---

I didn't like being disturbed when I was working on the carnival's financial accounts, and everyone knew that, so I was annoyed by the knock on Karl's and my caravan door, even when I saw it was Hattie, wrapped in her usual colorful garments and head scarf. But I opened the door. I even smiled.

"How are you, Miss Hattie? And to what do I owe this visit?" I said, blocking her entrance with my body.

"Lucas, you and Karl are going to New York," she said as she pushed past me, leading with a plate of her homemade cookies.

I closed the door. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I said you need to go to New York City," she replied, shoving some of my papers aside and plopping the cookies down on the table.

Hattie often said things I didn't understand, but this utterance was particularly odd. "Um...," I said. "Why?"

"This will be a bad year," she stated, heading toward the stove and the cupboard where I kept coffee and tea and pointing to the calendar on the wall, now showing we were halfway through the month of April, 1929, "especially for banks."

I didn't know what to say as Hattie made herself at home. Many of her predictions had come to nothing, whether she claimed them as visions in her crystal ball or hints from her card readings. But I couldn't discount her completely; some of the things she predicted had come helpfully or uncomfortably true. Certainly I had been thinking about banks, or at least money as I worked, and we were set up in a small town not terribly far from the metropolis, but....

"I have a friend who lives in New York City," she went on, her back turned. "He's a friend of a man named Irving Kahn. Mr. Kahn has some ideas about investing in the stock market."

That Hattie knew anything about the stock market was news to me. I'd always put any profits from the show into banks and encouraged other members of the company to do the same. Interest rates of 2 to 3 percent were not a fortune, but certainly better than burying money in a coffee can, which some claimed to do.

"The stock market? That has always seemed extremely risky to me. You know we've had steady results from our savings accounts... and I've been considering buying gold. There's something whose value could never be lost." I was rather proud of myself for the idea.

"Boss, bad times are ahead," she said, shaking her head and turning to sit down across from me and pour out cups of the tea she'd brewed. "Banks won't be safe, and any gold you buy, you may not be able to hold on to here."

Her face was about as serious as I'd ever seen it, and to be honest, it frightened me a bit. There had been rumors, but could the US government really prohibit its citizens from owning gold?

"Well," I said after a bit of deliberation, a cookie, and a few sips of tea, "what about if we bought gold and stored it in banks in Europe?" Another option I'd been considering.

Hattie shook her head again. "Don't ask me how I know, but that won't work either. I tell you, boss, things are going to change for the worse, and if we want to survive, we have to make some changes too."

Looking into her eyes, I felt a cold shiver.

"But...," I said slowly, "how can you be so sure?"

Hattie just fixed me with those dark eyes of hers. It had been a silly question.

Sound finances were important to me for a number of reasons, other than the obvious. There had been times when members of the company needed loans or outright help, and I'd been able to give it to them. In the greater scheme of things, we were only a tiny traveling show, but the folks I saw every day were my friends - my family - and their welfare was one of my main concerns.

I had investments as well as bank accounts, of course. There were few states where I didn't own at least one piece of property. Mama had always told me not to "keep all my eggs in one basket," and that homely truth seemed good to me. But what if Hattie was right? Did I dare risk all of us by ignoring her, just because she couldn't give me logical reasons behind her predictions?

"There's something else too, boss," she said, restless fingers turning a cookie to crumbs. "I can't see it clearly, but...." Her eyes were unfocussed, not seeming to see me or the room.

"Is it bad or good?" I asked, wondering what other troubling news she might tell me. Hattie just shook her head, now staring into her teacup. I waited, but at last I knew she would say no more.

"Talk to your friend," I told her. "See if we can get an appointment with Mr. Kahn."

A few days later found Karl and I getting out of a taxi in front of the Algonquin Hotel. Karl's mouth was open, his face turned up to goggle at the impressive façade of the hotel and the gray wall of skyscrapers looming at our backs. I quit trying to get his attention and worrying he'd fall over and just held his elbow to guide him.

We grabbed our suitcases, trying to avoid the throng of pedestrians on the sidewalk, people of all shapes, sizes, and colors, focused on their own business, giving not one thought to us.

New Yorkers were known for being blasé about most everything. I think Karl and I could have made love in the middle of Times Square and most passersby would have yawned-except for some enterprising fellow who would no doubt have found a way to sell tickets.

The ride from Grand Central Station had taken longer than the distance warranted, due to the miserably congested traffic, though it did give Karl a chance to sight-see. I'd been to the "Big Apple" before, with Thomas, and I was grateful that we only had a few steps to go before we could get to our room, out of the noise and bustle.

Thankfully, it was only a moment before the doorman came over and relieved us of our luggage.

This overgrown, overcrowded town would never have an interest in hosting a small carnival such as ours. They had no need of such primitive shows. Here, people could find any sort of entertainment or distraction that suited their fancy, any time of the day or night. The "city that never sleeps" indeed.

I had decided that, as long as we were in the big city, we might as well see some sort of show ourselves. When I asked, the concierge said he had heard good things about an act at the Palace Theater, and when we agreed to try it, he called and reserved tickets for us.

There had been other times when, for one reason or another, Karl and I would stay in a hotel in a large city, go to a show, and eat at a fancy restaurant, though Karl often voiced objections to spending so much money on "frivolities." In spite of his various new experiences, with the carnival and otherwise, he remained, he claimed, a country boy at heart. If true, it didn't seem to stop him from enjoying such small luxuries. With that in mind, getting him into a tuxedo for the night's performance had still been a challenge, but one well worth the effort. With Karl's hair freshly cut by a big-city professional, his carriage, as always, tall and proud, I fell in love with him all over again.

"From what this says, the starring act is supposed to be something special," I told him, glancing again at the playbill given to me by the concierge. "'The Amazing Thorne.' Sounds like something from our show."

"The man at the barber shop said he does escapes - like from locked trunks and such. Sounds more like Houdini to me," Karl replied, fussing with his bow tie, which looked fine, since I'd tied it for him.

Spiritualists still looked for the return of Harry Houdini, or at least his ghost, even three years after his death, and the world had no doubt lost a great entertainer with his passing. No one knew how most of his illusions had been performed, and many believed he had supernatural powers. Knowing what little of the craft of sleight of hand as I did, I was still skeptical about that. Everything, no matter how outré, must have a rational explanation. Even Hattie's predictions must come from logic, perhaps peripheral information that filtered into her subconscious mind and was there transformed into mysterious facts through her sense of showmanship.

Mostly, I shied away from thinking too closely about such things. Practicality was what mattered.

After a fine dinner in the hotel's Round Table Restaurant (I didn't let Karl see the menu; the prices would have appalled him), we headed for the Palace Theater, only a short stroll from the hotel.

The theater building was taller than I expected, quite imposing, and inside, the lobby was beautifully decorated, the wallpaper scrolled in cream, red, and gold, with huge cut-crystal chandeliers hanging above. Karl's head was turning side to side, trying to take it all in at once, and I believe he might have lost his balance if I had not again taken him by the arm. An usher glanced at our tickets, led us down a carpeted aisle, and bowed himself away. Safe in our seats, we were free to look as much as we liked, and I also appreciated the sumptuous décor-red velvet draperies curtaining the stage and the shell-enclosed box seats, elegantly textured ceilings and a lighted glass-paned cupola above.

When most of the seats were filled, the house lights dimmed and a spotlight followed a tuxedoed man to a platform near the stage. "Welcome to the Palace Theater," he announced. "Up first on our stage tonight, we have the acrobatic excellence of the Family Wong, all the way from Peking, China!"

The curtains slid aside as the stage lights came up to reveal a setup of swings and ropes, with the occasional sliding board or platform, all brightly painted in reds, blues, and yellows. A troupe of twelve acrobats ran onto the stage as the audience applauded, and commenced various feats, some quite ambitious, such as a pyramid of all twelve bodies supported only by two young men below. A younger man and woman were contortionists, and some of the positions they formed with the others were rather startling. Karl and I clapped along with everyone else, but I felt that the Italian family that traveled with Caldwell's Wonders was just - well, almost - as good.

At the end, the troupe lined up to bow and receive their final tribute as the curtains closed, and then the announcer reappeared.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Next, for your enjoyment, we hope you will welcome the charming accomplishments of Captain Cramer and his Canine Corps!"

I sighed. A dog act. Not one of my favorites, by any means, but Karl had a smile on his face, and I did my best to appreciate the captain and his pooches, all dressed in Army fatigue shirts and little caps. They leaped, turned, and marched around the stage on their hind feet at the man's commands, but the mixed bag of mixed-breed mutts could not compare to the smart troop of French poodles that performed with our carnival.

