an

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he exclaims. “For the finale, my assistant will now step into this box–” He sweeps his cape to the side, revealing an ordinary wooden contraption with metal hinges, barely large enough for one person to stand in– “just an ordinary box, as you can see–” His assistant swings open the door, turning it around for people to see its hollow innards, its plain sides– “and she will step into the box! Only to be impaled by these swords!” Another flourish, and a gleaming silver rapier flashes in his hands. The crowd gasps. 

“These are real swords, I assure you,” the magician continues, casually sparring with an invisible opponent, light catching on its blade. “Would anyone like to come up and test its veracity for the crowd?”

A wave of hands shot up. You shrink back into your cloak, but it’s doubtless he can see you, if you can barely make out his figure from this far. His violet eyes gleam like a lighthouse in the dark, ensnaring you, and it almost feels like he’s looking directly at you. Just your imagination, of course.

“Let’s see, let’s see… What about you, my lovely lady?” the magician asks, pointing somewhere in the second row. A woman stands, hands fluttering, and rushes to the stage. She takes the sword from the magician, knocking a knuckle against its blade, and swinging it clumsily once, twice. 

“It’s real!” she announces to the crowd. “I almost cut my finger with it just now.”

“We can’t have that, can we?” the magician says with a wink, taking one of the woman’s hands gently. “Why don’t you sit back down? I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

Your eye twitches as his honeyed tones, but the crowd swoons and titters. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, you now know these swords are very real! So it’s time for my assistant to shine. Lynette, if you would please step in?” With one nod and a twirl, the assistant is tucked snugly in the box, and the magician swings it shut. Only her head sticks out, from a hole on the top. The magician slowly pierces the rapier in his hand into the right side of the box, sliding it smoothly through. The crowd groans as the tip of the sword angles out of the left side.

“How are you doing, Lynette?” the magician asks. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s a bit cramped,” she comments.

“Oh dear! I better hurry it up with my tricks, so you don’t feel too uncomfortable.” 

One by one, more swords slide into the box, the magician making worried remarks as his assistant responds in dry quips. The crowd laughs, and you fold your arms. The outcome of the show is already set: after playing up the drama and raising the tension, the magician will open the door and his sister will spring out, unharmed, and everyone will laugh and applaud, unable to believe their eyes.

The trick is a remarkably simple one, though doubtless it looks like magic for those who don’t know how it works. There are predetermined positions in the wooden box for the swords to be placed, and slits cut in the wood for the swords to be slid through, which avoid the assistant’s body. It only took you some educated guesswork and several observations of the show to figure out the principles behind it. Because, despite it being a waste of your hard-earned mora, you find yourself watching the same magic show, with the same magicians. Surely the amount of tickets you’ve bought made up a nice portion of the magicians’ salary.

Applause thunders through the theater as the magician and his assistant bow. The show has ended before you noticed, and the sound rings in your ears as you slip out the door to avoid the post show crowds.

After observing their shows for so long, there’s something else you’ve come to understand: magicians are liars, first and foremost, who make the audience believe in miracles, even if just for a moment. On the stage, trust is the most important currency for any good performer.

You quietly fish out the small bouquet of flowers in your tattered bag, velvet petals crushed from their stay. Red anemone, yellow carnations, and purple stemmed lavender, all wrapped in a simple white ribbon. 

“But you’ve always been a good liar, isn’t that right, Lyney?” you murmur. You twist the flowers in your hand, but they don’t respond.

—

Your story wasn’t anything special: like a hundred other children on the streets, you grew up with no family and nothing but your own wits to survive. The same old tale, with slight variations, could be told by any young pickpocket.

But you were wily and clever and good with your hands, and that gave you a leg up in the world. You scavenged broken machines and gutted them, studying their delicate anatomy until you learned how they ticked. Piece them back together, scrap them for parts, or slap together a brand new machine from several different corpses: you did whatever it took to put a few extra mora in your pocket and bread in your stomach.

Being who you were meant you were usually alone. You were friendly enough with other kids, but they could be friends one day just as easily as they could be your competition the next. The line was often blurred enough that it was safer for you to avoid interacting with others entirely.

The only exceptions were two children your age, a pair of twins. You shared your food with them, on the days you could afford to be generous. In the winter, the three of you could tuck together under one of the vents that blew hot steam from the city’s belly, curled together like cats to keep warm. In the summer, the three of you could splash around in knee-high water at the edge of the city to keep cool. But they were family, always together, and you were just the occasional tagalong. You knew your place.

Most days found you scavenging in the junkyard, or stealing from broken down machines in the streets, if you were quick enough about it. In the evenings, you would trudge home with your spoils, a makeshift workshop in the sewers, where the smell and damp kept most people away from you. 

The key word is “most people.”

“You’re back!” Lyney chirps, hoping off one one of the broken crates you used as a table. Lynette trails behind, her tail bristled. How on earth Lyney convinces her to venture down to the sewers so often was beyond your ability to understand.

“Mm,” you hum, throwing down pouches of metal scraps from your bag. “What are you doing here?”

“Just had some time, so I wanted to stop by. Um… did you not want us to come?” Lyney asks shyly.

