The volunteer pulls on the trick box’s handle. It doesn’t budge, thanks to Maeve now standing sentinel with the magnet in the trap room below the stage. Mr. Vanderbilt mutters to himself, pulling, yanking, cursing, much to the crowd’s delight.
“That box must be made of steel!” he crows, returning to his seat. “I couldn’t lift it an inch!”
Onstage, Prospero smiles and bows. “And now, for my final demonstration!”
“Are you finished yet?” Dinah hisses. “Tonight needs to go perfect for this smart set! Why areyouhere anyway? Where on earth is Maeve?”
“She’s got the magnet downstairs,” Cora huffs, working fast. “Which leaves you to me. Not to worry, you’re in good hands, Maeve trusts me—”
“Her first mistake,” Dinah scoffs. “This is taking twice as long as it should—”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Prospero cries, “please welcome back my lovely assistant, Miss Dinah!”
Hearing her cue, Dinah attempts to hurry onstage, but Cora yanks her back into the curtains. “I’m not finished!”
Prospero laughs uneasily while the crowd titters. “Come, my darling Dinah, now don’t be shy!”
“Just hold still.” Hands shaking, Cora finally hooks the mechanical crane’s thin metal rod, meant to lift Dinah into the air on Prospero’s command, onto the plank’s clasp. She fumbles to cover it with Dinah’s dress buttons.
“You trying to make me look bad?” Dinah shrills. “Think you’re gonna steal my spot?”
“Stop squirming—”
“I know your type, always plotting and scheming. Don’t think I don’t know about your ownact, little thief. If I had my way, we’d have left you in Charleston.”
“You’re ready,go!”
Dinah disentangles herself from Cora, strutting onstage to more applause.
Prospero’s finale, his showstopping “levitating woman,” brings down the house.
Cora watches the trick with detached, dread-filled certainty.
“Little thief.”Forget a raise. She might have just lost her job, and her own home, for good.
“Did you tell her?” Cora demands, cornering Maeve in their makeshift prop room after the show, Prospero and Dinah both having retreated to this evening’s dressing quarters, a series of ornate parlors right off the Witts’ private theater.
Maeve cocks her head. “Tell who what, love?”
“Dinah!” Cora blinks back tears. “My methods are flawless. There’s no possible way she could have caught on, unless you specifically ratted me out.”
“I... I had no choice!” Maeve’s sunken cheeks flush. “Dinah was going through your things one day and—”
“My things?”
“Found a stack of cash and didn’t understand how you came into so much money, given what you get paid is... well, you know.” Maeve clears her throat. “She accused you of far worse vices, Cora. I was only defendin’ your honor.”
“Hell’s bells, Maeve.” Cora flops onto a trick box.Just breathe.“She’s going to tell Prospero. She’s going to have me fired.”
“No, Cora, no.” Maeve hurries toward her. “There’s nothing to worry about. I told her I’d handle it, on my honor, set you straight.” Maeve takes Cora’s hands. “Dinah promised she wouldn’t tell the boss—not unless you do it again, anyway. I swear, everything’s going to be right as rain.”
Cora shakes her head. “Listen, Maeve, you really don’t understand...” How can Cora possibly explain that at threedollars a week, without her subsidized earnings, her unique style of sleight of hand—pickpocketing, purse-lifting, sneak thievery, all conducted discreetly on select patrons after the show—she might be Maeve’s age before she can take back Long Creek Farm? A lifelong dupe, just like her father. Forever a pawn in a smarter player’s game.
Maeve keeps staring at her, looking about to cry herself.
“All right.” Cora sighs. “Yes, fine. I’ll stop the filching, Maeve. Honest.”
A cacophony of impatient knocks sounds from the door before Prospero thrusts it open. The magician is now dressed in a clean, crisp white shirt, his face freshly painted, his haughty showman veneer still firmly affixed. “Our hostess desires some parlor tricks. Come. Out we go.”