After a modest round of applause, the curtains again closed. The Chinese acrobats had been good, and I hoped we were not to be subjected to any more mediocre performances.

There was a brief intermission, but Karl and I stayed in our seats, and I listened to him tell about how one little pup had reminded him of his favorite hunting dog back home.

The house lights dimmed again, and the spotlight came up on the announcer's platform. "And now, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "the act you have all been waiting for, the man you all came here tonight to see... the Palace Theater is proud to present a performance by... the amazing Thorne!" He finished with a flourish toward the stage, and the spotlight went out.

The curtains opened on darkness, and then another spotlight beamed to highlight a small wall near centerstage. A circular section of the stage floor turned, and the wall turned with it, showing the flat structure from all sides. It seemed perhaps twenty feet high and six feet wide, with a thickness no more than that of a two-by-four. It was painted matte black, a shadow among shadows. The turning stopped, and a dark-haired man walked out to stand in front of the construction. He was dressed in some sort of black garment that clung to his lean body as though it were paint instead of cloth. Over it he wore a cape of black satin, but as we watched, he swung the cape off his shoulders and tossed it aside. Our seats were good, perhaps twenty feet from the stage, and it seemed to me I saw his eyes clearly, glowing as if lit from within.

From the moment he stepped out, the audience had begun to applaud. Now he raised a hand and they quieted, until a whisper could have been heard in the hush.

His lips spread in a thin smile, and then he turned and faced the wall. My eyes widened as he began to climb.

We could see how smooth the surface was, and he wore no gloves or anything at all on his hands, and as he ascended, his feet also seemed completely bare.

The wall began to turn again, slowly, until we could see him, suspended there in profile, moving one hand and foot after the other as he rose higher.

"Wires?" Karl whispered in my ear.

I shook my head, but I didn't mean no. It was certainly possible, but how would he create that sense of shifting his weight, one hand or foot to the other, if wires supported him?

The man continued to climb, and now the structure had rotated completely around until we watched him ascending from the other side, no signs of any sort of hand or footholds to be seen.

When he reached the top, he pushed up with his arms until he could raise one foot, then somehow rose and stood on the narrow edge as the wall continued to turn. Balancing there, he spread his legs a shoulder width apart and raised his arms in a V, then executed a deep bow from the waist.

The audience exploded with applause and exclamations. Karl's eyes were wide when I turned to him, and I could only shrug at his inquiring expression.

The wall stopped moving, and Thorne turned in place, seeming at ease on his perch, as though he stood firmly on bedrock. Below him, a portion of the stage floor slid back, and a sarcophagus-shaped transparent box, perhaps six feet long and three feet wide and deep, rose up. Inside the box, clear liquid sloshed lazily with the movement.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called. "As you no doubt know, I am Thorne, and I thank you for your kind applause." There was an answering response of claps and cheers until he bowed once more and again held up a hand for quiet. "May I now be so bold as to ask for two volunteers? Hold up your hands, please."

All eyes were raised to him, and there were murmurs and whispers. Then several hands went up. "You, miss," Thorne called, "in the third row, and you, sir" - he pointed - "there, on the aisle in front."

The two selected looked around and then stood up hesitantly.

"Yes, thank you. Could you come to the stage, please? The ushers will direct you."

Two men in theater uniforms came forward and guided the volunteers to the stairs leading to the stage. Soon they were both standing next to the glass box, and the ushers retreated to the wings.

Thorne looked down from his perch. "Sir, will you please tell our audience what is in the tank? Yes, you may reach in. I assure you it does not contain a shark or an alligator." There were a few titters from the audience.

After a small hesitation, the man thrust his hand into the liquid. "It's water," he said. He withdrew his hand and shook it, scattering droplets, then brought out a handkerchief from his pocket. "And it's cold!" he pronounced, wiping his hands, which drew another round of laughter.

"Thank you, sir," said Thorne, still standing easily twenty feet above the stage. "And now...."

The box rose above the stage floor, until there was perhaps two feet of open air under it. There appeared to be nothing solid beneath, only a framework of slender supports. Such a volume of water, reaching near the top of the tank, would be heavy, and I would not have been surprised to see the framework bend and collapse, but it did not.

Thorne then called on the lady. "And now, mademoiselle, if you would please walk behind the tank and show our friends that it is indeed glass, and supported only as you see."

She looked up, and he smiled down at her. Then she slowly walked around the box until she was behind it, and we could see her clearly, her high-heeled shoes and stockinged legs below and her little hat just visible above. Through the glass, her face, distorted only slightly by the liquid, was also clearly visible, as was her body in its frilly pink dress.

When she had returned to stand near the gentleman, Thorne spoke. "My thanks to you both. You may now return to your seats."

The man helped the woman down the stairs, and they were soon seated again to a small round of applause from the rest of the audience.

"Ah," Thorne said, "you are very kind, and now...." He stepped to the right, the length of one of his feet projecting over the narrow top of the wall. Suddenly, he extended both arms, as a high-wire walker does for balance, though they had previously been at his sides. "But...." He hesitated, now waving his arms. "I fear I may have waited a bit too long to...." He bent forward, his left foot completely leaving the wall top. As one, the audience gasped.

Thorne's eyes seemed to widen, and he windmilled his arms, leaning far forward and then back, balancing precariously on one foot. I confess my hands tightened on the arms of my chair.

Then, "Oh!" he exclaimed, and he fell forward.

Time seemed to slow. It wasn't a great distance, but his thrashing limbs and contorting body seemed to hang suspended for much too long. Then, at the last possible moment, his body miraculously straightened and aligned itself with the glass box, his legs together, arms crossed over his chest, and he slipped into the water with the merest splash.

There was nothing but silence, and then the audience erupted in the screams and gasps they'd had no time for before. Many stood, and ushers appeared near the stage to keep back any would-be Good Samaritans. As we watched, Thorne's body sank gently to the bottom of the box and lay there, face up, completely submerged, not moving. A spotlight played over the tank, making sure to highlight all sides, and another light rose from below, shining through the glass bottom.

Thorne's hair moved in the slight liquid current, but he was still as stone. The audience held its breath-as did I.

All at once, there was a flash of multicolored light and the whole theater went dark. But before anyone could move or speak, the spotlight returned and Thorne stood on the stage, in front of the wall and the empty tank, dressed now in white tie and tails, every hair in place, the satin cape that had lain on the stage now back on his shoulders.

The applause was deafening, and people began to stand, roaring their approval as Thorne bowed to the left, right, and center. It was obvious there was not a drop of water on him.

With a final bow and a flourish of his cape, Thorne turned to stride offstage as the crimson curtains drew closed.

Karl looked over at me and reached up to scratch his head, a gesture he claimed helped him think. At the last moment, he must have remembered the pomade in his hair, as he lowered his hand back to his lap. "Never seen anything quite like that," he said, just loud enough for me to hear.

Around us, the rest of the audience was still clapping and whooping, some standing and stamping their feet.

I shook my head and turned to face Karl. "Neither have I," I said softly. "Neither have I."

When the hubbub had died down somewhat, Karl and I made our way to the lobby. I could think of nothing to say. The performance had been remarkable, and I had no idea how any of it could have been done.

Still marveling, I was surprised to recognize the man walking toward us.

"Lucas!" he called, "Lucas Stone!"

A rather portly gentleman in a well-tailored tuxedo was heading our way, his hand extended. As I took it, I turned to Karl.

"Karl Larsen, I'd like you to meet Arthur Steinbauer. He's the talent agent who helped arrange some of the acts back when Thomas was starting Caldwell's Wonders. It's good to see you, Arthur. I haven't heard from you in some time. How are you?"

Arthur's florid face smiled as he shrugged, the fabric of his tuxedo barely creasing. "I am quite well, my friend. I trust you enjoyed tonight's performance?" he said, giving Karl only a cursory glance and nod. I wondered at his lack of courtesy, but he seemed somehow distracted. "As you may know, I am here as the agent for Prince Thorne. Would you like to meet - Oh, just a moment. There he is now!" He laughed and gestured. "Look at him, such an amusing manner."

I would not have characterized as "amusing" the tall man across the theater lobby. Striking, perhaps, intriguing, possibly. He was just turning away from a conversation with a young woman, and I don't believe she would have characterized him as amusing either. From the glow in her eyes, fascinating would have been more like it.

Arthur rushed forward to greet him, then placed his hand on the man's shoulder to lead him in our direction, having to stop several times as people came up to congratulate Thorne or ask for his autograph.

