What Wild Moonlight (7 page)

She rubbed the smooth leather between her fingers, then slipped her hand into the glove. As she did so she felt a small, round object strike her third finger. Frowning, she removed her hand and gave the glove a hard shake. A ring tumbled out onto her palm. She must have been gripping Nicholas Duvall’s hand so tightly that she had pulled off his ring along with the glove.

As Katya studied the ring a chill ran up her spine, making her shiver despite the warmth of the room. There was something oddly ominous about the thick band of gold, something she couldn’t define. Confused by the strong emotions the ring evoked within her, Katya examined it more closely. The band was heavy and doubtless very valuable, for it appeared to be made of solid gold. It looked like a signet ring of some sort, one that had likely been passed down from generation to generation. Ancient, intricate carvings decorated the sides of the band, giving it a feeling of timelessness. The stone that crowned the center of the band was solid onyx, as black and as fathomless as the Englishman’s eyes. The onyx had been carved as well, but she couldn’t quite make out the design.

Her curiosity whetted, she found a candle and dripped a bit of hot wax onto a sheet of paper and then she pressed the onyx into the wax. As the wax cooled, she recognized the figure of a bird of prey A hawk, or perhaps an eagle or a falcon. There was something profoundly unsettling about the figure of the bird, but she couldn’t quite articulate it. She peered inside the band for an engraved name, date, or set of initials, anything that might tell her more about the ring. What she found instead was a squat cross with an inverted ‘V’ at each of the four ends.

Katya dropped the ring with a gasp of horror.

The cross on the inside of the ring was the Maltese Cross.

The bird of prey carved into the onyx was a Maltese falcon.

Duvall… DuValenti. Clearly this was a modern version of the ancient family name. Katya stared at the ring that sat on the table before her. With a shock of apprehension and disbelief, she realized that she had just accomplished what centuries of her ancestors had been unable to.

She, Katya Sofia Rosskaya Alexander, had found the Maltese, her family’s mortal enemy.

“Regrettably, Miss Alexander, your request is impossible.”

Katya sat in the cluttered office of Monsieur Remy, theater manager for Monte Carlo’s stunning new entertainment hall. She had enjoyed very little sleep the night before. Her thoughts had swung between the grim state of her financial affairs, the momentous encounter she had had with Nicholas Duvall, and her nagging worry that Monsieur Remy would refuse to see her at all, since she had missed their appointment the previous night.

But the man had consented to see her—albeit after keeping her waiting outside his office for a good hour. Unfortunately the interview wasn’t going at all well. She shifted in her chair, struggling to maintain an air of poised composure. Displaying any sign of the naked desperation she felt inside would hardly endear her to Monsieur Remy, nor would it help her secure the post she sought.

She leveled her tone to one of cool professionalism and persisted, “But certainly, monsieur, you can see my position.”

“I see nothing,” he replied flatly. He pulled a timepiece from his breast pocket, frowned at it, then snapped the case shut. “I expected you last night, not this morning. Punctuality and reliability are of the essence in this business, Miss Alexander. You have done nothing to demonstrate why I should possess any confidence in you in either regard. If a performer cannot meet a simple appointment, I have little faith he or she can meet a schedule as rigorously demanding as one imposed by life in the theater. Our discussion is finished.”

Katya regarded him without moving. The man was short in stature and given to pudginess, a trait he tried to disguise with his immaculate dress. He wore his hair slicked back with perfumed oil; his body reeked of heavily scented cologne. While she certainly hadn’t expected sympathy from him, neither had she anticipated such callous disregard. For the first time since she had stepped into his office, anger replaced the fear and trepidation that had nearly overwhelmed her.

Her father, after all, had been the Great Professor Alexander, Wizard of the North, King of the Conjurers, Magician Extraordinaire. Her mother? None other than the legendary Anastasia, dark-eyed assistant to the great professor. Her parents’ final performance had taken place on Monsieur Remy’s stage, a mere fifty feet from where they sat. Given that fact, surely it was not asking too much that he treat her with a modicum of professional courtesy.

