Confessions of a Vampire's Girlfriend (17 page)

Mom and Imogen and I all rode into town together, following the other cars to a big, ugly green hospital. I kept my hands to myself, afraid of what might be able to seep through the protection of the gloves if I touched anything.

The show for the kids was actually pretty fun. It was all illusion, with just one notable bit of magic that absolutely stopped the show. The kids and nurses and doctors filled one of the big wards, kids in wheelchairs, on regular chairs, propped up on the beds, some even sitting on the floor on big pillows. I figured everyone would be moaning and groaning and near death, but the ward was painted blue and yellow, with brightly colored butterflies scattered around the room. The kids themselves looked pretty cheerful, some of them wearing caps to cover bald heads, others wearing face masks, some in weird contraptions, almost all of them with IVs hooked up to them, but every single one of them had a smile when the show started. I began to see why everyone looked forward to Peter's hospital trips.

Karl and Kurt did a few flashy illusions that had the kids wowed—stuff like turning birdcages with canaries into a big pink rabbit (the rabbit's name was Gertrude, in case you were wondering), making showers of confetti fly out of the unlikeliest of places, pouring milk into some of the kids' hats, only to turn them inside out and show they were dry, that sort of stuff. Mom taught everyone flower-growing spells, and passed out little vials of happiness. Elvis did some card tricks, including one in which he was put into a straitjacket so he couldn't manipulate the cards, and yet he still managed to produce the cards three volunteers had hidden. I felt a little bad about not helping Elvis last night after seeing him do the card tricks—he had a huge bruise under one eye where Jan had socked him. To tell the truth, I was a bit surprised he was part of the show, since I hadn't known he did magic, but the adoring looks he was throwing Imogen explained a lot. No doubt he was there to impress her.

Imogen and I read a few palms, me with my gloves on, trying to do my best to sound upbeat and positive about kids who probably wouldn't have a long life ahead of them. Imogen did a lot better job than me—the kids she read for were laughing by the time she was finished with them.

Peter and Soren's act was the finale of the show, and although most of it was illusion, the last bit Peter did was my favorite example of pure, unadulterated magic. Every time I saw it, it gave me goose bumps, raising the hair on the back of my neck with its simplicity.

“What do I have here?” Peter asked, holding up two eggs, translating his words to Hungarian.

“
Tojások!
” the children cried. “Eggs!”

“Who wants to write their names on the eggs?”

Two dozen hands went up. Soren and Peter walked around, letting a few of the kids sign the eggs with different-colored markers.

“And what happens when you break eggs into a bowl?” Peter cracked both eggs into a clear glass bowl, carefully setting the shells aside. He held the bowl up so everyone could see it, walking along the front row allowing people to look.

“Now, I have here a magic fork! It is magic because it can turn both forward”—he made a clockwise circle with the fork—“and backward.”

The fork made a counterclockwise circle.

“When I put the magic fork into the eggs, it scrambles them!”

I rubbed my arms, feeling the goose bumps start. The children watched as Peter whisked the eggs with the fork, giving his standard patter about how magic comes from within each of us, a power that everyone has, but few know how to unlock. Most of the children watched with rapt looks on their faces; a few rolled their eyes as if they knew what would happen.

I smiled to myself. They had
no
idea.

Peter whipped the eggs into an eggy yellow froth, then gave the bowl to Soren to pass around. “What do you get when you beat eggs?” he asked the crowd.

“Scrambled eggs!” the kids yelled back.

“That's right. Has everyone seen? Yes? The eggs are scrambled?”

“Yes,” everyone shouted, even the doctors and nurses.

I smiled at Soren. He grinned back at me.

“Ah, but you forget, this is a magic fork! It can work forward . . . and backward.”

Peter put the fork in the bowl and began to beat the eggs again . . . in the opposite direction. I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms, watching the kids' eyes grow wider and wider as the eggs began to unscramble themselves. It was magic, pure and simple, and it was wonderful. I understood now why magicians did what they did—the astonishment on the audience's faces was a wonderful thing to behold.

Peter pulled his fork from the bowl, holding it up so everyone could see the two perfectly whole eggs in it. “And now I give the eggs a tap with the magic fork. . . .” Using the two eggshells, he scooped up one whole egg, tapped it with the fork, and handed it to a child he beckoned forward. The kid stared at it with huge eyes while Peter reshelled the second egg, passing that around, too. I knew what everyone who examined the eggs would find—two perfectly whole eggs, signed with the names of the audience. There was no trick, no illusion, no exchange of broken eggs for whole—they were the same eggs, the exact same eggs, broken, scrambled, unscrambled, made whole again.

Magic, huh? Yeah. It's pretty cool.

It's also a heck of a showstopper. Everyone was talking excitedly when we packed up to leave. I know the kids had a good time, but what surprised me was how much fun I had. There I was surrounded by a bunch of children who were just as different as I was, only they were dying because of their differences, and yet none of them asked anyone to use magic to make them better; none of them asked Mom to make the pain go away, or the cancer to disappear, or their blood cells to go back the way they should be. They just laughed and enjoyed, and accepted everything offered.

Mom and Imogen chatted on the way back to the Faire. I let them, trying to figure out what it was that was rattling around the back of my brain. It was something important, something that I saw, but missed seeing, if you know what I mean. Something to do with what was going on, but I couldn't figure out how, or who it concerned, or even why it mattered. It just . . . was.

I
tried to pin down the thought later that day, but the last day is always a busy time, usually the busiest night of our stay.