Up close, Thorne's black hair and mustache accentuated the paleness of his narrow face. The tuxedo he now wore fitted him even better than Arthur's fit him, complementing his slender, almost gaunt physique. But in my opinion, his most arresting features were his eyes-a piercing shade of green I'd never encountered before.

A somewhat superior smile formed on the thin lips as he met my gaze. I found it annoying, but Arthur obviously did not, and if I hadn't known Arthur was heterosexual, I would have thought he was smitten.

"Lucas Stone, allow me to introduce Prince Thorne."

The dark-haired man extended a manicured hand. "Please, I do not use the title here. Thorne will do nicely, Mr. Stone."

There was an accent to his words I couldn't identify, slight but noticeable. His hand was dry and rather cool in mine. I shook it briefly.

"Very well, Mr. Thorne, and this is my partner, Karl Larsen."

Thorne's claim to the "prince" title didn't faze me. I'd met many who vowed to be some sort of royalty, and some I even believed. Europe had spawned many a minor noble - barons, counts, dukes and duchesses - and I'd never gone to the trouble of sorting out the countries they claimed to be from. If a title made them feel better, that was fine with me.

Thorne's eyes twinkled. "So pleased to meet you, sir," he said to Karl, all but clicking his heels together. "What a splendid head of hair you have."

He gestured at Karl's auburn-red crowning glory, and Karl turned and gave me a look, then shook the man's hand - briefly, as I had done. "I had nothing to do with its color, Mr. Thorne. I take after my mama," he said.

"In that case," Thorne said, his voice flowing, smooth as cream, "I am certain she is a very lovely woman."

I could feel my eyes narrowing. Did this... person think he could charm one and all with his glib manner and polished appearance? I cast another glance at Arthur, who was almost dancing attendance, his gaze never leaving Thorne's face. It certainly seemed to work on some.

Thorne turned back to me. "Mr. Steinbauer and I had planned to indulge in a nightcap at a nearby club. Perhaps you would join us?"

Prohibition was still going strong, but I was certain that if there was one place you could find a speakeasy, it was in New York City. We'd had no particular plans for the evening, so I glanced at Karl, and he shrugged. "Very well," I said, "thank you."

After another short walk, we were soon seated at a table in the bustling 21 Club, Arthur having whispered something to the guard out front, some sort of password, I imagined. A small band was playing enthusiastic jazz, the other patrons were in tuxedos or shiny sequined gowns, and gin martinis seemed to be the most popular beverage. Arthur ordered four of them from the attentive waiter. When they arrived, they were quite strong, and after the first taste, I put my glass down. Karl coughed after one sip and asked for a glass of water. I noticed that, though Thorne often raised his glass to his lips, the level of liquid did not drop markedly. Perhaps he cared no more for the drink than Karl or I did, though Arthur was soon ordering another.

"That was an incredible performance tonight," I said, raising my voice to be heard over the music. The more I thought about it, the more I was deciding it had all been an illusion, perhaps a trick done with mirrors. It was uncomfortable to think otherwise.

Thorne inclined his head. "So glad you enjoyed it."

Arthur beamed at him. "Lucas owns and operates the traveling carnival, Caldwell's Wonders, so he's familiar with performances - on a smaller scale, of course."

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? I am surprised you are here and not on tour. May I ask what brings you to this great city?"

I took another small sip of my martini. "We came mainly on business. Just thought we might as well enjoy ourselves a little while we were here."

"Business?" Arthur asked. "Not signing new acts from another agent, I trust."

I smiled and shook my head. "No, nothing like that."

Arthur nodded. "Lucas Stone...," he said, leaning back and taking a hefty swallow of his fresh drink, "seeing you again takes me back. I wonder, are any of Thomas's original people still with the show?"

I thought for a moment. "Well, several members of the company were certainly there before my time. There's Henry Freeman, the Professor, Hattie the fortune-teller...."

Arthur nodded slowly. "I don't remember a Henry Freeman, but the Professor... is that old scoundrel still alive and well?" Arthur laughed, not seeming to need an answer. "He predates me also. When I knew him, he and Thomas were already thick as thieves. But come to think of it I do remember a fortune-teller I introduced to Thomas. Her name wasn't Hattie, though. Anastacia something-or-other. Foreign sounding...." He snapped his fingers. "Ciobanu, that was it. Lovely woman, with a little girl, as I recall, and such a remarkable gift for showmanship. Knew just what the marks wanted to hear. Do you think your Hattie could be the same person?"

I of course knew Hattie's legal name from our records, but I'd never heard anyone use it before. Arthur seemed to have an amazing memory. "Yes, that's Hattie." We'd never talked about her having a daughter, but Thomas had mentioned it once or twice in passing. I wondered what had happened to the child.

"Wonderful! Please give her my best regards."

"I will."

Thorne looked thoughtful. "Ciobanu. A most interesting name. Has the lady ever lived elsewhere, in Europe perhaps?"

"I have no idea," I said, and Arthur shrugged. "You'd have to ask her."

He nodded. "Perhaps I shall. Which brings to mind an idea I have. It would please me very much to travel with your show for a time. Would you have a place for a talent such as mine?"

For a moment I had no idea what to say, then: "May I ask what you might find desirable in a carnival like ours?" I gestured around at the elegantly appointed room. "You seem to be rather... used to luxury, sir, if you will forgive my saying so. We are a small company, and we travel slowly and with only the most basic of necessities. The towns we frequent are often small and insignificant, unsophisticated locales that appreciate our modest entertainments."

"Ah, but that is exactly what I wish. I want a break from the hustle and bustle of large cities, to visit the countryside and the simple people who dwell there. It will serve to remind me of my homeland. I'm sure it would not take long to acquire a caravan and a vehicle to haul it. I myself do not drive, but my manservant, Gregor, would take on that and any other such necessary tasks. He has been with me for some time and knows my requirements."

"And are these 'requirements' something we should also know about if you were to travel with Caldwell's Wonders?"

He laughed very softly, a small sound I would not have noticed had I not been seated close to him. "Indeed, I do have some... perhaps foibles will express it best. You see, I had a serious skin condition as a child, a dreadfully painful rash exacerbated by the rays of the sun. I grew out of it, of course, but going out in the light of day remains something of a horror for me. I will stay inside until the sun goes down, so I will be unable to perform at any of your shows before dark. I trust that will not be inconvenient?"

He raised his thin eyebrows.

Some members of our company had special needs, certainly, and I could not see that this silly phobia of his would matter. If he only performed in the evening, then his share of the show's take would be adjusted accordingly.

"I see no problem with that, Mr. Thorne, though the amount of your income would be correspondingly lower, of course."

He made a little moue and shook his head. "I ask for no financial compensation. All I desire is to travel with your company for a time, and in return, I will practice my craft at your evening shows. I think you will find my performances quite amusing."

I frowned. "This is ridiculous, sir. Either your act is worthy of some sort of payment or it would be worthless to me."

"Hear! Hear!" Arthur added. "Speaking as your agent, Thorne, you may have little need for money, but I still want my percentage of your earnings."

"Of course." Thorne dipped his head in another small bow. "You Americans... so... egalitarian."

"Indeed. I'm not accustomed to folks wanting to perform for nothing. Everyone else needs money. Why don't you?" I wasn't sure why I hadn't dismissed the whole idea by now. I was not in the habit of employing strangers on the spur of the moment. I'd met many a charlatan, and some had been charming enough to win a place in our show for a time. This man, however, seemed unlike the ordinary flimflam artist. Karl and I had witnessed his abilities in the theater tonight, however his escape had been accomplished, and his manner was confident, one might say to the point of arrogance. Also, I didn't like the way he was looking at me, as though I was a stepping stone on the way to his ultimate goal, or perhaps an hors d'oeuvre to please his palate....

I cleared my throat. My thoughts were getting away from me.

He smiled, a mere curve of the lips. "As you may suspect, I am new to these United States, but I brought with me some of my inherited wealth from the old country. I see no reason for greed in my request for your indulgence. However, if you insist, I will accept such compensation as you see fit." Another of those narrow smiles. "That is, if you will accept my... services."

I continued to stare at him. His face was almost expressionless now, but his eyes....

I shook myself. "That would depend upon the quality of your performance. Our show has no place for such an act as you put on tonight. What you do would have to be on a much smaller scale."

"Of course. I have many other magical oddities I may share, including some skill at mesmerism. If you will allow me to demonstrate?"

