brooded like he did. Her laugh was high and clear, and when he heard it ringing out across the church square, the gloomy thoughts that often buzzed around him like fat moths dispersed.
“It is magic,” he declared theatrically.
“Magic? Bah! You’re nothing but a charlatan. Just you wait!”
Margarethe jerked the cards from his hand and sent them flying through the air. Shrieking with laughter, she threw herself on him, and soon they tussled like a pair of young dogs. A pleasant shiver ran down Johann’s spine. They had scuffled in play many times before, but the sensation he experienced now with Margarethe’s thighs pressing against his was new.
New and very, very nice.
“What is this?” asked Margarethe with a chuckle, placing her hand on his crotch. “Another deck of cards?”
Johann had been in love with Margarethe for as long as he could remember. There were a few girls in Knittlingen who gave him suggestive looks, but she was the only one who interested him. Still, he struggled to show it. Usually, he was considered quick-witted and scathingly sarcastic, and many Knittlingers called him insolent or a know-it-all. But with Margarethe he found himself tongue-tied, just like when he was a little boy. He couldn’t come up with a reply to her coquettish question.
“It’s . . . it’s nothing,” he replied lamely.
“Nothing? Let me see if there’s nothing in the pants of Herr Faustus, Knittlingen’s greatest trickster and braggart!”
Margarethe tried to pin him to the ground, but Johann was quicker and rolled on top of her.
“Braggart,” she gasped, her eyes blazing with a mix of fear and desire. “You’re nothing but a braggart. Admit it!”
Johann had hoped the card trick would impress her. Ever since seeing the eerie magician at the fair eight years ago, he’d been fascinated by conjuring tricks—much to the dismay of his father, who considered such things heretical nonsense. Johann made coins appear from ears; put live mice in his pockets, whereupon they reappeared from beneath Margarethe’s skirts, accompanied by her screams; juggled with balls, knives, and torches; and turned sour wine into sweet wine just by blowing across the cup. Every time jugglers and magicians came through town, Johann studied their tricks. Sometimes they’d explain one to him, and he’d practice secretly in the stable behind the house. Rehearsing magic tricks hadn’t helped his reputation among the Knittlingers. Folks believed sleight of hand to be the work of the devil—as much as they enjoyed watching the traveling artists in their bright garments.
As he and Margarethe chased each other across the field, Johann felt the small leather satchel he’d put in his trouser pocket that morning. It contained a strange powder he’d bought off a traveling juggler for a slice of ham and two eggs the week before. When lit with a flame, the powder smoked, flashed, and cracked loudly. Johann had hoped to impress Margarethe with the show.
But perhaps he no longer needed the powder.
“Ha! Got you!”
Shrieking, Margarethe hurled herself at him again. She pinned Johann’s arms to the ground, which he didn’t mind at all. Her face was so close to his that he could smell her warm breath and her hair, which carried a wonderful scent of honey, hay, and sunshine. They pressed their hips against one another, and Johann felt Margarethe’s hot, damp skin beneath her thin dress. He’d waited for this moment for so long.
His whole life, really.
“You . . . you charlatan,” Margarethe gasped. “Johann Georg Gerlach, you’re nothing but a charlatan. But a very likable charlatan, admittedly.”
A dreamy look entered her eyes and she brought her face even closer, until their lips almost touched.
“You’re special,” she whispered and brushed a strand of his raven-black hair from his forehead. “So different from the other boys. What’s your secret, Johann Faustus? Tell me, what’s your secret?”
Johann was sweating. It was as hot as a baker’s oven, and his mouth felt completely dry.
“Margarethe, I—” he whispered.
Fingers dug into his upper arm and yanked him to his feet. Margarethe cried out with surprise when she was also pulled up by a hand. Between them stood Johann’s father, a burly, bullnecked man with a sunburned face. He shook the young lovers like a pair of kittens. Then he let go of Margarethe and slapped Johann across the face so hard that he fell backward into the rye.
“What do you think you’re doing, God damn it?” shouted Jörg Gerlach. “The prefect’s daughter! Are you insane? Pray that her father doesn’t hear of this, or he’ll thrash you from