“Hey!” Soren called to me just after lunch. He held up a bridle. “Want to go riding?”

I glanced over at my mother. She was making good-luck amulets. “Do you need me?”

“No, go have some fun. You've worked hard this morning.”

I jumped up. She stopped me with a hand on my wrist. “Franny, I want to . . . I want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For joining in. For being part of the Faire. I know you like to think yourself aloof from everyone, but your participation in our new life has meant a lot to me. So . . . thank you.”

I mumbled something and escaped, wondering how she could be such a smart witch, and so clueless about me. “I was blackmailed into joining in,” I grumbled as I ran out to where Soren was putting a bridle on Bruno. “It's not like I had a choice or anything.”

“A choice about what?” he asked as I picked up the bridle he set near Tesla.

“Nothing, doesn't matter. How does this thing work?”

He showed me how to put the bridle on. Tesla wasn't particularly interested in the whole idea, but Soren showed me how to find the spot on Tesla's jaw that I could press to make him open his mouth so I could slide the bit in. We adjusted the straps until the bridle fit; then I jumped onto a rock and climbed onto Tesla's back while Soren held him steady.

“Whoa, big horse,” I said, my inner thigh muscles immediately screaming a protest at having to straddle his broad back.

Tesla decided enough was enough; grazing was much more important than standing around with a human on his back. The reins jerked out of my hands, sliding up his neck to his ears as he lowered his head to the ground. I leaned forward to get them, and promptly fell off.

Tesla ignored me.

“You!” I pointed to Soren, who was sitting comfortably on Bruno's back. “Stop laughing. You!” I pointed to Tesla. “Prepare to be ridden. This is war, horse.”

It took me three tries, but at last I hoisted myself onto Tesla's back. He wasn't terribly happy about leaving all that lovely grass just waiting to be eaten, but with a few hollered instructions from Soren, we were soon trotting around the big open part of the meadow, where later the cars would park.

“This . . . ow . . . this is . . .
ow
. . . this is a little hard on the . . . ow . . . teeth,” I said once I felt safe enough to stop clutching Tesla's mane. “It's a . . .
ow!
. . . bit hard on the thighs, too.”

“That's why you need a saddle,” Soren said, although I noticed he wasn't grimacing like I was. “Then you can post.”

“Post what?”

“Post—it's the way you move to the horse's trot. Makes it easier on your bum.”

“Oh. Good. My bum could use easier.” I squirmed around a little on Tesla's back, trying to find a comfortable position, my legs tightening on him as I tried to shift off his hard backbone. All of a sudden his head came up and his neck arched as he shifted into another gear. I know, I know—horses don't have gears, but he went from moving like he was on a road filled with potholes to one that was newly paved. His trot smoothed out so I was hardly jarred at all as he kind of floated along the ground with long, sweeping strides. I kept my legs tight around his sides, unsure of what had happened, but appreciating the new gait.

“What are you doing?” Soren yelled. I looked back. He was stopped, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

“Darned if I know,” I yelled back, and eased up on the reins. “Whatever it is, I like it!”

Tesla did the smooth, flowing trot in a big wide circle around Soren and Bruno, then stumbled over a hole, regained his feet, and came to an abrupt stop as he did so.

I, of course, promptly fell off again.

“How did you do that?” Soren asked as he rode up. I stood up, rubbing my butt. Just my luck—I had landed right on a rock. “How did you make him move like that?”

I grabbed the reins and started walking back toward the small area where the horses grazed. “I told you, I don't know. It's something Tesla did by himself.”

“I've seen that before,” Soren said, more to himself than to me. “On TV. Horse trials. Dressage, it's called.”

“Whatever. I think I've had enough riding for—Oh, hey, look, it's Panna! That's the girl whose grandfather owned Tesla,” I explained to Soren.

I led Tesla over to Panna, who greeted him with teary eyes. (No surprise there; I had her number now. She was a puddler—the type who puddled up at anything.) “Hi, Panna. I was starting to think you wouldn't be able to come by.”

“Hello, Fran. Hello, Tesla. You were riding him.”

“You saw us? Yeah, we were trotting. The vet said that a little exercise is good for him, as long as I didn't push him too far. This is my friend Soren.”

Soren said hi, then took Bruno off to be groomed for the evening's show. Panna patted Tesla, gave him an apple, and chatted happily about how her grandfather used to let her ride him when she was a little girl.

“You want to ride him for a little bit? I don't think he'd mind. We didn't do too much.”

She smoothed down her cute blue-and-white sundress. “No, thank you. I am not dressed for the riding.”

I looked down at my scruffy cutoff shorts and faded purple T-shirt with horse slobber on it, and decided it was better if I didn't say anything.

“Tesla looks happy, doesn't he?” She moved around to stroke his velvety-soft nose, giggling when his whiskers tickled her hands. “I am so glad you bought him. He will be happy with you.”

“I think so. I hope so. He's eating enough, and the vet says he's in good shape. Hey, while I'm thinking of it, what did your grandfather tell you about Tesla?”

She stroked the long curve of his neck. Tesla, I had come to realize, was a big ham who ate up attention like that. He'd nod his head whenever someone stopped petting him, watching you with those big, huge brown eyes that always seemed to be secretly laughing. “What did Grandfather tell me? Nothing other than that Tesla was special, very special.”

I flicked a piece of grass off his mane. “Special, how? Special, smart? Special, fast like a racehorse?”

Her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Grandfather did not say. He just said
alkalmi
. Special.”

“Huh.” I traced the L on Tesla's cheek. “Do you know what a Lipizzan is?”