“Allow me.” The Great Oberon swung his cape over his shoulder and held out his hand to assist Theo down the last few steps from the upstairs dressing room.

“Thank you.” Distracted, she tried to hurry by the man. She had much to do before meeting her fellow Pomegrantos for one last run-through.

“Would you like a signed photograph?” Oberon held out an eight-by-ten glossy. He’d made sure that his publicity photos were larger than Houdini’s.

Theo hesitated, then took it. “Thank you.” But the Great Oberon did not let go of the photo. He tugged it close, thus tugging Theo closer. From his vest pocket, he pulled a watch. He swung it in front of her eyes.

“Do not forget,” he said. “You have an important job tonight.”

“An important job,” Theo echoed, each word flat as a river rock.

“You know exactly what to do?” he pressed.

“The mirrors.” She nodded. “Move the mirrors.”

“Good girl.” He slipped the watch back into his vest, and snapped his fingers. “Break a leg tonight, young lady.”

Theo blinked, stretched, yawned. “Oh yes. Thank you, sir.” She gave a nod and hurried off to find the rest of her ensemble.

Wurme allowed himself a hearty laugh. To think: In a short time, he would witness Harry Houdini falling flat on his face. And at the ready in the wings would be the man who would not only take Houdini’s place on the stage, but would take his place in the world of magic. Wylie Wurme allowed himself several moments to imagine his new and glorious future: audiences with royalty, suites at grand hotels, women in minks eager to buy him dinner. And Houdini would be nothing more than a smashed bug on the windshield of Wurme’s new Delaunay-Belleville touring car, ruing the day he had ill-treated Wylie Wurme by rejecting his membership application to the Society of American Magicians.

Revenge was delicious.