Resolved to terminate the interview with her dignity intact, she stood and slowly pulled on her gloves. “Would you be so kind as to inform me to whom I should speak regarding the shipment of my parents’ costumes and props to London’s Egyptian Hall? Mr. Townsend, the manager there, has already indicated a great interest in being the first in the world to introduce a female magician who can perform the Silver Bullet.”

This was pure fiction. She mentioned the competing hall only as a way of saving her pride. But to her considerable surprise, Monsieur Remy’s head snapped up, his eyes alert with interest. “You didn’t mention the Silver Bullet.”

“On the contrary, monsieur. I said that I was fully able to perform every illusion in my parents’ repertoire.” She moved to the door and paused. “Now then, to whom shall I speak regarding shipping arrangements?”

Monsieur Remy stood. With a tight smile that revealed a row of tiny yellow teeth, he gestured toward a chair. “Perhaps we’ve both been a bit hasty, Miss Alexander. Do sit down.”

Katya studied the chair in silence, as though debating whether to accept his offer. Inside, however, she was quaking with both relief and apprehension. The Silver Bullet had frightened her since she was a little girl. It was among the most deadly feats a conjuror could perform and was practiced only by the most skilled magicians.

On the surface, the act was simple. A gun, along with three silver bullets, was given to a random member of the audience. He was instructed to inspect the weapon for any signs of trickery, and if he found the piece sound, to load the bullets into the chamber. The gun was then passed to another member of the audience, who was invited to join the magician onstage. The first two bullets were fired at a piece of lumber, proving the weapon’s deadliness. The last bullet was fired directly at the magician, who—God willing—caught it in his hand. It required precise timing, nerves of steel, and an inordinate amount of luck. The trick had become infamous not only for its sheer dramatic power, but for the number of magicians who had been killed onstage while attempting to perform it.

Pushing any thoughts of her own peril aside, Katya sank smoothly into the chair offered by Monsieur Remy. “Was there something else you wanted to discuss?” she asked, affecting an air of complete indifference.

Remy strode back and forth behind his desk, absently running a hand over his well-oiled head. “As it happens, I do have an opening for a performer on Saturday evenings.”

She flicked an imaginary piece of lint from her sleeve. “Really.”

“Given that your props and costumes are already here in Monte Carlo, it would seem logical to feature your act here first, rather than bearing the expense of shipping it all off to England.”

Katya made a noncommittal sound.

“I can promise you top billing.”

Thick silence hung between them After a long minute, she inquired coolly, “At what rate of compensation, monsieur?”

Monsieur Remy named his price.

“Very amusing. Double that figure and we shall have a bargain. Otherwise…” Allowing the threat to speak for itself, she lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug.

Remy’s jaw worked in clenched silence. Finally he spit out, “Agreed.”

Katya favored him with a gracious nod. “How lovely that we were able to come to terms.”

As she moved to pass him, he studied her with a look of acute discomfort. “You realize, mademoiselle, that you’ll be performing on the very stage where your parents…”

Died
, she silently finished for him. She swallowed tightly, once again checking her emotions. “I am well aware of that fact, monsieur.”

“I see.” He nodded, clearly relieved at having dispensed with the awkward topic. “I shall inform the local press that you will be performing the Silver Bullet as the finale to your show on Saturday evening.” Anxious to broadcast word of his latest theatrical coup, he moved to the door and held it open for her, thus indicating that their interview was at an end. “I trust that settles everything, Miss Alexander.”

“It does. Good day, monsieur.”

He stopped her with one final thought as she turned to leave. “Will you be in touch with your parents’ manager?”

“My parents’ manager?”

“The man who came to claim your parents’ props and possessions. I would have turned the lot over to him had I not received your letter first.” At Katya’s blank look, he lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “If he comes again, I will have him speak to you.”

“Please do.”

Determined not to waste any time getting underway, Katya left Monsieur Remy’s office and walked backstage. There she met the two stagehands who would be assisting her with her act. With a bright smile pasted on her face she greeted the men with what she hoped would pass for eager excitement rather than acute anxiety.

