that she and Victor had at least that much in common, Antony keeping massive secrets they longed to uncover. Before the foreign friend could get in trouble for poking and prodding probably the most expensive thing in this room, Cadence stole Antony’s attention again.

“So you’ll tell me why you’re speaking Latin, of all languages? What, were you raised in a monastery or something?” Even Victor twisted around to shoot her a weird look over Antony’s shoulder. But just as fast, he turned around and—wait, what was he doing? She couldn’t quite see over Antony’s shoulder.

“It’s not any of your business,” Antony spat, uncrossing his arms. Oh, now she hit a nerve. Cadence scoffed. He could have a fight with his friend, fine, but to suddenly turn on her as if she was the one yelling? After even trying to talk him up?

“You could have just declined to answer from the start, but instead you wanted to dance around half-answers and be a total dick, so if you’re not actively in danger by me publishing an article, I’m going to keep digging—”

“No, you’re not.” Antony sounded confident, like his word was law, but even Victor, as he began to walk back to the vanity from the mirror, gave his friend a look of skepticism.

Cadence shook her head. “Yes, I am—”

“No.” Antony drew in a breath, rolled his shoulders back in an attempt to make himself look bigger. “You won’t because you’re—uh—you’re—banned.”

“Banned?” As she echoed this, Victor returned to the door. Now sweat started to gather at her hairline. Was she about to literally be thrown out the dressing room? Her hand tightened around the handles of her purse as she tucked it further into the crook of her other elbow. There was enough random crap in here to do some solid damage, if they tried to touch her. Unless Irene the owner kicked her out, herself, there was no way in hell she was leaving. Not when she was this close to figuring something out.

“Yes.”

She stammered. “You can’t just—”

“Vic, what are you doing?” Cadence didn’t even have time to be confused. She watched Antony’s expression turn from anger to annoyance, to confusion up until he gasped.

But turning around to see what was the matter wasn’t an option now, because she was falling forward.

No. Not falling. She was pushed. Though it wasn't Victor's hands shoving her, it felt closer to a powerful gust of wind knocking her off-balance. Worse still when she face-planted right into Antony's chest, the force didn't let up. She didn’t bounce off like she should have for someone built that solidly. It was like gravity itself changed and it was easier to push him rather than fall back.

In trying to anticipate what would happen next, she imagined they would crash into the mirror—and yet, Cadence continued to propel toward Antony, and he continued to act as her unyielding cushion for this strange, sideways free-fall.

At first, the only passing thought that formed together in time was the impossible notion that she could feel the frame of the antique mirror scrape by on either side of her arms. The only sensation she could even comprehend beyond that got lumped together in a confusing, twisting, pulsating sea of vertigo. The only sense of control granted to her was the fact that she definitely directed where Antony fell—somewhere beyond—though no wind blew at them, no sounds of something whooshing past, nothing beyond the inkling of change that tied her stomach into knots.

She wanted to open her eyes and see what was happening, but they refused. Her body was stuck on a spinning carnival ride that went faster and faster, upside-down and in loops she would have never signed up for in person. Worse still was each and every heartbeat struggling to pump her blood, to keep up with the shifting pressure. Fluttering, slowing, skipping every few beats until she gave up trying to keep track of it at all. Walking through thigh-high ocean waves took less effort than just trying to get her knee to stop burying into Antony’s.

Nothing hinted to when this would stop, or that they were even physically moving in the first place, but Cadence still managed to white-knuckle Antony's shirt as if she could use it to steer back to where things felt less like the inside of a washing machine. In forcing her awareness to her fingers gripping the cotton, Cadence began to count.

One alligator, two alligator, three alligator, four....

Fifty-five alligators later, something finally changed. Light attempted to perforate her eyelids, wind finally caught up to resist the two of them falling through space, and her throat finally let out the the shout she'd tried to express in vain until now. The subtle eucalyptus scent that she'd been shoved into intensified, mixed with lemon and some sort of warm spice like she walked up to someone wiping down a kitchen after dinner. Gone was the well-loved book smell, the antique wood oil, the mustiness of well-trodden community theatre carpet.

Gravity returned to her feet, standing on top of Antony's, preventing him from catching his balance and toppling him backward. Still clutching his shirt, he went from being pushed by her, to being the only thing that separated her from the impossibly loud cacophony of something shattering and snapping. This sea of crashing ceramics and glass stifled their fall until it ended with Antony's out-of-breath, “oof!” and a heavy, final thud of his head smacking on the floor.