The end of this show, to the magician of the Clinton Street Theatre, was not unlike every other week: boisterous cheers from people that had never seen him before, about half the crowd standing as they applauded, and a few of the regulars shouting predictable praise as he waved and walked down the side aisle of the theatre to bid them farewell.
He pulled at the lapel microphone clip on his collar and began to feed the wire to the battery pack when he got to the set of doors Irene stood by, though notably much less pissed off than when he arrived late and she put the microphone on him.
“Good recovery,” the owner of the theatre said to him as he passed off the lavaliere. “What made you late this time?”
Antony shrugged as he adjusted his shirt over the waistband of his pants. “Double-booked.” Before she could say anything in response, Antony smiled and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for not lecturing me about it, Irene. I appreciate your understanding.” If Irene wasn’t one of the very few people here that knew him and his tendencies, maybe she wouldn’t have glared at him as he walked down the hallway, away from the exiting crowd. It wasn’t as if he lied—but, true, for someone who was just a local magician and held the same slot of time every week, he was late quite a lot. Maybe he wouldn’t have been if anyone from home knew he was here.
The very first old, worn door in this corridor bore an unremarkable name plate with his name, Antony Devrue, held on with double-sided tape. A perfect, little dressing room right beside the janitor’s closet. He didn’t need to take out a key to unlock it; at his will, right when his hand wrapped around the brass knob, the lock unlatched and he could walk inside.
Just like he didn’t need a key to unlock the door, he didn’t need to reach to the light switch to flick it up and simply imagined for it to happen in able for it to manifest. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling began to sputter to life, haloed by a water stain from an old roof leak.
Maybe if it was meant to be a dressing room, this room would have been made bigger—with linoleum floors rather than the same carpets from the renovation in the 90s that hadn’t been cleaned since. No windows, no other doors—a prop storage room. Thankfully, there weren’t exactly very many traditional plays held at this theatre, so the storage was mostly unnecessary, granting him this little slice of heaven. But maybe if this room was what it was meant to be, it wouldn’t have held the same charm it did for Antony now: A person not what he was meant to be in a room that was not what it was meant to be.
The black leather love seat groaned when he let himself fall into it, the air sighing out of the cushions in unison with him as he leaned back. Directly across by a few feet stood an old vanity, just a desk with drawers and a regular half-mirror leaning against the wall. Dusty, hardly used except for the drawers that held various useful things for everyday life from a bottle opener to trash bag liners—with the more useful yet unique things he needed locked in the top right drawer. He never really used the mirror on top of the chest of drawers, though. He preferred the spotless antique standing mirror against the back wall, a mirror with more capabilities than just reflecting light. It stood right between the metal clothes rack he filled with outfits he deemed appropriate for the stage and the only decoration in here: an original poster of the Magnificent Michael, left here from that very same man. The only piece of sentimentality Antony let stay here, just in case.
He didn’t look to his reflection from either mirror as he rested, just leaned his head against the back of the couch and let the adrenaline of the night begin to dissipate with every slow, methodical breath.
He probably should have been thinking about why he was late tonight—why he even hesitated to go home right now in the first place and lie to his roommate about where he’s been even though it was the same every week. Or maybe he should have been thinking about the wonderful news Victor passed along before Antony managed to peel himself away to get here. Honestly, he should have been able to easily think about how his best friend achieved such a great step in his career so young and about what sort of celebration he was expected to throw, but in this moment, on a couch he grabbed seconds before someone tried to chuck it into a dumpster, Antony’s mind settled on simple comforts.
The ritual of laying back on this couch after every Friday show, these quiet moments, were precious. No purposeful thoughts, just letting the immediate memories of the night pass by. Listening to the buzz of the light bulb that reminded him of the applause of the crowd he stood before, letting the sweat he accrued from bouncing around the stage dry. This ritual was what the great philosophers of old described in their teachings of higher enlightenment. No one around to expect anything of him, no audience large or small to perform for one way or another. No one from home knew of this place or how to get here, and no one from here could get through his dressing room door without a significant amount of noise or a key. The only place that was only for him.