“Nah, it’s fine.” You crouch down on the floor, dutifully upending each of the pouches to sort through your spoils. You made three piles, generally: “unsellable except as scrap”, “sellable as it is,” and “could be used for other inventions.” Lyney watches you sort, his eyes lingering on your hands, as Lynette fiddles idly with a discarded spring, watching it bounce back and forth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lynette nudge Lyney with her elbow, and he stumbles back a few steps. They seem to argue with their eyes, Lynette rolling hers as Lyney widens his, shaking his head. Eventually, he loses, because he sighs, and steps closer to you as Lynette paws victoriously at the spring. 

“Um! So… what do you know about magic?” Lyney says quietly.

“Magic? Do you mean like vision wielders?”

“No! Magic as in… magic tricks! Like those street performers do sometimes.”

“Sure. I’ve seen them before.” You roll a metal ball into the “sellable” pile.

“I’ve been observing them, and… I’ve figured out a little bit about how they do their tricks. Can… Can I show you?” he says.

“Go ahead.” You drop the scraps in your hand, and tilt your head at Lyney expectantly. 

He takes a deep breath. In, out, and then he claps his hands. “Wel… welcome to Lyney’s first magic show,” he says, voice quavering despite his confident tone, cheeks pink. “Thank you for participating today.”

He fumbles with his pockets, thrusting out  a small, wilted red rose. It was probably thrown out by a florist. “See this rose?” he says.

“I do,” you say. “It’s a nice flower.”

“Thank you, thank you. Now… please keep an eye on this rose.”

You humor him, watching his hand closely. “Three… two… one!” With a sudden sweep of his hand and a twist of his wrist, the rose vanishes from your sight.

“A disappearing act? Nice job,” you compliment, but Lyney shakes his head.

“I’m not done yet. Take a look around,” he says softly. And there, tucked in one of your shirt’s pockets, is the same rose from his hand. 

You cup it with one hand, thumbing a dry petal. “It’s pretty.”

“You can keep it, if you want!” Lyney squeaks, then clears his throat. You swear you hear Lynette’s quiet laughter, but when you glance at her, she innocently looks away.

“Are you learning magic tricks?”

“Yes. I’m just watching magicians perform, and working out how they do ‘em. I’m practicing, but…” He shakes his head. “It’s hard.”

“You’re smart, Lyney. You can figure it out.”

“I was…” He takes a breath. “I was thinking. Lynette and I can make some money with this. And you make some mora, too, right? Maybe we can pool our money together and move away from here. Or find a nice place. I don’t know. Anything’s better than the streets.” 

“You want me to come with you?” you say drolly. 

“Yes! If you want to, I mean. Things would be easier with three people, right?”

“True. And it would be nice to have a real room to sleep in.”

“You could probably study and get into the Akademiya,” Lyney says earnestly. “You’re good with machines.”

You shrug your shoulders. “I couldn’t afford it.” But already, your heart is racing, the future unspooling ahead of you like a shining river. “But… helping each other out doesn’t sound too bad,” you say carefully. “I can try putting aside money.”

“Let’s shake on it!” Lyney says. “Lynette, you too.”

“Why me?” Lynette murmurs, but joins the two of you.

You shake hands with each of the twins, Lyney’s grip firm and energetic, Lynette’s gentle and loose, and the three of you grin at each other. You see them off, and Lyney stops to turn and wave at you every few steps until Lynette pushes him along, and he trips over his feet. You giggle, watching the two of them, before placing a hand over your mouth. 

A future together. A future together, with people you could trust.

—

It’s not long before the steps of the Opera Epiclese darken with people, and you have but a few minutes to achieve what you came here for. 

Making a beeline for the back of the Opera, stalking down halls, turning shadowy corners, you reach the troupe’s dressing rooms and the backstage area.

There’s no one around, which makes your task easier. You peruse the nameplates on each door before you find Lyney’s dressing room. You throw a cursory glance around: scattered clothes and props stacked haphazardly together, a cape thrown over one of the mirrors. As messy as ever, you think, before gently placing the bouquet on his vanity. 

To the unassuming person, you come off as a dedicated fan. Buying tickets for his shows whenever he’s in town. Stealing in to leave behind flowers at his dresser. 

But the truth is nothing like that; you can’t explain why you take these irrational actions. Maybe you just want to leave some proof to yourself that you once existed in his life. You remember the mistakes he made, the crack of his voice as he performed line after line, the constant practice and repetition of each movement until he could make it seem effortless.

You let out a little sigh, spinning on your heel, just as the dressing room door cracks open and Lyney steps through.

You freeze, sizing each other up, his eyes flitting to your hands, your eyes flying to his face, tracing the curves of the boy you once knew. Then, he breaks into a smile. “Why, hello there. Are you a fan? I didn’t expect to see someone back here.”

Lyney didn’t recognize you. You swallow, tilt your head to the ground, keep your gaze fixed to the open doorway behind him. “Something like that. I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll just be on my way–”

“Wait, wait!” Lyney strides towards his dresser, picking up the small bouquet you just tossed there. “Did you leave me flowers?”

