Jaclyn Dolamore - Magic Under Glass

MAGIC
UNDER
GLASS

Table of Contents

The audience didnt understand a word we sang. They came to see our legs. As the posters said,

T ROUSER G IRLS
FROM THE
E XOTIC L AND OF T ASSIM!

We were billed just under the acrobats and the trained dogs.

Our voices joined in harmony while Saraki plucked the tei-tan and I pranced around the stage, my slippers whispering on the wooden floor. My hands curved and wove and paused, each gesture as familiar to me as the words Id heard my mother sing while I was still in the cradle. Id done six shows a week in this dank music hall since Id stepped off the ship that carried me away from home three years ago.

Even before I finished the last plaintive note, a few men began to whistle, and one shouted something I chose to ignore. Boys on the balcony shelled chestnuts, occasionally tossing one onto the people below. Clusters of boardinghouse girls in tatty straw hats giggled.

Through it all, my gaze was drawn to a tall hat in the crowd and the pair of dark eyes beneath it. A gentleman.

He stood in the back, his face still turned halfway to the door, like he had just slipped in for a glimpse and wouldnt stay long. Among all the dim faces that watched me, I kept my focus on him alone.

Saraki let the applause wane and then began to shake her pick across the tei-tan s strings, bringing forth a tense melody.

The program held no surprises. The Dragon Maidens Revenge had followed Gathering Flowers for My Sisters Wedding in every show wed done this year. Still, I hoped I looked very noble as I pantomimed taking up the sword of the fallen king of dragons. Was the gentleman in the back my gentlemanwatching?

Yes. Looking right at me, in fact.

Fifteen years ago a railroad baron had married the most famous of trouser girls, Little Sadi, back when our song and dance had been the fashion, before they even called us trouser girls. Saraki dreamed of following in her footsteps, charming some rich man into whisking her away. I scoffed when she spoke of it, but late at night I dreamed of things I scoffed at by the light of day.

When I finished my song, my gentleman lingered. The raucous crowd around him whooped, but he kept still, his eyes roving over our crude set: a painted village house on a piece of wood shorter than Saraki, and some dried flowers in mismatched vases.

Our last number, The Fairest Blossom in a Maidens Heart, had been my mothers signature song. She had performed it at the kings coronation, as a new bride of seventeen, just my age now. The song was an ode to a lover who had died, never to be forgotten. I could never help but remember Mother, her haunting voice pitched high, her delicate gestures transforming her into the very embodiment of sorrow. Her performance had always left the audience in tears, but this audience was far from the one she had known, both in temperament and location. If her spirit still watched over me, I knew it must be ashamed.

As I took my bow, with Sarakis hand in mine, I sought one last glimpse of my gentleman, but he had gone.

We left the stage as Granden, master of ceremonies and owner of the troupe, announced the next act, The Beautiful Eila and her Trained Dogs. Sometimes I stayed to watch, but tonight I was tired and wanted out of my costume. Saraki lingered in the wings, begging a cigarette off of Granden.

Terrible habit for a lady, he said, giving her a smoke and a sly wink.

I retreated to the dressing room, where a dim lamp illuminated chairs strewn with costumes and floorboards warping beneath the leaking roof. Polly was tugging suspenders over her slender shoulders. I yanked pins from my hair and pulled down my pompadour. My hair tumbled down my back, glossy black and shining in the low light.

Hows the crowd tonight? Polly asked.

Standard. There was a gentleman in a top hat, but he left already.

Must have been Jon Albrook himself, if you found him worth noting, Polly said, bringing up one of the most eligible young bachelors in all of Lorinar, or so the papers claimed.

I made a face. Hardly. I dont care for Jon Albrook, with those huge eyebrows.

No ones ever good enough for you. Polly laughed.

Just because I dont flirt with stagehands! But this gentleman was handsome, Ill give him that, and hes got money, by the looks of him. Hed be worth a second glance.

Someone knocked on the door. Polly went to open it. I knew it wasnt Granden. He never knocked; hed just shout at us to open up.

Polly flung the door open wide. Is this your handsome gentleman, Nim?

Heat prickled my cheeks as my handsome gentleman saw me gaping like a fool, my hair undone and sash spilled around my feet, and a girl in suspenders giving me a tactless introduction, at that! I shot a venomous look at Polly.

He took off his hatI hoped he meant to be polite, but then I realized it wouldnt have passed through the doorway. I beg pardon, he said, his accent as crisp as his appearance. Now I could see the whole of him, the travelers cape, the silk necktie, the dove-gray spats, and most striking of all, the pointed cuffs of his jacket that marked him as not just a gentleman, but a sorcerer. His smooth cheeks and forehead suggested a younger man than I had first assumed, no more than twentybut his eyes seemed as old as the onyx they resembled, and all the more striking for the pale face that framed them.

I quickly gathered my wits. What is it you want, sir?

May I speak with you a moment?

Of course. I snatched up a few of the pins I had dropped, twisting my hair into a loose bun.

Its a simple matter, really, he continued, stepping into the room. Polly lingered by the door, obviously torn between curiosity and manners. Im looking for a singer.

What sort of singer? I mustnt trust him just because he was handsome. I knew how the men of Lorinar thought, what they wanted. To him, I was dark and foreign and crude.

His eyelids lowered slightly, and I felt he was carefully appraising me. Im looking for someone to accompany a musical automaton.