Interruptions for this ritual were usually reserved for when Irene finished counting out the cash and handed him his cut for the night. And yet now there was a knock at the door, soft and not in Irene’s usual pattern. A quick glance at the clock on the vanity confirmed that it had only been a couple minutes, and Irene was probably still shooing people out of the theatre space.
There wasn’t anything planned for tonight—or any Friday night, for that matter. For him, it was a few hours of post-show rest before returning home and gearing up for real life work at Gemma Imperii. Curiosity granted Antony a small boost of energy, enough for him to close the distance to the door and open it.
Even before he finished swinging the door open, a smile spread across his face.
The volunteer from earlier was taller than he thought she would be, maybe just a dozen centimeters shorter than him. She stood with her shoulders forward and her oversized purse dangling delicately from both of her hands, shrinking herself with a small, sweet expression.
“Hi,” she said. Standing amongst blinding spotlights in front of the comfort of a crowd had him with inflated confidence. Now that he was by himself and unguarded, Antony’s voice stuck in his throat. He was caught between the amber and gold hues in her eyes, in watching the way her expression evolved from a manufactured meekness to a suppressed smirk. He didn’t have the script for whatever performance she just put on, but he must have played his role perfectly if she was that pleased to watch him hesitate.
“Hi,” he finally managed to spit out. Logically, he knew she was being purposeful, that she swept her hair to one side to show her neck, tilted her head to be more flirty and draw attention to a delicate, gold chain partially hidden underneath her soft sweater. But knowing she was standing like that on purpose didn’t make her smile less charming or his heartbeat slow down.
“Can I come in?” Maybe if he was as smart as her, he would have known better than to open the door a bit more and gesture for her to step inside. “Thanks.” When she stepped forward, he became acutely aware that while she held a gentle and light scent of some sort of melon combination, his dressing room smelled like moth balls and sweat, and he was probably no exception. Helpful as ever, this revelation just made him sweat more.
When Antony shut the door, the woman turned around and outstretched her hand to shake his. She didn’t seem to notice the smell, at least. “Proper introduction: I’m Cadence Conway.” When he took her hand, warm and soft with a steady grip, she continued, “I was hoping that since I was such a good helper earlier, you’d help me?”
He couldn’t even open his mouth to answer; the brunette reached into the large, gray purse and began to fish for something without looking, and instead examined her surroundings with that same sharpness she displayed when she tried to figure out his illusion. In just a couple steps, she sank into the very spot on the couch he just rose from, set her purse on the floor, and pulled out the notebook from before.
The light overhead flickered, as if to announce the budget of the theatre and whatever other shortcomings this room offered at first glance. But now Antony had a moment to catch up. Sensible sweater, business casual slacks, conservative leather boot heels—he should have figured this out earlier. Who took notes at a fifteen dollar magic show? No one as put-together and pretty as her would willingly step into a dingy room with a stranger. No one that wasn’t getting paid to do it, anyway. Damn reporters….
“Mind answering a couple questions?” she finished finally with the gentlest voice. The groan had already been building—and even though he knew it was rude and was completely uncalled for, it escaped his grimace.
“Oooh,” he started, wincing. “Uh, that’s, um, this is not the—that’s not the kind of attention I really am looking—”
“Oh, just a couple?” Cadence asked, maintaining eye contact. She looked so solid and still on the couch, like moving a mountain would be physically easier than convincing her to leave. “It’ll be quick and painless, I promise.” Pft. Sure. She had to say that before, certainly.
Antony shook his head in what he hoped looked far more confident than he felt. “Yeah, no, sorry, I don’t do that kind of thing….”
“What’s the harm?” Another casual, flirty tilt of her head. She didn’t understand, and no answer he could give would make her understand. Again, Antony shook his head.
“No, I—I just don’t—”
“I mean,” she interrupted with a cocked brow, “just because I ask you the questions, doesn’t mean you have to answer them.” That took him by delightful surprise.
Antony hesitated. Against his better judgment, he asked, “Sorry, where did you say you worked again?”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Posted in Portland.”
“The alien conspiracy theory thing—?”