Maintaining that pose proved far more difficult than she could have imagined. First she battled an overwhelming surge of nostalgia and melancholy while going through her parents’ trunks of props and costumes. It was one thing to think about reviving her parents’ act in the abstract, but actually working onstage without them made their sudden absence from her life all the more painfully tangible. Then she discovered that her fingers, after a lengthy absence from the world of magic, weren’t quite as nimble as they used to be. Nor was her memory of the flow of routines as tight as she had presumed. Fortunately her new assistants worked patiently with her, performing a trick over and over again until she had perfected the timing and the rhythm.

Saturday night arrived all too quickly. Ignoring the nervous flutters that filled her belly, she reviewed the stage set one last time. The effect she had tried to achieve was that of stepping into Aladdin’s den. Lush Turkish carpets and overstuffed pillows covered the floor. Gauzy curtains were opulently draped across the stage. The seductive whine of the Indian sitar, the steady beat of the Turkish kanun, and the soft jangle of Arabian bells added to the mood of Eastern exoticism and mystery.

Katya had decided to open the show with the Birth of the Butterfly. As the curtain parted the audience found her two assistants center stage. They were dressed entirely in black and gold, complete with turbans, satin slippers with turned-up toes, and deadly scimitars strapped to their hips.

The music gradually changed from an ancient rhythm into a flowing, gentle melody reminiscent of the soft sounds of springtime. On cue, her assistants lifted a sheet of opaque parchment and spun the paper around a dense wire hanging from center stage, like two moths spinning a cocoon. Once the cocoon was complete they sent it spinning, whirling in midair. The music tempo rose until it became almost frenzied. Abruptly the cocoon and the music came to a synchronized stop.

The audience heard a faint scratching from within the cocoon, one that grew steadily louder until the cocoon was split in two. A single, elegant hand emerged from within the parchment, wriggling as though it had just been given life. Finally the cocoon split open. Keeping her motions slow and provocative, Katya stretched to her full height, lifting her arms to reveal huge monarch wings. A crackling murmur of tension and disbelief rippled through the theater as Monsieur Remy stepped forward and greeted the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed to the astonished assembly. “I give you Katya, the Goddess of Mystery!”

From that point forward, Katya moved from one illusion to the next with an ease and fluidity that was the result of years of practice, despite the time her skills had lain dormant. She worked her father’s magic and spoke in the Magyar of her youth, her mother’s language, the language of her gypsy ancestors. She flirted with the audience like an accomplished courtesan, drawing them ever closer; then she pushed them away as she performed an illusion too impossible to comprehend. By the time she reached her finale and performed the Silver Bullet, her audience gasped in stunned awe, then burst into thunderous applause. At last the curtain fell and she took her final bow.

She walked through the backstage maze of props and stage sets to her dressing room, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. The show had been a success. With that contented thought in mind, she opened the door to her dressing room and stepped inside.

She removed her stage attire and slipped into a loose silk robe of pale lavender, belting it tightly around her waist. Next she unpinned her hair, allowing it to tumble freely around her shoulders. Although she had lost her trunk when the coach crashed, her parents had stored nearly every piece of her extensive traveling wardrobe. While some of the rich and exotic garments had been designed for the stage, most of the clothing was meant for everyday wear.

As she scanned the assortment of gowns, a light knock sounded on her dressing room door. Assuming it was the cleaning woman, Katya called out, “Come in, Marie. I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

Silence greeted her words, then the door clicked softly shut. From the other side of the screened partition, she heard the echo of heavy footsteps followed by the distinct and unmistakable sound of a cork being popped from a bottle of champagne.

Katya stepped out from behind the screen with a frown. “Marie?” she began, but stopped in mid-sentence. Nicholas Duvall occupied the armchair in the corner of her dressing room, looking supremely relaxed and perfectly at ease. A bottle of champagne and two tall crystal goblets rested on the table near his elbow.

“There’s no hurry, Miss Alexander,” he intoned politely.