I was the magician with Caldwell's Wonders, though my magic was purely sleight of hand and misdirection. Still, I enjoyed my moments in the spotlight. Was there room enough for two magicians with the show? "Certainly." Was he going to produce a pack of cards or a rabbit from his top hat?

"Excellent. Mr. Steinbauer, would you consent to be my assistant?"

Arthur laughed. "I'm sure that would be great fun. I'd be delighted!"

Permission given, Thorne gazed steadily into Arthur's eyes, then passed a palm near his face. When I looked again, Arthur's eyes were closed, and his head had begun to droop. What had Thorne done in that brief time? I turned to Karl, and he shrugged. Could Arthur and Thorne have arranged this trick between them beforehand?

Thorne signaled to the waiter. "Would you be able to bring me a large raw onion, peeled, a small cutting board, and the spiciest raw pepper you can find? Oh, and a small sharp knife."

The man looked puzzled but nodded. "Of course, sir. Right away."

When the items had been brought and the waiter suitably tipped for his trouble, Thorne turned to me, ignoring Arthur, who was apparently still drowsing in his chair. "Of course, I will omit the usual flourishes and patter, as this is only a demonstration, not a true performance, and as you are aware, this venue is not ideal."

I nodded, acknowledging the surrounding music, chatter, and general merriment.

"Arthur," Thorne called, voice scarcely loud enough to be heard. "Open your eyes, my friend."

Arthur stirred, blinking and sitting up straighter.

"I know you must be hungry." Arthur licked his lips, his eyes unfocussed. "Good. Then I have for you a juicy and delicious apple." He held out the onion, smooth and white and about the size of a baseball. "Take a bite."

Arthur took the onion from his hand and bit down with a crunch. After chewing and swallowing, his lips widened in a smile.

"Is this not the most delicious apple you have ever tasted?" Thorne asked.

Arthur nodded, took another bite, and chewed vigorously. When almost half the onion was gone, Thorne took what remained from his hand. "And now that you have eaten, I am sure you would enjoy a sweet for dessert." Thorne held up the small red pepper. He used the knife to slice it in half on the cutting board, and even from across the table the fumes brought tears to my eyes. Karl sneezed and reached for his handkerchief.

"Open wide." Thorne inserted the potent vegetable into Arthur's mouth. "A chocolate-covered almond-your favorite." Arthur crunched the offering with obvious delight.

Beside me, Karl was staring, openmouthed. I wondered if, after Arthur awoke, he would suffer the indigestion he so rightfully deserved for this impromptu meal.

"Now, Arthur, you must be very tired, so I want you to sleep. While you rest, nothing can hurt you. You will feel only relaxation and contentment. Sleep." Arthur's head inclined until his chin rested on his chest. When he was breathing slowly and steadily, Thorne lifted one of Arthur's hands and placed it on the cutting board, then smiled over at Karl and myself. "Please do not be alarmed," he said, and plunged the sharp blade through Arthur's palm until we heard a thunk as the point was imbedded in the wood.

I started and grabbed the table edge as I heard Karl's sharp indrawn breath, but Arthur never moved, now snoring softly.

Thorne gestured to the knife. No blood seeped from the wound in Arthur's hand.

"Quod erat demonstrandum," Thorne murmured. And indeed, we saw the facts he had demonstrated.

The knife was removed as quickly as it had been inserted, and when the items had been cleared away and Arthur was awakened by a snap of Thorne's fingers, his palm was whole and unblemished. He did not ask what we had witnessed, but fluttered the hand I would have liked to examine more closely and instead inquired if I was now agreeable to Thorne's proposal.

I hesitated and took a larger sip of my martini, feeling that further intake of alcohol was justified as medicinal.

Arthur continued, "As you know, your contract with the Palace is up tomorrow. How soon would you be able to join them?"

Thorne turned to me. "Will you accept me into your company, sir?"

All eyes were on me now, including Karl's. Even if Thorne could do only one show a day, I could see an act such as that one being very popular. But I knew nothing about the man. Perhaps it would be best to do more research into his background before hiring him. Still, he came with Arthur's recommendation, and he said he only wanted a short break from his normal routine....

"All right," I said, "I will accept your services - on a temporary basis, you understand."

Arthur rubbed his palms together. "That will be perfect! I've booked the prince into the El Capitan Theatre in San Francisco in six weeks' time." He looked to Thorne. "That should give you the little vacation you want and Lucas a chance to benefit from some of your excellent performances. I'll make up some flyers about San Francisco, and you can display them on your setup."

We agreed that Thorne would make arrangements and meet us sometime in the next few days.

When we were back in our hotel room, I asked Karl, "What do you think of 'Prince' Thorne?"

He stopped in the midst of removing his shirt studs and cuff links. "Not sure what to think. That act with Mr. Steinbauer was pretty impressive."

I snorted. "Nonsense. It was just common mesmerism." Though I had never seen it done quite like that.

He gave me a look, and I pretended not to notice, not sure why I was feeling irritated.

Karl resumed undressing. "He sure seemed interested in Hattie, and that was right before he asked to come with the carnival. He's awful young to know her, unless he's a distant relative of hers or something."

That was the last thing on my mind. "I doubt his question about Hattie meant anything at all. I also doubt he was serious about joining the show. He was probably just making idle conversation." I removed my shirt and threw it into a corner. "We'll probably never see him again, and that suits me just fine." Karl was staring at me now. I turned my back.

"Lucas, you know I leave all the hiring and firing to you, but it appears to me that this feller bothers you in some way."

I whipped around to face him. "Bothers me? What's that supposed to mean?" Somehow my tone had sharpened.

Karl held up both palms. "Don't get all upset. I just thought maybe you didn't like him, or... maybe you liked him a whole lot...."

I knew what he was implying, but it was utter nonsense. Certainly Thorne was a handsome man with a charming manner, but it was all part of his act, merely a façade, and I could never find such a person attractive. I realized my hands were clenched into fists and relaxed them. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then went to Karl and put my hands on his shoulders. "You, my dear, are the only man in New York City that I want. How about we finish undressing and then try out that big bed?" I pointed, and Karl smiled and kissed my cheek.

"That sounds perfect."

And it was.

Mr. Kahn, when we met him at his office next morning, was a good-looking man, possibly a few years younger than myself, in his early twenties, who dressed well, but the discerning expression in his sharp eyes was what impressed me. No one was putting anything over on this gentleman.

Hattie's friend, Mr. Silverman, had met us at the door and introduced us, then left while we seated ourselves in front of Mr. Kahn's large desk.

"I'm told you run a traveling carnival, Mr. Stone. That must be an interesting way to earn a living, certainly more exciting than sitting behind a desk all day." He smiled.

We spoke for a time about the carnival and our current financial practices, and Mr. Kahn seemed interested and attentive, asking the occasional question. Finally he said, "It sounds like a nice little enterprise, but what's brought you here to talk to me?"

I cleared my throat. "A good friend of mine who knows Mr. Silverman told me that you have a unique way of investing in the stock market, sir, and that you've been very successful when others have not."

He nodded. "It's true that my strategies are not quite like those of most brokers. Some think I'm deranged." He smiled, then sobered. "I'm taking risks, certainly, but I have a feeling they'll continue to pay off, no matter what happens. Current conditions forecast a swift and massive downturn in the economy, and I plan to survive it."

I looked at Karl, and he nodded. We'd both come to believe in Hattie, and talking with this man had only reinforced what she'd said about future financial trends. "We would also like to survive whatever is on the way, Mr. Kahn," I said. "Would you consider acting as the investment broker for Caldwell's Wonders?"

He smiled. "You gentlemen must be very trusting... or very foolish," he said. "I could cheat you blind or lose everything you have on my next transaction."

I nodded. "I suppose that's true, sir. But I believe we'll take that chance."

His handshake was very firm.

As soon as we returned home, I made a point of visiting Hattie. "Well?" she demanded when we were seated at the table in her caravan.

I handed her the paper-wrapped package of bagels her friend, Mr. Silverman, had sent in return for the home-made cinnamon buns she'd sent for him. "I believe you were right in sending us to Mr. Kahn. He had a lot to say about the stock market and the future in general. He seems a most intelligent and forward-thinking individual."

"And...?" she prompted.

"And we signed a contract with him. I feel very good about trusting him with our finances. Thank you, Hattie. I'm so glad you came to me."

She nodded, smiling smugly. "I told you so."

I shook my head, willing to give credit where it was due and sure Hattie would be reminding me of this quest for years to come. For now, I needed to get back to work, having many things I wanted to check on after being away. "Oh, and by the way, we saw a show while we were in the city, and because of it we may also have taken on a temporary new performer - a magician and mesmerist. Of course, I don't believe in that so-called 'animal magnetism' mesmerists claim to use, but he's a very convincing illusionist."