“We’ve got a wide array of topics we cover requested by various audiences.” Another rehearsed answer, though this one had a bit of a bitter twinge to it. Her smile remained. “I just wanted to…you know, ask a couple questions, get to know you—or your show—a little better.” That stumble felt just as rehearsed.
Antony recovered from his uncertainty and regarded her with crossed arms. The other failed attempts to get him to interview never got past the doorway, never tried to manipulate their way to answers by flirting with him. Honestly, some of them didn’t even look like they really cared for his answers and left almost before he could fully reject them. The others leaned into bribery for paper money he had no use for or threats of public scandal that wouldn’t affect him. Cadence came prepared, researched—as researched as she could have been for someone like him, anyway. Clearly she didn’t just gather information from the other papers and magazines in the city, and she didn’t just take notes on how he could perform his magic earlier. Throughout his performance, she studied him, his reactions and responses and wrote her own guidebook in less than an hour.
The exhilaration lit a fire in his stomach, made his blood pump faster. He had to wonder if she predicted how thrilling he’d find this, if her little analysis from the front row predicted this very moment when he tried so hard not to react, yet ultimately walked face-first into what she hoped for.
Just as an hour ago, Antony stood and she sat. Only this time, even though they were in his dressing room after his show, it was completely clear to him that they were in her domain. No audience to react predictably and amplify a potential response, no amphitheater to reverberate the energy back. And just like she agreed to play along an hour ago, he opted to agree to Cadence’s game, and slowly made his way to his couch to sit down.
This was not a magic show made even more false by its performer, though. There was no safety net of double illusions or promises of fantasy no one believed. This was a one-on-one conversation with someone that he doubted he could truly lie to, when all he could safely do in this situation was lie.
As Antony lowered himself to his couch, he took unjustified comfort in the controlled way Cadence conducted herself. If she was as smart as she seemed, that in and of itself could act as a protection for him. The fear and excitement rose in his chest in sync, a question he should have never gotten close enough to wondering rose to mind: If she did see something unexplainable but true, what would she do with it? Would she do all the lying for him in denial, reinforce the world she thought she knew?
He watched her the entire time it took for him to sink into the cushion and rest an elbow on his knee, watched how the light in her eyes betrayed her smoothed expression. She wanted answers, fine…now, the only thing he could even bring himself to think about was wondering what she would do if she got them. If she could.
He’d already made a mistake. He stared at her too long, took too long to verbally answer. Her excitement of winning what she’d earned began to dip into curiosity right as Antony had come to terms with the disappointment he’d set himself up for. He rooted for her and her notebook. Even briefly entertaining the thought of Cadence uncovering anything at all felt close to euphoria. But at the same time, he’d do just about anything to prevent that from happening. And unfortunately for Cadence, he had a severe advantage when it came to manipulating someone’s perception and the world around them…and a unique, horrifying consequence if he failed.
But it was too late, now. Antony sighed, gathered himself, and began to shove away the intense influx of curiosity that just gathered.
“Fine,” he said, taking a moment to calm himself. “But I won’t even consider answering a question you don’t answer, yourself.” He’d finally managed to catch her by surprise.
With a raised brow, Cadence asked, “Are you this much of a pain in the ass to everyone, or am I just a special case?”
He laughed.
“I wouldn’t call you ordinary.”
That earned him a legitimate snort: an unfiltered, accidental, pig-like snort. He hardly had time to be surprised before Cadence cleared her throat and looked away. She didn’t even see how skillfully he suppressed the look of absolute delight from seeing a pretty face make such an ugly sound.
“Um—right, start off easy,” she said as she grabbed for the pen she’d squished in the spine of her notebook. “You, uh, started getting involved in magic shows in Portland almost nine years ago.” As she began to twist back to face him, her eyes definitely hesitated on the poster beside the standing mirror. “Was magic a part of your life before then, or did you discover it here?”
The question sobered the excitement from before. This was an easy question. Question number one, and his throat felt like closing up. Too late to turn back now.
“I, uh….” Question number one, and he already found himself staring at the ugly carpet. “I guess you could say I’ve been around it since birth?” Safe enough. And when he looked back at her, Cadence’s expression looked about what he expected: flat, irritated.
