Chapter One
Thalia Cutler, the stage magician known as the Lady of the Lake, stepped nimbly aside to avoid the singer coming offstage at Keith’s Vaudeville Theater in Philadelphia. A plate spinner had already taken the singer’s place, and onstage the show went smoothly on. Backstage was the usual bustle for an evening performance, invisible to the audience out front, essential to the performers.
“Look alive, sister.” Eulalie the Trader Nightingale, known offstage as Ermentrude Ulrich and as ordinary a Solitaire as Thalia, gave her a cold stare as she bumped her. “Coming through.”
Thalia spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m not your sister, Trudy.” Beneath her costume, she wore a pigeon squeezer, a homemade contraption that held the doves she used in her act. The singer’s clumsiness had driven one of its hidden wires between the bones of Thalia’s corset. It hurt.
“Shut up, Blondie.” The red-haired singer swept past. “Make way for the talent.”
Thalia reminded herself she was a consummate professional. Therefore, she resisted the urge to step on the train of the singer’s gown as she passed. The gown, because it was supposed to belong to a Trader, was the last word in luxury, coral silk with jet beads and egret feathers that matched Trudy’s picture hat. Damaging it wouldn’t accomplish anything, and Thalia knew she was above all that nonsense. Anyway, she had work to do. The Lady of the Lake was next on the bill.
Just offstage, inches out of the audience’s line of sight, David Nutall stood talking to one of the stagehands. Nutall—like Thalia, a white Solitaire—was looking paler than he usually did, his straight black hair and pencil mustache a greater contrast even than usual.
Thalia tried to pick out their conversation. Both spoke in murmurs. Thalia had to come close to hear them.
“No, Horace.” Nutall smiled but his voice was firm. “This time, you’re wrong.”
“Think about it, that’s all I’m saying.” Horace, a black Solitaire whose nose testified that he’d been in many fights, was holding a rope but had his entire attention focused on Nutall. “‘Deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book.’ If Shakespeare wasn’t a Trader, how could he write dialogue that fancy? He knew how Traders like that talk because he was one.”
“Birnam Wood came to Dunsinane, does that make Shakespeare a Sylvestri?” asked Nutall.
Horace was offended. “I never said he was Sylvestri. I said he was a Trader. No Solitaire would ever be so fancy, you have to admit.”
“On the contrary. I’ve known some tremendously fancy Solitaires in my day.” Nutall turned to greet Thalia as she took her spot beside him. “There you are.”
“Shakespeare was a Trader?” Thalia murmured.
“No.” Nutall was firm. “He certainly was not. William Shakespeare was a Solitaire.”
“Just like you and me?” Thalia asked.
“Exactly,” said Nutall.
“If you say so. Good evening, Miss Cutler.” Horace, stoic in the face of Nutall’s skepticism, turned his attention firmly back to the plate spinner at work onstage.
The theater was nearly full, the audience happy but not boisterous. The pit orchestra struck up Thalia’s music. Nutall gave her a brilliant smile. “That’s us.”
Together they took the stage. Blinking to focus in the glare of the lights, basking in the attention of the audience, Thalia felt the whole world sharpen around her. Shoulders back, head held high, she took her mark onstage. She did not walk, but glide.
Nutall’s deep voice provided the narrative to the act. “Ladies and gentlemen, Solitaires, Traders, and Sylvestri, I present to you Thalia Cutler, the Lady of the Lake, here to amaze and entertain you.”
Clad in a shining white gown with medieval sleeves, with her fair hair loose over her shoulders, Thalia stood center stage and made doves appear from thin air. Thalia turned cards into coins and changed them back again. She turned a wooden staff into a snake that slithered off into the wings.
The audience was rapt throughout, applauding each trick enthusiastically. The music and the sleight of hand went smoothly.
At the climax of the act, Nutall declaimed, “For her final trick this evening, the Lady of the Lake will defy the incredible danger of the Siege Perilous.” On cue, the curtain behind Thalia swept aside to reveal a simple throne of rough-hewn wood. This was no flimsy stage prop, but a solid chair with arms and a high back, approximately medieval in appearance.
Above the chair was a rope-and-pulley rig that held a sword suspended, point down, over the wooden throne. The pit orchestra played a little waltz while Nutall paid out the rope to bring the