A day away from New York City had given me some perspective. Thorne, whether he showed up or not, now seemed unimportant.

Hattie smiled coyly. "Hmm... I thought, after you and Karl got together, you'd be a believer in animal magnetism."

"Hattie," I chided, turning away to hopefully hide my blush. It was true that Hattie had predicted my relationship with Karl, as she often took pleasure in reminding me. "Here," I said, bringing out the package containing the colorful silk scarf I'd bought for her. A small gift was the least I could do for all her help and good advice.

She exclaimed over the trifle and stood to give me a kiss on the cheek, which intimacy brought on another embarrassing flush.

As I rose to go, I said, "You may be interested to meet this man, Thorne. Arthur Steinbauer is his agent, and when he mentioned your name, Thorne wanted to know if you'd ever lived abroad. I thought perhaps you might know him."

Hattie shook her head, busy unfolding the scarf and tying it around her neck, where the colors continued to clash with the remainder of her outfit. "Nope, never met anyone named Thorne."

"Well, he may never show up, so it probably doesn't matter. And before I forget, Arthur sends his regards."

She grimaced, now admiring herself in the small oval mirror above the sink. "Surprised he remembered me after all this time. Probably just remembers the fee I paid him."

I waved and was out the door. Arthur liked money; she could be right.

As it happened, Thorne did arrive. About five days later, a large caravan pulled by a shiny blue Ford pickup truck rolled onto the lot where we were setting up, just at sundown. I'd given Arthur a copy of our itinerary, so it wasn't a big surprise that they'd found us. I was standing in the center of camp, talking to Samson about the Ferris wheel, which had been acting up, and quite a few other carnies were gathered around the soup pot, where Hattie was ladling out bowls of tonight's concoction, the entire scene illuminated by our electric lights. A large man in a dark suit got out of the truck's cab and went around to open the caravan door, and there was Thorne, just as I remembered him, except today his suit was a plain-cut charcoal gray, accented by a red tie.

The caravan alone, obviously one of the newest self-contained types, was enough to draw people's interest, so chatter switched from supper to luxury living as I listened. I decided I'd wait for Thorne to come to me, and moved closer to the cooking fire, so I was close enough to Hattie to see her face pale as she glanced up at the newcomers and hear her mutter something that sounded like "Strigoi," after which she handed the ladle to Mavis and hurried away in the direction of her caravan.

Her reaction seemed more than odd, but I hadn't much time to think on it, what with greeting Thorne and introducing him around. His man, Gregor, said very little in a low, accented voice, but accepted a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread from Mavis.

Thorne bowed when Mavis offered him food, taking her hand and kissing it while her eyes opened wide. "Thank you, dear lady, but I have already supped this night," he said, and I'm not sure Mavis ever stammered out a reply.

Just as it had in New York City, Thorne's presence was beginning to annoy me.

I slipped away after making sure he and his man understood the camp rules, keeping your own area tidy and disposing of trash in the bins provided, and pointing out the locations of potable water and sanitary facilities. Tomorrow would be our first open day at this site, and it would be a busy one. I wanted a shower before bed, and hoped Karl had completed his duties so we could make it an early night. I did not expect to find Hattie in the shadows by our caravan door.

I scarcely recognized her, dressed in a black skirt and shawl instead of the usual bright colors. I moved to open the door and invite her inside, but she shook her head and took hold of my arm.

"Boss... Lucas, take this, and please... wear it." She was holding out a small silver cross on a chain. I looked closer and found it was a crucifix. I'd known Hattie a long time, and this was the first I'd ever heard of her having any sort of religion.

"Hattie, what...?"

"I know it seems silly, but please, humor me." When I didn't reach for it, she moved closer and put the silver chain over my head, then tucked it and the cross under my shirt. "You won't even know it's there." She patted my chest once and then left, fading into the dark. The bit of metal felt cold against my skin.

In the morning, Hattie and her caravan were gone. When I asked around, Samson told me she had asked him to pack up and move her tent and the few other things that made her fortune-telling setup. "Did she say where she was going or when she'd be back?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Didn't say nothin' about that, just that she had to go."

"And you didn't ask?"

Samson shrugged. "Wasn't any of my business."

Up till now, I'd always thought Samson's incurious nature a positive thing.

Karl had asked about the crucifix, and been as puzzled as I when I told him about Hattie's gift. Now I was trying to understand this new development, wondering if it was possible to tie Thorne's arrival into Hattie's actions, but it just didn't make sense. Hattie had never shown fear of anything but wildfires, tornados, and floods, so long as I'd known her, and however irritating Thorne might be, he wasn't frightening. I resolved to put the puzzle out of my mind and get on with everyday matters. Hattie had often demonstrated that she could take care of herself, and she knew how to get in touch with us if she needed anything.

Thorne's performance that night, on a small stage inside a tent with perhaps fifty seats for the audience, was similar to what he had shown us with Arthur. He did add a lot of patter and some dramatic gestures, but the outcome was the same, and the volunteer gentleman from the audience opened his eyes to expressions of amazement from his fellow townspeople. I'd wanted to see how Thorne was accepted, and watched from the wings as the man's hand was examined and exclaimed over, but it was no more damaged than Arthur's had been, despite the fact that Thorne had raised it to the audience's view with the knife still through it, easily visible from either side.

He closed the show with the statement that, through mesmerism, the mind could often control the body, and the use of mesmerism might help sufferers of discomfort or disease. If anyone was interested, he would gladly answer questions or offer advice, if they wanted to see him later, in the small tent near his caravan. I noticed he'd had Gregor park off to the side, well away from other trailers and the carnival proper.

So Thorne would be seeing people after his show. Hattie did that on occasion, and so did the Professor, but somehow the idea of Thorne, alone with some unsuspecting mark and away from the busy midway, doing the same made me uneasy.

The next day, I noticed roustabout Henry Freeman forking bales of straw and hay off a truck and onto a stack near the horse corral, his mahogany-brown skin glossy in the hot sun. There was another pitchfork in the truck, and I took it and moved a fifty-pound bale or two myself. "How's everything going? Talked to the new carnies yet?" I asked him.

He stopped to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Things are going fine, boss." He looked around, his brow wrinkling. "You know, I asked that man of Mr. Thorne's, Gregor, if there was anything I could do to help him set up Thorne's pitch."

I'd noticed Gregor driving tent pegs with a maul by torchlight the night they arrived. "And?"

"Well, he didn't say much, but he let me know that if Mr. Thorne needed anything, Gregor would take care of it on his own." Henry paused, looking thoughtful. "Odd sort of fellow. Didn't seem to look down on me for being a Negro-almost seemed like he didn't see me at all."

Gregor did seem to be an odd duck. "It was good of you to offer. Has Thorne himself said anything to you?"

"No, but now that you mention it, he did give me kind of a long look and then a big smile as I was crossing the midway last night. Wasn't sure what that was about."

I snorted and clapped Henry on the shoulder. "That's how I feel about Thorne most of the time."

Henry smiled. "I heard about his act and how some of the marks just hung on him afterward. He must be quite the showman."

I nodded. He did seem to know what people wanted - or perhaps what he could make them want.

It had crossed my mind to wonder if Thorne was really a prince, at least in the "old country" he said he came from. Gregor certainly seemed to treat him with more deference than just a boss.

But, as Shakespeare wrote, what's in a name? I had no idea if Martin Klein, the man we called Professor, had even graduated from sixth grade, let alone earned that lofty title. But I'd been told Thomas was the one to name him, and that was good enough for me. Professor suited him. Did "prince" suit the man named Thorne? Well, he was in America now, so whether it did or didn't, I decided it had nothing to do with our carnival.

My conversation with Henry in mind, I went to speak to the Professor at the setup for his medicine show.

"Thorne? Oh yes, he's been around. Came right up and introduced himself, wanted to see my stock, asked about different potions and elixirs."

"Made a good impression?" I asked.

"Well, he does know quite a bit about herbal preparations," the Professor said thoughtfully, running a hand through his thick white hair. "But then he asked me a couple of questions about Hattie, like did I know where she'd gone. When I said I didn't, he wanted to know how old she was. I told him I'd no idea, and I thought it was rude for him to ask. On top of that, he gives me kind of a funny feeling-right here." He tapped a spot near his breastbone. "If I were you, I'd keep an eye on him."

I assured him I had every intention of doing just that.