“It’s going to be like that?” was her response.
“Is that a question?” She rolled her eyes at him, didn’t even bother to write anything down. It was getting difficult to feel the thrill he convinced himself he was going to feel earlier. The urge to reach forward and grab that intangible fire kindled in his stomach.
“Fine,” she said tersely. “I don’t do magic, never did, never—”
“Wait,” Antony blurted, holding up a hand. He hesitated, struggling to find the words he wanted as he gestured to the notebook in her lap. “I-it’d be writing for you, right? If this—” He shrugged to indicate the dingy room they sat in, “is my vocation, yours is…writing? Right? Or….” In waiting for her response, he was rewarded with seeing something click for her, like the world un-paused and resumed color in just that moment to offer that tiny flame a whisp of air to feed on.
“Hm.” She nodded as the irritation melted away from the lines in her face. “Yeah. And I suppose the answer’s the same for me.” And the feeling of narrowly dodging a land mine must have felt the same as this did for Antony. Not only in seeming like he was being more cooperative for her questions, but in the way she let her eyes rest not far away, digesting the implications. Vocation was a strong word for something he couldn’t even truly define, but it satisfied her enough.
Her gaze was more focused when she looked back to him. “Why magic at all, then?”
“Performing,” he softly corrected, “feels….” Part of him wished she wasn’t looking at him, so he could shrink back into the couch and mumble out his answers. But her genuine attention was hypnotic, like she brought what he meant to say to the top like heat waves lifting ash over burning coals. “It’s another—another way of being me. Makes me feel whole.” And even though he could tell by her smile that she knew what he meant, she remained silent, urging him to elaborate.
Antony had to look away to try and formulate the thoughts together. Performing magic shows here was his vocation, was what made him feel whole. Different from when he performed at the Gemma Imperii—if it could even be called that. Antony Devrue, host of the Gemma Imperii, might have told more physical truths about his life lived; but Antony Devrue, magician at the Clinton Street Theatre, felt like the kind of person he was supposed to be.
“I get to…pretend with people,” he said eventually. “It’s like, I propose an impossible thing, and for a moment we share a world where we live in that amazement together, separate of everything else, all the other…noise. And then I get to do it again with someone else. If…that makes sense.” It wasn’t until a sharp pain shot up from his finger that Antony realized he’d been picking at his cuticles, that he’d pulled a piece of loose skin and nearly created a cut right by his nail. Thankfully, no blood. That would have caused some…interesting complications.
Cadence wasn’t writing anything down, or even examining him like a hawk at that moment. She smiled softly to herself as if remembering a joke.
“You’re telling a story,” she said, “a new one every trick.” They locked eyes again. “A new story for every person, connecting with them—truly connecting with them—in your own language that’s made only you two to understand.” Antony didn’t even need to nod. He couldn’t have, even if he could feel his limbs.
He would have felt less exposed stark naked in front of an audience than sitting on his own couch, in his own private haven right now. In this place that was just for him, hearing words describe a feeling he could never explain before. And she said it so easily, so naturally, like she read the definition from a dictionary. Every other time he tried to describe performing for an audience as intimate, he failed so spectacularly that it only left him feeling alone. The intensity of finally getting even just a hint of validation was almost too much.
Cadence allowed him several long moments to marinate in what she’d said, how she said it. She described and exemplified it so succinctly, so effortlessly. And in the simplest explanation, she shrugged and added, “Like with writing. I like writing while I think about what the audience brings to it, too. Like we’re writing it together. A story is never the same twice, never finished without its reader or listener.” She paused just a moment. “In the same way I’m guessing no trick is ever the same twice, and has to, you know, have an audience.” He watched her carefully form her words and the gentle way she breathed each sound; the buzzing from the ceiling light could have easily drowned her out, if he didn’t stare so intently, watch for any twitch of movement.
She offered him silence, space. Not only did she completely understand what he chased, but somehow she knew the impact she just had in just a few words. An oasis in a desert, even. Not everyone was as starved for this feeling as he was, but she at least recognized it in him.
