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Authors: Diane Wylie
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people
around them as they waited to hear more. The chatting women had
moved a little further away so they had to strain to hear them.
“How can someone defy time, Sophie? He has neither
the looks, nor the physique of a man in his fifties. In my opinion,
Stephen Elliott is no ordinary magician. I think he dabbles in
black magic, you know, sorcery. Perhaps he should be reported to
the authorities—”
Her voice faded away as the line of people started
moving again.
Ruby’s face grew pale and her eyes flew wide. Her
fingers dug into his arm. “I have lost my appetite, darling.” Her
voice was calm, but firm. “Shall we go home? I am not feeling
well.”
Stephen’s mind spun, could two elderly gossips
possibly cause him harm? “Certainly, my dear. Let’s take our leave
right away.”
Forcing himself to walk and act normally proved to
be difficult, especially when they had to stop repeatedly to speak
to friends, neighbors, and folks who knew “The Illusionist.” In his
mind’s eye he could envision the Philadelphia police officers
coming through the door at any moment to arrest him as they had in
Mexico City.
Retrieving their wraps, Stephen helped Ruby don her
coat. Then a male voice behind him made his blood run cold.
Chapter Six
“Mr. Marchand, how good to see you, sir.” Ruby spoke
first as she looked over Stephen’s shoulder.
Slowly, trying to control his temper, he turned to
face the man who had arranged the trip to Mexico all those years
ago. Memories of the beating he took and the cold, damp cell were
as fresh as the day they threw him in prison.
In a flash the anger dissipated. The man was elderly
now, a white-haired frail creature, sitting hunched in a
wheelchair. Thomas Marchand. Physically only a shadow of the fine
gentleman he once was, the man smiled toothlessly up at
Stephen.
“Mr. Elliott, may I congratulate you on your
continued success?” He held out a bony hand to Stephen, who offered
a perfunctory shake so as not to insult or injure. “I was sorry to
read of your brother’s passing. Michael was a fine solicitor, and a
very shrewd businessman too.”
They exchanged polite conversation with Mr. Marchand
and his nephew, who served as an escort. No explanation of
Marchand’s absence all these intervening years was given and none
asked for.
As they said their farewells and waited for the
hired carriage, Stephen doubted he would ever see Marchand alive
again. The man had to be eighty or more. The resentment he had
harbored for all these years was gone, and he realized how useless
the emotion had been.
Once they were alone in the carriage, Ruby once
again grasped his upper arm so tightly he could feel her nails
through his heavy coat sleeve.
“Stephen, I have been wondering the same thing those
women were speaking of. Why haven’t you aged at all? You do look
just as you did twenty years ago.” She spoke in a low, urgent
voice. “Something has happened to you, I can sense it.”
He gave her hand a pat then urged her fingers loose
from their death grip. “That cannot be, Ruby. Nothing has happened
to me. I am just fit and healthy. You know some folks age slower
than others.” He kept any other comments she might misconstrue off
his lips. She had been insulted by the two women’s comments and
lashed out at him as a consequence.
“Darling, there is no reason for concern,” he
continued. “You are still as beautiful as the day we met.”
She hit him on the shoulder, surprisingly hard for a
small lady. “I’m not worried about me, you dolt. It is you I’m
concerned about.”
He shrugged, but inched away from her and her sharp
nails. “I admit they had me feeling a bit apprehensive with their
talk of black magic, but it is just nonsense from gossipy
women.”
Ruby made no comment, which was a bad omen. When his
wife stopped talking and began thinking, it usually meant Stephen
would pay some kind of price.
As it turned out, he did have good reason for his
qualms
around them as they waited to hear more. The chatting women had
moved a little further away so they had to strain to hear them.
“How can someone defy time, Sophie? He has neither
the looks, nor the physique of a man in his fifties. In my opinion,
Stephen Elliott is no ordinary magician. I think he dabbles in
black magic, you know, sorcery. Perhaps he should be reported to
the authorities—”
Her voice faded away as the line of people started
moving again.
Ruby’s face grew pale and her eyes flew wide. Her
fingers dug into his arm. “I have lost my appetite, darling.” Her
voice was calm, but firm. “Shall we go home? I am not feeling
well.”
Stephen’s mind spun, could two elderly gossips
possibly cause him harm? “Certainly, my dear. Let’s take our leave
right away.”
Forcing himself to walk and act normally proved to
be difficult, especially when they had to stop repeatedly to speak
to friends, neighbors, and folks who knew “The Illusionist.” In his
mind’s eye he could envision the Philadelphia police officers
coming through the door at any moment to arrest him as they had in
Mexico City.
Retrieving their wraps, Stephen helped Ruby don her
coat. Then a male voice behind him made his blood run cold.
Chapter Six
“Mr. Marchand, how good to see you, sir.” Ruby spoke
first as she looked over Stephen’s shoulder.
Slowly, trying to control his temper, he turned to
face the man who had arranged the trip to Mexico all those years
ago. Memories of the beating he took and the cold, damp cell were
as fresh as the day they threw him in prison.
In a flash the anger dissipated. The man was elderly
now, a white-haired frail creature, sitting hunched in a
wheelchair. Thomas Marchand. Physically only a shadow of the fine
gentleman he once was, the man smiled toothlessly up at
Stephen.
“Mr. Elliott, may I congratulate you on your
continued success?” He held out a bony hand to Stephen, who offered
a perfunctory shake so as not to insult or injure. “I was sorry to
read of your brother’s passing. Michael was a fine solicitor, and a
very shrewd businessman too.”
They exchanged polite conversation with Mr. Marchand
and his nephew, who served as an escort. No explanation of
Marchand’s absence all these intervening years was given and none
asked for.
As they said their farewells and waited for the
hired carriage, Stephen doubted he would ever see Marchand alive
again. The man had to be eighty or more. The resentment he had
harbored for all these years was gone, and he realized how useless
the emotion had been.
Once they were alone in the carriage, Ruby once
again grasped his upper arm so tightly he could feel her nails
through his heavy coat sleeve.
“Stephen, I have been wondering the same thing those
women were speaking of. Why haven’t you aged at all? You do look
just as you did twenty years ago.” She spoke in a low, urgent
voice. “Something has happened to you, I can sense it.”
He gave her hand a pat then urged her fingers loose
from their death grip. “That cannot be, Ruby. Nothing has happened
to me. I am just fit and healthy. You know some folks age slower
than others.” He kept any other comments she might misconstrue off
his lips. She had been insulted by the two women’s comments and
lashed out at him as a consequence.
“Darling, there is no reason for concern,” he
continued. “You are still as beautiful as the day we met.”
She hit him on the shoulder, surprisingly hard for a
small lady. “I’m not worried about me, you dolt. It is you I’m
concerned about.”
He shrugged, but inched away from her and her sharp
nails. “I admit they had me feeling a bit apprehensive with their
talk of black magic, but it is just nonsense from gossipy
women.”
Ruby made no comment, which was a bad omen. When his
wife stopped talking and began thinking, it usually meant Stephen
would pay some kind of price.
As it turned out, he did have good reason for his
qualms
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