Thorne had told me that his caravan would be locked during the day, while he slept, but even so, Gregor rarely strayed far from it, often to be seen pottering about or dozing in a chair under the front canopy, just outside the door. I wasn't sure if he ever ate until after sundown, when he most often came to the communal fire for a bowl, but surely there must be supplies inside their caravan, since I'd never seen Thorne eat after he emerged. Perhaps he had a delicate digestion and needed to watch what he ate.

Mavis told me that Gregor had gone to town and returned to give her a chunk of beef and a ten-pound sack of potatoes to add to the stew. Contributing some sort of foodstuffs to the pot was a common practice to pay for one's meals. Since he didn't really interact with anyone, I wondered how Gregor had learned about it.

That evening found me again keeping an eye on Thorne as he began a different sort of performance.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am Thorne. What an odd name, you may say. A thorn is a briar, a painful sharpness to be avoided, is it not? But roses, who does not love roses? Their heavenly scent, their velvet petals, their colors that delight the eyes-and yet... there can be no rose without a thorn. If we want to enjoy the beauty and perfection of that flower, we must embrace the thorn, for the two cannot be separated. One cannot exist without the other. They are one thing only, the thorn and the rose, a balance of pleasure and pain, good and evil.

"My friends, the life we share, here on this blessed earth, generously granted by our creator, is also a game of balance. Without evil, we cannot know goodness, and without sorrow, we will never recognize joy. Allow me, the thorn of balance, to show you my opposites, the balance of life that holds death in thrall.

"I know you are all good Christians, and who among you does not believe in heaven and its supernal delights? This life is filled with evil and sorrow. Let me show you the opposite side of that coin" - with a flourish, he produced a golden circle from his pocket, a twenty-dollar double eagle, tossed it into the air, and before I could blink it had disappeared - "the joy that makes this life bearable, the goodness that cannot be measured. Who will taste it!"

I'd heard many a pitch, but this one seemed somehow different. What was he promising these folks that sat before him, openmouthed? Their eyes seemed to follow him, almost as though he was their prophet, come to lead them to his own version of the Promised Land. What sort of place would it be?

A couple of hands went slowly up, as though they weren't sure he was asking for volunteers. Thorne smiled and nodded at them. "Yes, my friends, I offer you the chance of a lifetime, a brief vision of heaven. Is any brave enough to take it?"

Several more hands were raised, a few belonging to brash young farm lads in overalls who, I imagine, wanted a chance to poke fun or make a fool of the man on the stage, but Thorne passed over them and pointed to a young woman, perhaps not yet out of her teens, with a sweet, shy smile and blonde hair in braids pinned around her head. I saw her eyes widen, and she didn't rise until the older woman sitting next to her gave her a little shove. Then she stood and walked slowly forward, accompanied by light applause and a few catcalls. The folks from this town were not the polished sophisticates Thorne had performed for in the big city. I hoped he was enjoying the rustic vacation he'd asked for.

He seemed unflustered, though, and came to the edge of the little stage to take the girl's hand and help her up. "I thank you, my dear, for your kind assistance," he said as she stood next to him, looking around nervously. "Is it your wish, then, to see the delights of heaven?" She looked everywhere but at him, and then nodded once, a pink blush rising to her cream-white cheeks. Carefully, he turned her head toward him with one finger on her chin and stared into her eyes, and she seemed to stare back. "Sleep," he said, and all at once her eyes closed and her body began to sway. Thorne placed an arm around her waist, cradling her head on his shoulder. Then he raised his eyes and smiled, addressing the audience.

"Do you see how she sleeps? So trusting, as a child sleeps." He slipped his other arm beneath her knees and lifted her, seemingly without effort. "What does she dream? Surely something beautiful, as she is as light as a feather, as innocent as a dove." He walked to where two straight-backed chairs had been placed, and proceeded to stretch the woman's body until her ankles rested on one chair back and her neck on the other. When he stepped away, she stayed there, stiff and still, her long full skirts and petticoats fanning chastely down beneath her. Her hair, also unfashionably long, began to come undone from its pins until it too hung down to pool on one chair seat.

The audience gave a collective gasp.

Thorne bowed, gesturing toward the young woman as if to say "See what I have done?" then pointed to a man in a suit and tie in the front row. "You, sir, please come forward." The man stood slowly, climbed onto the stage, and moved, at Thorne's direction, until he was near the woman and the chairs. "Yes, my friend," Thorne said, "please feel free to touch this young lady in any way you see fit. Within the bounds of decency, of course." He added the last with a smile. "And assure yourself that she is just as she seems, sleeping the sleep of innocence and joy on nothing but air."

The man looked at Thorne and then the audience, extended a cautious hand, and bent to feel around under the woman's body, then over it, touching the chairs but never touching her. He walked all around her, finally coming to a stop where he'd begun. "There's nothing else holding her up," he said, facing the crowd.

As though no one was quite sure what to do, a few began to clap, and Thorne bowed again. "Thank you, and thank you, sir." He gestured for the man to resume his seat.

Thorne stared at the audience. "To our slumbering beauty, the cares of this world seem to mean nothing. But what of the concerns and worries that come to us all, the burdens we all must bear? Does she feel them even now?" He moved toward the sleeping woman and the small table near her. Upon it, among other things, rested the sort of tray with legs used for taking breakfast in bed. He took the tray and balanced it atop her body, two legs on her rib cage and two on her thighs. "Perhaps these very solid burdens will suffice to simulate those we often suffer in life." Taking other objects from the table, he placed three large books, each perhaps four inches thick, on the tray, and on top of these he balanced a plate holding half a watermelon. Finally he grasped a length of thick chain and coiled it carefully around and over the tray.

The woman never moved, nor did her body sag in the slightest. She remained as stiff as when he first laid her in place.

There was scattered applause from the audience but murmuring also, and a few assertions that the objects were not what they seemed, perhaps only papier mâché fakes. It was at that point Thorne swept one arm out, knocking away the tray and all it held. The objects fell to the stage floor with thuds and cracks and a splash from the watermelon, as well as a heavy metallic rattle and clang from the chain.

The applause became thunderous, and some rose to their feet with loud exclamations. Thorne smiled, bowed, and held out a quelling palm. When the noise had died back, he spoke, gesturing to the young woman.

"No, she sleeps peacefully, innocent of all life's burdens." He gestured toward her again, as though making sure no one could miss the spectacle.

"But as we all know, every sleeper must wake. Let us wake her gently so that she may remember this time with joy." He again placed one arm under the sleeping girl's shoulders and the other under her knees, and she ceased to be stiff as he lifted her. Now the woman in his arms bent naturally, head back, her eyes closed, barely seeming to breathe. The audience too seemed to hold their breaths, and Thorne smiled at them as he gracefully spun a pirouette with her in his arms. Then his head turned and his eyes met mine, as I stood in the wings behind the canvas façade. Holding my gaze, he bent his head to the woman's throat, and I thought I saw the flash of something sharp and white in his mouth. To the audience, it must have appeared that he laid a reverent kiss on her cheek.

I could not look away, and a great deal of time seemed to pass as I felt the power of his stare. I fought not to tremble when he at last raised his head, licking his lips. For a moment, his emerald eyes seemed to glow, and then he smiled and turned back to the audience.

"Awake, my angel, awaken to the joys of life."

She jerked in his arms, raising her head, and he let her legs down gently until she stood beside him, eyes still closed.

"Awake, my dear, and tell all your friends of your beautiful dreams." He left her standing on her own and clapped his hands sharply. Her eyes flew open and she looked around, mouth forming an O of surprise. Then she smiled and looked toward the back of the tent.

"Mama, I dreamed of angels!" she said, and there was laughter and applause as her mother came forward to lead her back to her seat.

There were no more catcalls or other expressions of derision. Thorne smiled and bowed low, then stated, as he had before, that he would be there to speak with anyone who cared to in his place near the edge of the camp.

I caught him just outside the tent. Not thinking, I took hold of his arm and fixed him with a glare. "What did you do to that girl?" I asked, keeping my voice low, though I wanted to shout.

He stared down at my hand on his sleeve, but I didn't release him, and he looked up into my face. "My dear Mr. Stone, it was but mesmerism, as I explained." He pulled gently but firmly away, a smile forming on his thin lips.

"Is it not amazing, the things the human mind and body are capable of?" he asked, his smile becoming broader. "Almost impossible to believe one's eyes, some might say...."

I wasn't letting it go that easily. "I saw you. You did... something." I didn't want to say what I thought. I didn't doubt my eyes, exactly, but saying it aloud would make it too real.

