“Witt.”
“Iris.” Cora smiles, recalling the widow’s ridiculous headdress at her Night of Illusions ball. “Son, Beau; daughter, Bonnie. With them, I must offer entertainment. Render myself ridiculous.”
If she’s half hoping Alice will correct her on that last point, she’s quickly disappointed.
“Ogden.” Alice’s face tightens at this one.
“Brett. Wife, Priscilla. Endear myself to the wife. Steer entirely clear of the other.”
“And Peyton.”
Cora glances back to see Béatrice laying out tea for them in the sitting room.
Alice snaps her fingers. “Focus. Peyton.”
“Harold Senior, a recluse,” Cora answers hastily, longing for nothing more than that hot tea. “Harold Junior, also rarely seen these past few years. I am to... entice him.”
“You are to make him fall headlong in love with you. Let’s not dance around it,” Alice snaps. Her voice softens, however, when she adds, “I’ll be doing the same with Ogden, so you needn’t feel martyred. It’s the oldest con there is, and perhaps the easiest to pull off.”
“How do you know so much about these people?” Cora asks once they’re situated for tea. “From Mr. McAllister?”
“Only partly.” Alice raises her eyebrows. “Although I’m sure he’d gladly claim full credit. No, certain details I remember from my childhood, the gossip I used to hear around the sitting room and in the downstairs quarters. The servants have always been the ones who actually hold the city’s secrets.”
From the kitchen, Dagmar grunts in agreement.
“But...” Cora shakes her head. “What kind of society gossip could you have heard growing up in Poughkeepsie?”
“Ah.” Alice’s eyes twinkle like a cat that’s cornered a mouse. “I told you Iarrivedhere from a boardinghouse in Poughkeepsie. Not that I grew up there. I suppose your last lesson is this: Pay as much mind to what people don’t say as what they do.”
It takes Cora a moment to read between the lines of even this statement. Then hope crests upon her in a swell.
“Did I hear you right? Did you saylastlesson?”
“Last formal one. And not a moment too soon.” Alice rises from the table—a move that Cora knows by now is designed to keep her from seeing any sign of approval or, God forbid, warmth. “The first event of the season is approaching quickly.”
“The Patriarch’s Ball,” Cora dutifully recites, catching up.
“And Ward’s been true to his word. As founder of the Patriarchs, he’s secured us both invitations.” Alice fixes Cora with a discerning squint. “I do believe you’re ready. Please don’t prove me wrong.”
Cora struggles to conjure the appropriate response—a promise or a thank-you or a smart reply?—before landing on an obtuse nod, and a silent prayer for good measure.
This is it. The show begins.
All she can do now is hope to God that Alice is right.
Part 2
The Turn
Magic is the only honest profession. A magician promises to deceive you, and he does.
—The great magician Karl Germain
Article
THE NEW YORK HERALD
Friday, January 25, 1884