“No,” you lie. “They were there before I got here.”

“That’s a shame.” Lyney spins the flowers in his hand. “I’ve gotten a lot of flowers before, but there’s one person who always leaves behind bouquets that look like this. I’ve been meaning to thank them. You wouldn’t happen to know who left these behind, would you?”

“I didn’t see anyone around,” you say tersely.  

“No one at all?” he asks quietly. “You’re sure?”

You didn’t look at his face as you spoke firmly. “I’m sure. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go.”

You step swiftly towards the door, brushing by him. 

“Wait!” Lyney’s voice resounds behind you.

You pause at the door frame, but don’t turn around. “Yes?”

“You dropped something,” he says. When you face him, he’s holding your bag, and hands it to you with a flourish. Thank you for coming to my show today. I’d love to see you around again.”

“If I have time,” you say, clutching your bag to your chest.

“Did you enjoy today’s show?” he persists.

“I could understand why people like your magic shows so much.”

“But do you like them?”

You lift one shoulder. “Well, I don’t really believe in magic. But I appreciate the effort and the logistics behind each trick.”

“I’m glad, then.” He smiles. “Have a nice night.”

You nod, running out of the dressing room as fast as you can. You don’t look back.

—

Lyney paces back and forth in the alley, and Lynette’s ears twitch as she watches him. You sit with your knees drawn together as he worries at his top hat. He’s been ceaselessly pacing for the past five minutes, and nothing seems to snap him out of his reverie. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” he frets.

“Then adapt,” you say.

“And what if the audience doesn’t like my performance?”

“Find a different audience.”

“How are you so calm?” he wails, spinning to face you. 

“Because I know you’re going to do well,” you say stoically. “You’ve practiced forever. Lynette will be there, too.”

“And you?” Lyney says anxiously. 

“I’ll be watching. Should I cause a distraction if it goes poorly?” 

“No, no. It’s fine.” He shakes his hands. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine!”

You stand, dusting off your knees. “Lynette, can you go check on the props again?”

“But I just–” You raise your eyebrows, and she narrows her eyes. “Sure. I will.”

Just as Lynette rounds the corner, you grab Lyney’s hand. “Hey. Calm down. You’ll do fine. You just need experience. This is your first step towards becoming a good magician.”

“But–!”

“I’ll give you a good luck charm, okay?” And before Lyney can say anything, you press a kiss on his cheek. “Now you’ll do perfectly.”

“I–” Lyney’s face heats up, and he hangs limply in your grip. His mouth parts, and then closes, and then opens again. He slaps one hand to the cheek you just kissed, looking at you with a dazed expression. Great, you broke him.

“Props are ready,” Lynette announces as she ventures into the alley again. She glances from you, to Lyney, and finally, to your joined hands. “Ah.”

You push Lyney towards Lynette, and he stumbles towards her. “Take care of him,” you say.

She sighs. “Guess I have no choice.”

“Can the two of you not talk about me like that?” Lyney says, pouting, recovering some of his energy.

“Then don’t make us worry,” Lynette says.

“Fine! And–” He twists around to look at you again, though he avoids looking directly into your eyes– “Keep your eyes on me, okay? I’ll do better if I know you’re watching!”

You wave him off. “Got it. I’ll be your loyal audience, promise!”

“And when we finish, let’s talk about our plan some more! Wait for me!”

And you did. You waited for them, as Lyney and Lynette performed their first show and he caught your eye in the crowd and beamed like the sun. You waited for the two of them to show up until you fell asleep, curled up in your tiny corner of the sewer. You waited as the hours turned to days, and days turned to weeks.

When you inquired around the streets, a girl, who had found a job as a servant, shrugged and said, “Heard some noble liked their shtick and took ‘em in. Haven’t seen them since.”

And still, you waited. Because you trusted them. Because you had promised. You waited. Even as the seasons changed. Even as you made your way off the streets. Even as you found a place of your own, too big for just one person. 

 What you see is what you get, and if no one comes for you, then you should remember your place in the world. The proof is in your observations, the facts you could grasp with your hands. 

And there is just you, in an empty room.

—

In a small apartment off the main street of the city, just a few blocks down from where you roamed as a child, you ruffle through your bag and touch something shiny and smooth.

In the moonlight, you look down upon your prize: a bookmark, dried roses and forget-me-nots preserved and pressed into a strip of glazed wood. You touch the edge of it to your lips, a cold kiss.

You didn’t put this bookmark in your bag. In fact, you’ve never even seen it before in your life until now. 

It’s unfair. It’s unfair, how the present makes your heart leap with a warmth you haven’t felt for years. There’s no note attached, but you can imagine Lyney’s confident facade dropping as he performed one last trick to sneak it into your bag.

What did you want from him? You didn’t know. You didn’t know at all. An explanation, an apology: none of it would be enough.

Lyney is a liar, the greatest liar of them all, and you can’t trust any sweet words that fall from his lips. But you know this, too: a liar needs an audience to lie to. And you would watch him, just like you promised so long ago. After all, you could only believe in what you see with your own eyes. No faith, no miracles. No magic.