"Did I?" he asked, regarding me, head tilted slightly, eyebrows raised, as though he was contemplating a curiosity. He glanced up. "Ah, here is the young lady now."

The woman and her mother were walking toward us.

Thorne bowed deeply as they approached. "Dear lady, I am desolate that I did not ask your name before. Would you gift me with it now?"

She blushed, and her mother smiled indulgently. "It's Claire," the girl said softly.

"Mistress Claire, a name as lovely as you are, my dear. Thank you so much for participating in our little performance. I trust you enjoyed it?"

Her mother spoke. "She hasn't stopped talking about it! She claims angels held her up and flew with her into Heaven. She saw the streets of gold and heard the heavenly choir! I can't thank you enough, Mr. Thorne. All the Sunday school lessons in the world can't compare with that sort of testimony. I'm sure we'll be talking about it for ages, and we'll be back to see more of your performances... and bring our friends."

Thorne smiled a closed-lipped smile and nodded to them as she led her daughter away, the young woman looking back at Thorne even as her mother chattered and urged her along.

"Excellent publicity for the show, wouldn't you say, Mr. Stone?" Thorne asked me, then turned to stroll in the direction of his trailer.

I didn't bother to answer. It was a warm night, and the neckline of the girl's dress was generously cut. I had stared at the very spot on her throat Thorne had touched, but there was no mark to be seen.

In ones and twos, men and women made their way toward his caravan, eager for another taste of what Thorne offered.

"I know what I saw, Karl." I had seldom touched the bottle of whiskey left in the cupboard by Thomas, all those years ago, and it was still half full. Now I took a glass and poured some of the amber liquid into it, relishing the burn when I tipped it down my throat.

Karl's eyes widened. "If you say you saw it, I believe you, but come and sit down, all right?" He patted the seat beside him, and I sat reluctantly.

"Lucas, you don't think that maybe...."

"Maybe what!"

"Well, I remember you reading that book to me, you know, the scary one, about that monster they called Count Dra-"

"Don't be ridiculous!" I interrupted. "That was a story concocted by the writer, who only wanted to capitalize on the public's desire for horror and mysticism. There are no such things! Just superstitious twaddle that-"

Karl was holding up a hand. "All right. I didn't say I believed it. Don't bite my head off."

We sat quietly, the frantic beating of my heart steadying slowly as I drank more from the glass. Karl put an arm around me, and I took comfort from his familiar closeness.

"He's bothered you from the beginning, hasn't he," Karl said softly.

I wanted to argue, but he was right. "Karl... you don't... feel anything when he's around? Stressed or on edge or anything?"

He was quiet for a minute, then, "Nothing special. My mama would have said he was rude to mention liking my hair right when we first met, but I figured it was just his way, all part of the show."

I sighed. "I suppose what I saw tonight was part of the show too. He wants to maintain an air of mystery, maybe even scare the marks a little. I'm just falling for his line, thinking his act could be real."

Karl squeezed my shoulder. "It must be one hell of a good act for you to fall for it."

I laughed, pushing away what remained of the whiskey. "I just need to remember that, take things a little less seriously." Then, shaking my head, I said, "I am a bit worried about Hattie, though. I wish she'd come back or we'd at least hear from her."

Karl nodded. "Me too, but Hattie's a strong woman. She'll be all right."

With my determined change in attitude, the next day seemed brighter, and I felt better even after sunset, when I knew Thorne would be up and around. It was silly to be... well, afraid of Thorne. He'd never offered me or anyone else harm. He was just a man, after all.

I had noticed six-year-old Tommy, standing in the back of the tent during several of Thorne's performances. That evening I asked, "Would you like to meet him?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

Hand in hand, we walked over to Thorne's setup. Gregor was splitting firewood, but the "prince" was relaxing on a padded armchair outside the entrance to his little tent. He stood as we approached.

"Good evening, Mr. Stone. And who is this young fellow?"

"Hello," I said, "this is my son, Tommy."

Tommy was wearing his usual getup for being around marks - a hat and more clothing than was needed for the warm weather because it helped disguise his differences. He hated wearing clothes, as he always had, but by now he understood it was necessary.

Thorne sank to one knee and held out a hand. "I am pleased to meet you, Tommy," he said, and Tommy's small square palm was enclosed by Thorne's long, narrow hand.

"You too, sir," Tommy said politely as they shook.

Thorne stood. "I believe I might have something here that would interest a young man such as yourself." He frowned and patted his coat pockets, then produced a bouquet of daisies from behind his back and held them out toward Tommy.

Tommy blinked and started to reach for them, but Thorne pulled the flowers away, and suddenly they were gone. "No, no, not at all suitable for a young man. Let me see...." He tilted his head to one side, reached into his coat, and there on his palm sat a small gray dove. He held it out in Tommy's direction, but the bird took wing, ascending quickly into the surrounding trees.

"Oh dear," Thorne said, "whatever else do I have that... ah!" He snapped his fingers, and a shiny silver dime appeared between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand. He bent to present it to Tommy.

Tommy glanced up at me, and when I nodded, he took it. "Thank you, sir."

"You are quite welcome, my dear young man. And now I am sure you can find something you would like to purchase with it."

Tommy nodded, waved, and headed for the midway. Thorne watched him go, then turned to me. I half expected some comment about the fur on Tommy's hands and face, as it was unmistakable close up. But Thorne only said, "I am sure you know how blessed you are to have him." I thought his tone seemed almost wistful.

"Indeed," I agreed, wished him a good evening, and walked on.

At Tommy's bedtime, I asked him what he had bought with the money.

"I still have a nickel left. I bought Johnny an ice cream." Tommy had never had much of a sweet tooth.

"And what did you think of Thorne and his magic?" I asked, feeling perhaps a bit jealous. I could do tricks similar to those Thorne had done, but not without preparation.

Tommy wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. "I dunno. It was okay, I guess. It was nice of him to give me the money... but I could have eaten that dove."

I tried to hide my smile. Tommy was nothing if not practical.

He went on, "Some of his shows are pretty good. I like the one where he puts a girl to sleep and she goes all stiff." Tommy yawned, and I tucked the blanket closer about him. "I guess I like him okay. He seems nice, even if he does smell funny."

"What?" I asked, but Tommy was asleep.

In time, we moved on to the next town. On the second night there, I was sure we had a pickpocket on the midway. Samson came to tell me he heard someone complaining of a missing pocket watch, and Henry said he saw a lady searching the ground, occasionally reaching up to touch her ear, which was missing a pearl earring to match the one on the other side. My people had all been with me for some time, and I trusted them, so it had to be someone from the town. It wouldn't, however, take long for one of us "dishonest, disreputable carnies" to be blamed. More watchful than usual, I strolled up and down, smiling but scrutinizing the crowd. It wasn't long before I spotted a suspect, a small unremarkable man with, I thought, a rather furtive expression.

I followed him closely, hoping he didn't notice my attention. It was always tricky to accuse someone unless you caught them in the act. When he bumped into a heavyset gentleman with many apologies and an unnecessary brush of a hand down his waistcoat, I knew we had our man. I was about to open my mouth to call for Samson, who had also been on the lookout, to move in from the opposite side when I saw the man duck into an alleyway between tents.

I rounded the corner to see Thorne approaching the man, having apparently popped up out of nowhere. "We have never tolerated a thief," Thorne hissed, then grabbed the little man by the shirtfront and brought him close to the frightening grimace his face had become. The man appeared frozen, but I heard a small animal whimper come from his throat, echoed by a growl from Thorne, and there was the acrid smell of urine.

"Thorne!" I cried. He turned that ugly look to me, and for a moment his eyes seemed to glow like banked embers. Then he smiled.

"Of course, Mr. Stone. We must have no unseemly incidents here, must we." He turned back to the man, still dangling from his fist as though he weighed nothing.

"Maggot," snarled Thorne, "you will never again take anything that does not belong to you, and you will spend what remains of your miserable life doing your best to make up for the wrongs you have done." He let go, and the man collapsed at his feet, his face as pale as his shirtfront.

With another smile in my direction, Thorne walked away. When I looked back, the man was scurrying off, but where he had lain there were several watches, a few pieces of gold jewelry, and a small pile of coins and paper money. Shaking my head, I gathered the items and took them to the lost-and-found booth.

Thorne had several other routines to offer, but I stopped attending his shows after the first few days. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, there was something about the man that got under my skin, so I kept busy with other things around the carnival. Gregor only seemed to interact with the other carnies when he had to, like at the suppertime fire, but even then he only ate and left, his few words "Please" and "Thank you."

