firearm of their own. The spell Thalia wove with her manner and gestures, the spell Nutall wove with his voice, these were all the protection she had from such mischance.
When the drumroll resumed, Thalia kept her shoulders square and her head high. Here it comes. Make it look good. With the greatest possible delicacy, Thalia widened her eyes and flared her nostrils, permitting a flash of fear to show in her expression.
Nutall aimed the rifle again, this time with confidence, and squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot rang out; the audience gasped. Thalia mimed something striking her cup with terrific force, jerking as if her knees had tried to buckle, maintaining her balance on the pedestal with great difficulty. As Thalia’s balance changed, she made the pass that slid the volunteer’s rifle ball into the cup. She let her expression soften, fear vanquished by triumph, but did not permit herself to smile. The pit orchestra’s triumphant fanfare was short but perfectly timed.
Thalia held the cup high as she let the rifle ball roll around the interior. Smiling only slightly, she stepped down from the pedestal to permit their volunteer to peer into the so-called Holy Grail. Even though he’d been in on the act from the first moment, still he registered wonderment.
Yes, that was the mark he’d made. Yes, that was the rifle ball he’d handled. Yes, the Lady of the Lake had caught the bullet in midair. It should have struck her in the breast. The man gazed at Thalia in awe.
Thalia stepped away before the man’s admiration of her bosom crossed the line of good taste. This was vaudeville, after all, decent entertainment suitable for the whole family. Burlesque had no business at a respectable joint like the Majestic.
Thalia moved smoothly from one side of the stage to the other, offering the cup to the audience’s view. She made the bullet slide and rattle as she turned the cup.
Thalia knew to the split second when the applause peaked. Milking the audience was for performers who earned far less applause. She took her curtain call, sharing the ovation with Nutall, who bowed as she curtsied. She made her stately way into the wings just before the closing curtain would have swept her off anyway.
No one over the age of six honestly believed Thalia had caught the bullet in the cup. But no one in the audience could tell exactly how the trick had been done. The pageantry that Thalia and Nutall had given them was easier to believe than the laws of physics. In that place between what the audience knew and what it tried to guess, that was where Thalia made her living. That was her magic. That was her power.
The Bullet Catch was just a trick. The danger, however, was completely real.
Chapter Four
Backstage, as usual, was chaos. Before Thalia’s applause had faded, a family act, with six acrobatic Cantonese Solitaire children and a well-trained terrier, had taken the stage. Thalia headed back to the dressing room, intent on getting out of her now-empty pigeon squeezer, with a muttered prayer of gratitude for having her performance before the kids and the dog. Whoever followed them on the bill was going to have a hard time getting the audience’s attention back.
When Thalia deemed herself fit for public consumption, she emerged from the shared dressing room in her tan wool walking dress, the one that buttoned right up under her chin. Her outer garment, handed down from her mother, was an opera cloak of fine black wool lined with ivory silk. The ensemble made her feel uncomfortably warm backstage, but she knew she wouldn’t be backstage much longer. With her white Lady of the Lake gown safely in its garment bag and her greasepaint already wiped away, Thalia was ready to finish for the night. She took stock.
Thanks to Nutall, the doves were back in their travel cages and the snake was back in its basket. Thalia fed and watered them all. Then she helped Nutall, who had changed out of his elegant stage costume into equally elegant street clothes, to pack away everything involved with the act. It was a finicky process, but Thalia had learned the proper routine from her father. Time taken now would be time saved tomorrow when she was getting ready for her next performance.
“You two. Lady and Gent of the Lake.” Andy, the bossy young white Solitaire man who worked the stage door as a combination doorman and bouncer, stepped in front of them, snapped his