In that same moment he reveled in the fullness in his chest, the charged energy rushing through his veins, did everything douse itself in cold water. This wasn’t something he could let himself feel here. He couldn’t be an open book and bare his soul for her to read, no matter how naturally she did it. No matter how incredible it felt to be truly seen.
Now the ceiling light buzzed again. Now he could feel the stale air on his skin, feel the rumble of a distant vacuum against the theatre floor. In reluctantly reappearing back to reality, he almost missed her question.
“…family connected to magic like this? Siblings, Mom, Dad?”
Antony forced himself to look back at the carpet. This tiny and windowless room, this lighting felt so stifling now. Suffocating him.
“I-I’m an only child.” His own voice sounded miles way. “And my mom doesn’t—doesn’t see it the same way.” The seams of his linen pants scratched his skin. The couch cushion may as well have been a concrete bench.
“Your dad?”
Antony dug a fingernail into the fresh cut he gave himself moments ago, just to force himself to remain in the present rather than slip into whatever bubble that so easily formed around them.
“That would be another question.” From the corner of his eye, he watched Cadence straighten in her seat, fiddle with her unused pen.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Um, I’m the only one in my family that likes fantasy. The closest my older brother gets to stories is in his photography and how he likes to play with colors in the natural world. And the twins, well…. The closest they get to writing is when they lie, which is stupidly often, but they’re still in school. They’ve got time to figure things out.” Antony nodded to show he was listening, but didn’t look up.
He needed to get her out of here without pushing her out, himself, or she’d just come back more curious, more convincing, with this alluring feeling that he wanted nothing more than to fall into: Whole. Connected and belonging, like he had a reason to be here, in a place that rejuvenated him; rather than fed on him like a parasite, like home. Now he had a word for it, a goal to aim for—and he shouldn’t.
The reality was that he was not supposed to be here, and playing with that falsehood was a roulette wheel Antony spun every time he walked on this ugly carpet. Everything he studied as a child showed him horrifying proof that trying to be only subjected his ancestors to brutal, bloody torture and near eradication.
He could not let one beautiful moment destroy everything else.
Cadence started to formulate another question, but he’d already made up his mind by then. It was time to smother the flame. The best defense he had was to…well, be offensive.
“What is this?” he asked before she could even finish speaking. If he squinted hard enough, this yellow light could be a spotlight. The sputtering vacuum across the theatre could be a murmuring audience. This could be an illusion he manufactured and controlled, if he wanted it to be.
“Excuse me?” Cadence seemed to take just as long as he did to return to the real world. He turned to look at her, but avoided her eyes.
“This.” He gestured between them. “Showing up to my dressing room at, what, eight thirty at night? To ‘get to know’ me better?” Antony dug deep into his stomach to manage a light laugh. “What, is asking me out too bold for you?”
Cadence’s face fell to a frown in a way that almost made him forget what her smile looked like. He achieved what he wanted, that tiny hint of disgust, the annoyance she showed during the performance at his exaggerated gestures.
Whatever story they wrote in a language only they understood now floated down a murky river and started to disintegrate.
But Cadence….
“So it’s that bad, huh?” she asked.
“What?”
“Whatever you don’t want me to figure out.”
His heart jumped to his throat. “I’m—I’m not doing anything.” No part of what he said was convincing; he knew she didn’t believe him, either. But maybe she understood him enough, brief as it was, that whatever shared story they wrote ended now.
“I should probably go,” she interrupted. But she didn’t move, just stared at him, watching—and undoubtedly seeing the relief he tried so hard to bury. Mercifully, Cadence dropped her notebook in her purse and rose to her feet. Antony couldn’t even gather the energy to stand with her.
Her footsteps were heavy as she made her way to the door. She stopped when she’d opened it, turned back to him. He could only stare at her shoes.
“You don’t have to help me,” she said. “I’m going to figure it out myself.”
He knew his grimace wasn’t convincing when he said, “Not hiding anything.” Her genuine laugh was too infectious; he looked up at her, let her stare into him one last time.
“Have a good night, Antony.”
“You too, Cadence.” But neither of them could fake a smile anymore, and she shut the door, leaving him feeling more alone than he ever had.