I had pushed Thorne to the back of my mind, knowing he would be with us for only another week or two at most, since it would no doubt take some time to travel to San Francisco and ready his act there. So I was surprised to see his face when I answered a knock at my caravan door.

"I hope I am not intruding," he said, his eyebrows raised.

"Not at all," I said, attempting graciousness as I gestured for him to enter and have a seat at the table. I could think of no reason to refuse seeing him, but I did retreat to stand at the other end of the small space.

"I do not mean to trouble you, but I had been hoping to meet the fortune-teller Arthur mentioned. What was her name... Hattie? It has been almost two weeks now, and no one seems to know where she has gone. Do you, Mr. Stone?"

I cleared my throat, growing increasingly uncomfortable in the confines of the caravan with Thorne only a few feet away. "She had a personal emergency," I said. "I don't know when she will be back." Remembering her words to me, I touched my chest, where I could feel, under my shirt, the shape of the silver cross.

"Ah, how sad. Perhaps she will return before I must leave. But still, I have been enjoying these small towns and their unsophisticated inhabitants, and it would seem that they have enjoyed my offerings too." He made sure to catch my gaze. "Have you also been satisfied by my performances? I do hope so, but if not there are certain other compensations I might offer...." He smiled, his eyes taking on that inner glow I found so disconcerting. "The company of ladies can be lovely, but gentlemen are often more - or possibly less - of a challenge," he said, his up-and-down glance easily conveying his meaning. He rose from his seat at the table and crossed to me before I could perceive that he'd moved. All at once he was there, close enough that I could smell peppermint on his breath. He raised his hand and extended one finger to slip under the edge of my collar and slide along the silver chain that held Hattie's crucifix. "Mmm, what have we here...?"

Shuddering, trapped by his gaze, I barely noticed when Karl appeared in the doorway. "Lucas...?"

I pushed away from Thorne, his narrow chest feeling like a brick wall. "Karl!" I said. "The prince was just leaving."

Thorne tilted his head slightly, a half bow, then turned to retrace his steps, nodding to Karl as he opened the trailer door. "Gentlemen." And he was gone.

"What the...?" Karl began, but I just shook my head. He took a step closer, gazing at me intently. "Are you all right?" When I nodded, he continued, "What did he want?" jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the now closed door.

"To know where Hattie is. I told him I didn't know when she'd be back."

Karl approached me slowly, took my arm and led me to the table, then sat across from me. "Was that all he wanted?"

"I... I'm not sure." My mind was whirling with memories of Thorne's eyes, the pupils like black pits, the touch of his skin, so cold on my throat. I clutched Hattie's cross through the material of my shirt.

Karl frowned. "I'm getting to where I don't like Mr. Thorne very much at all."

I did my best to smile. "His act has brought in more revenue for the carnival... and he'll be leaving soon." I took Karl's hand. "By now he must have gotten the idea that I'm not interested. I'll just stay away from him until he leaves."

In the back of my mind, I wondered if the silver crucifix would have discouraged my unwelcome visitor - and if it had, what that would have meant.

Two days later, Hattie was back, driving in slowly to park her caravan in its accustomed place, the rig now clean and bright with fresh paint and polished metal.

"I decided I couldn't run away from my problems," she told me. And no matter how many times I asked about the reasons for her absence, that was all she would say.

Still, I resolved to get to the bottom of it that night, after the show was over and the marks had gone home, which would be early, on a Sunday evening.

The day was unremarkable, with Hattie's tent back on the midway and a steady stream of people going in and out of it. Thorne rose at his usual time and went to give another performance, just as he had every night.

After supper, I left Karl with Tommy and walked over to speak to Hattie. Before I could approach the door of her caravan, I heard voices from within. One of them was Hattie's, and the other was unmistakably Thorne's. Not caring at all that I was eavesdropping, I slipped back out of sight behind a tree, soon frozen in place by what I heard.

"You have been avoiding me, my dear Stacia," Thorne said, his tone relaxed and familiar, as though addressing an old friend. "You do not know how long I have sought you. Were you afraid?"

"Of what? That you'd kill me? Because of you I've suffered things far worse than death. Compared to them, killing me would be a mercy. And I'm not your 'dear' anything, if I ever was." Hattie sounded, more than anything, resigned.

"Please do not be afraid. I mean you no harm. Only tell me, where is the child? So many years have passed, but my people said.... You were with me and no other at that time. Tell me... was there a child? I have heard there was a child." Thorne was almost babbling.

"You heard right. There was a child, my beautiful daughter, Virginia. When I found out I was pregnant I came here, to America, so my baby wouldn't have to be raised near monsters like you."

"Virginia...," Thorne breathed, like a prayer. "Stacia, you must know that my kind do not... some think we cannot.... The child was a miracle."

"You, the devil, dare speak of miracles?"

Thorne sighed. "Please, surely I have some right to know about the child of my blood."

Hattie snorted. "Blood? Yes, she was of your blood. You want to know what happened to her? She was fine until she turned twelve, became a young woman. She changed then, and I had to tell her... tell her about you. After that I did all I could for her, and she suffered for much too long, but in the end she wasted away, right in front of my eyes. Why? Because she would not let me provide the one thing she really needed - because she swore she would not become like you, her father." Hattie's voice had been rising in volume, but now it dropped so low I could scarcely hear it.

"Now kill me, if you're going to. It's much too painful to go on talking about her. Or if not, then begone, cursed strigoi, and trouble me no more."

There was a long pause, and then I heard the scrape of a chair and heavy footsteps, and I hurried away before the door could open, back to my own caravan and Karl.

He looked up when I came in. "Hey, Lucas. Did you talk to Hattie? Why's she been gone so long?"

I made my way to the table and sat down heavily. "I didn't talk to her... because she was already talking to Thorne."

"Well, he did want to see her." He sat across from me and studied me intently. "What's got you so upset?"

I took my head in my hands for a moment, then told Karl everything I'd heard. When I'd finished, he nodded.

"Lucas, it all fits together. I mean the story in that book I mentioned before, the one by that Bram Stoker. The villain in the book was an old, old man, but he didn't look old, and he did all the things Thorne does - hypnotized people, made 'em do things they never would on their own, even drank their -"

"No! It cannot be so. I will not allow it to be so!" I stood up, raising my voice and not caring that I was in danger of waking Tommy, no matter how soundly he usually slept. We had encountered many a strange thing on our travels, but the line had to be drawn somewhere, and I had at last reached that limit.

"Lucas, Hattie once told me about her daughter, Ginny: that she got sick and died when she was still only a girl. You heard her say Thorne was Ginny's father. Thorne looks young now, and that was a long time ago. How old would he have to be for that to be true?"

"I had to have misheard her. I tell you, it's impossible!"

Karl shook his head and didn't try to stop me as I thundered out of our caravan and made my way to Thorne's trailer. The three-quarter moon was just rising, its glow spreading a frost of pale silver across the eastern horizon. I found him standing just outside his door, face turned up, seemingly contemplating the brilliance overhead.

"So beautiful," he breathed, "yet so cold and far away." He turned and sighed as he watched me approach. "It makes one think of eternity... or oblivion."

I shook my head. "That's enough. Thorne, it's time you left our company. I want your setup gone inside an hour."

Someone had kindled a torch, and the flickering light seemed to gather in his emerald eyes, almost as if they reflected it back like the eyes of a beast. He smiled, faint and sad. "What a coincidence. Gregor is even now packing the last of our things."

I swallowed hard but set myself to face him squarely. "I will forward the remainder of your wages to your bank before the week is out, along with anything you may have left behind."

If possible, his expression became even sadder. "Alas, I leave nothing behind... nothing at all. Goodbye, Mr. Stone." And he turned, climbed into his trailer, and shut the door.

Gregor said nothing, just threw a last bundle into their truck, got in, and drove away, the caravan bumping over the field until they reached the road. In a matter of minutes, they had disappeared into the dark.

No one, not even Karl or Hattie, asked me about Thorne's abrupt departure, and for that I was very grateful.

I was also grateful for Hattie's financial advice and Mr. Kahn's expertise on October twenty-ninth of that year, when the stock market crashed completely and many ruined investors leaped to their deaths from skyscraper windows.

I did my best to put all thoughts of our temporary performer out of my mind, and in no time things at Caldwell's Wonders were back to their pleasant, comforting normal, the state in which I was the one who performed the "mystifying" tricks.

There are things too unbelievable for even the romance and illusion of a carnival. As Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes is credited with saying, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth."

Prince Thorne must be nothing but a charlatan - because he cannot be a vampire.