Read Online Ravencliffe (Blythewood series) by Carol Goodman - Free Book Online Page A

when I turned to catch the offending party I looked into a sea of laughing faces so distended with hilarity they resembled the grotesque sign the changeling had mimicked. And then I saw the face itself, looming over the crowd like the guiding spirit of the place—a spirit of antic glee that put my teeth on edge but somehow made me want to smile and dance to the crazy tune of the calliope.
    “Over here!” I shouted to Nate, who was fending off a mountebank in plaid trousers holding out a handful of playing cards. Helen, wide-eyed, was watching a spooning couple whose limbs were so intertwined they appeared to be one creature. I steered them both to the entrance of Steeplechase Park, where there was a pocket of open space just below the funny-face sign. I saw why when we got there. A giant of a man stood in the center of the empty space. He wore white robes that billowed in the breeze, a white tunic and turban, brilliant red pantaloons, and a matching sash. He stood absolutely still, his dark face immobile as a statue carved out of mahogany, jet-black eyes boring into the crowd of spectators that had stilled around him as though under a spell. I thought he might be a statue until he raised his arm and pointed at a girl in a navy blue swimming costume.
    “You!” he bellowed. “Do you not believe in the magic of Omar the Magnificent!”
    The girl covered her face with a cheap paper fan and giggled. But when Omar spoke next her giggles stopped and the whole crowd fell silent.
    “And why do you not believe? Because it is told to you at Coney Island and in your heart you say . . . what is the word?
Humbug?
But I ask you, why should I come all the way across the oceans, far from my own land where the sun is hot all year and the sacred Ganges flows to the sea from the great hills that wear white turbans of eternal snow and whisper secrets in the ears of the stars—why should I do this if my entertainment is humbug?”
    His voice dropped to a low whisper that seemed to tickle the inside of my ears. He seemed to be looking straight at me now.
    “And why should you come if not to find the lost one you seek?”
    Then, without another word, he turned, his robes billowing around him in a white swirl. There was a flash of blinding light, a puff of smoke, and he was gone. The crowd gasped as one.
    “See more of Omar the Hindu Hypnotist at the Golden Pavilion!” a spieler announced.
    “Oh, do let’s!” Helen cried. “I want to see if he can hypnotize me. I’m sure he can’t. I’m much too strong-willed.”
    “It’s a parlor trick,” Nathan said dismissively.
    I found it curious that my friends who knew magic existed were so doubtful of the possibility that it might exist
here
.
    “If he does that little demonstration here every day, perhaps he saw Ruth,” I said, getting on the ticket line. I showed Ruth’s picture to the ticket seller, but he only shrugged and told me he saw “a thousand mugs a day and they all look alike after a while.” I thanked him and asked for directions to the Golden Pavilion. “Just past the Steeplechase and before the freak show. Don’t miss the winged woman.”
    I started, but he was already turned to the next customer on line, and Helen was urging me along.
    “Look at the beautiful horses!” she cried, pointing to the mechanical wooden horses on the Steeplechase. “I’ve missed riding since we sold our stables! Can we ride on them?”
    “After we’ve located Omar,” I said, beginning to feel like the dowdy governess to two rambunctious charges. But when we found the Golden Pavilion there was a sign telling us that Omar the Magnificent’s next sitting wasn’t for another forty minutes. I asked the attendant if we might have a private word with Omar, but he told us that the Great Omar was meditating in preparation for his appearance.
    “We might as well ride the Steeplechase in the meantime,” Helen pointed out.
    Seeing that it was fruitless to argue, I agreed. We went back to