“That’s just it. Many so-called magicians these days use so many special effects, pyrotechnics, and stagecraft, or they appear more on television than not. The audience is so dazzled and distracted, they start to think of it all as special effects. Many of the people who come to see my show have never seen the classic tricks in person. Those are the people who wonder how I do it, without all the stunning effects.”
“Sleight of hand, sleight of mind?”
“Something like that. So much of this is in the mind. Optical illusion and tricks of perception.”
“Then leaving aside the question of whether or not you work real magic in your show—do you believe in real magic?”
He folded his pack of cards in a silk handkerchief and tucked the bundle in the pocket of his trousers. “What kind?”
“What kinds are there?”
“A couple. There’s wild magic, anything you might observe that seems to break the laws of physics. Things disappearing and reappearing. Sawing something in half and restoring it. Then there’s magic that requires ritual: ceremony, spells, the right tools, the right chants. For example, let’s say Jesus Christ turning water into wine is wild magic, and the Catholic miracle of transubstantiation—turning bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ—is ritual magic because it requires the Mass. Assuming you believe in that sort of thing.”
“Do you?”
“Do I believe there are things in the world that can’t be explained? Yes. My examples were perhaps a bit. . . simplistic. Don’t touch that—”
My wandering had brought me to the upright box, into which he’d made the nice woman disappear last night. I’d been about to touch it, to run my finger along the edge, just to feel the age of it, lured the way any old and beautiful object draws attention.
Grant’s cool poise never slipped, but he did take a step toward me. If I didn’t back off, he’d no doubt make me. “Please, that box is over a hundred years old. It’s quite fragile.”
“But you let perfect strangers climb inside every day?”
“Under controlled conditions.”
I stepped away and tucked my hands behind my back to avoid temptation. “Sorry.”
“You talk about all this on your show, don’t you?” he said and went back to rearranging the props on his table. “Magic. Whether it exists.”
“Oh, I talk about all kinds of things. Magic, weirdness, the supernatural. Stuff that’s easy to dismiss, until you end up in the middle of it. Then it helps to learn as much as you can. That’s why I do my show.”
“You believe, then?”
“Oh, yeah. I sort of have to, given what I am.”
“That’s right. The lycanthropy.”
I said, “That doesn’t mean there aren’t fakes in the world. That’s why I try to ask a lot of questions.”
“That’s usually wise.”
“Why no assistants?” I said. “If you wanted to be really classic you’d saw a woman in half, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s always struck me as being a bit Freudian.”
“You don’t like pretty girls dressed up in spangles?”
“I work alone. Now, Ms. Norville, do you have enough material for your show?”
End of interview, I guessed. “There’s never enough. But I’ve got a couple more leads. I’m trying to get a hold of someone over at the Hanging Gardens—”
“Balthasar,” he said. He stopped straightening another deck of cards and looked at me. “May I offer some advice? Avoid him. You don’t want to get involved there.”
Ooh, intrigue. “Why not? What’s going on?” Was my theory close? Was Balthasar enslaving lycanthropes?
“It’s complicated. But you really don’t want him knowing about you.”
Or maybe the two of them had some kind of magic-show rivalry? Without specifics, I didn’t feel inclined to take Grant’s advice. It only made the prospect of talking to Balthasar more interesting.