4. Prediction: it is forecast that a particular thing will happen in the future.

True to his word, Herb apologised to Bianca as they were setting up for the show the following afternoon, producing a beautiful bouquet of silk flowers from an old feather duster. Bianca laughed, and whacked him on the head with them.

‘Figure out how to do that with real flowers,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll be impressed.’

Herb grinned at her. ‘I thought I wasn’t allowed to have real flowers onstage.’

Bianca rolled her eyes, but Sage could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She floated back to her dressing-room to get changed, and Herb asked Sage to help him get the Zigzag Effect equipment out of the storeroom.

‘The storeroom?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

She followed him up the auditorium aisle to a narrow staircase tucked behind the door to the foyer. It led to a small room with a glass front looking out over the theatre.

‘This place was originally built as a cinema,’ said Herb when he saw her questioning look. ‘Ages ago, when movies were this big new exciting thing. This was the projection booth. It’s where we store all the magic stuff we’re not using.’

The room was crammed with boxes and trunks that had once been brightly painted, but were now shabby and faded. Cardboard boxes were stacked in one corner, with carefully lettered labels reading Indian Rope, Silk Scarves and Fake Daggers. Sage shuddered at a guillotine collecting dust in a corner, and something that looked like a large and complicated clothes wringer. Next to it loomed a tall, thin box with a scantily clad lady painted on the front, covered in small slots where knives or swords could be inserted.

‘Charming,’ muttered Sage, taking out her phone and snapping a few photos of the dingy room for her ghost-hunting project.

‘You’re like an overenthusiastic tourist with that thing,’ said Herb.

Sage hesitated, then told him she was trying to get a photo of the theatre ghost. He gave her a flat look. ‘Are you serious? You are, aren’t you. This is terrible.’

‘There has been plenty of documentation of paranormal activity,’ said Sage. ‘There are professional ghost hunters.’

Herb stared at her. ‘I am a professional magician,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t make magic real.’

Sage snapped a few more photos. She knew she wasn’t going to convince Herb, and anyway, she still wasn’t sure if she believed in the ghost herself. But after a few seconds, Herb couldn’t contain himself any longer.

‘What documentation?’ he burst out.

‘Digital recording equipment has captured voices,’ said Sage.

‘Radio signals, or noise from the recorder itself,’ said Herb promptly. ‘Next?’

‘Electromagnetic field detectors.’

‘Can be set off by faulty wiring which is very common in old buildings. Also microwaves and mobile phone signals.’

‘Photographs have shown floating orbs of light.’

‘Orbs of light!’ Herb spluttered. ‘Come on, do you really think there is any valid scientific explanation as to how a dead human being can transform into a floating orb of light that can be captured in a photograph but not by the human eye? You don’t think that maybe it’s slightly more likely to be light reflecting off particles of dust or moisture in the air?’

Sage shrugged. ‘There have been some pretty convincing investigations.’

‘No, there haven’t!’ Herb’s voice was high and indignant. ‘Nobody has ever actually set out to do a scientific, logical, methodical investigation into the existence of ghosts. Every so-called “experiment” is rife with sampling errors and misuse of equipment. And feelings. So many bloody feelings. Saying Ooh, I felt a chill in the air proves nothing other than the fact that you are either a) standing in a draught or b) highly susceptible to the power of suggestion.’

Sage gave up defending herself. ‘So where is this Zigzag thing?’ she asked, looking around.

Herb ignored her. ‘It’s like I said before: humans see what they want to see. If you ask the average human to prove a hypothesis, they’ll devise tests to achieve positive results.’

Sage couldn’t help herself. ‘So? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?’

‘No!’ Herb’s outraged shout rattled around the projection booth. ‘It’s not what scientists do. A scientist tries as hard as they can to disprove the hypothesis. It’s only by achieving positive and negative results that a hypothesis can be proven. But people just love to hear the word “yes”, so they only ask questions that they think will yield that answer.’

‘But aren’t you doing just that?’ asked Sage. ‘You assume that there are no ghosts. What are you doing to test that hypothesis?’

Herb blinked. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You can’t disprove a negative, and it’s not up to sceptics to disprove the nonsense spouted by believers. I’m also making no effort to test my hypothesis that the sun is made out of burning marshmallows, or that the universe is ruled by a giant saucy overlord made from spaghetti.’

He savagely yanked a drop cloth from something that looked like a filing cabinet: three boxes stacked on top of each other, with a black-and-white zigzag design painted on it.

‘Tell me you’re not really going to try and photograph the ghost,’ Herb said, his eyes pleading.

Sage shook her head. ‘I can’t promise that.’

Herb looked disgusted.

‘Who you gonna call?’ Sage grinned.

‘Give me a hand,’ said Herb, shaking his head. He pulled at the top of the cabinet, tilting it over so Sage could lift it from the bottom. It was heavier than it looked, and she gritted her teeth as she took its weight. Herb started to back slowly out of the booth and guide it down the little set of steps.

‘Do you think Bianca’s okay?’ asked Sage, steering the conversation away from the supernatural. ‘She seemed upset last night, and she still looks a bit weird today.’

Herb grunted under the weight of the cabinet. ‘It’s hard to tell with Bianca.’

‘You’ve been working with her for two years,’ said Sage, as they hauled the cabinet down the aisle to the stage. ‘You must know her pretty well.’

‘Bianca isn’t the easiest person to get to know,’ said Herb. ‘When I first started working here, I was only sixteen. Just a geeky magic kid desperate to get involved. I tried to make friends with her. Get to know her properly. But … sometimes she’s just sort of empty, you know?’

‘I think she’s sad,’ said Sage.

‘Maybe,’ said Herb. ‘Here, help me lift it up onto the stage.’

Under the stage lights, the Zigzag cabinet looked faded and cheap. ‘Might need a new lick of paint,’ said Herb. ‘I’ll wait and see if Armand really does want to use it.’

They headed back to their poky little office. Sage halfheartedly sorted through the list of phone bookings while watching Herb out of the corner of her eye. He was sketching a complicated-looking device in a notebook. His hair hung in his eyes, and a frown of concentrationcrinkled his brow. He looked so focused, so intent, that Sage almost didn’t want to say anything. He was such a puzzle. One minute he was funny and relaxed and smiling his wide, goofy smile; a moment later he was snarking away at Bianca, saying things he knew would hurt her. And was what Bianca said true? Was his clowning around and showing off all for Sage’s benefit? Did he really like her? That brought up an even more important question: did Sage like him back?

‘What are you working on?’ she asked.

Herb didn’t look up. ‘Just something I’ve been tinkering with for ages.’

‘A trick? For the show?’

‘An effect,’ corrected Herb. ‘But not for this show. It’s too good for this show. Or at least it will be, if I can make it work.’

He tore the page out of the notebook, screwed it up into a ball, and waved his hand over the ball to make it vanish.

‘Is that what you want, then?’ asked Sage. ‘To have your own show?’

Herb nodded. ‘That’s the idea,’ he said. ‘There aren’t that many job opportunities for magicians. You’re either a designer or a performer, or a fraud.’

Sage decided to try a little experimental flirting. ‘What about solving crime?’ she asked. ‘There seem to be heaps of magicians on TV who solve crime.’

A flicker of his usual grin. ‘They’re mostly mentalists, not magicians.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Magic is … magic. Making things appear and disappear. Mentalism is more about reading people’s minds and getting them to do stuff.’

‘But you can do that,’ said Sage. ‘You knew what theatre superstition I was thinking of last night.’

Herb let out a chuckle. ‘That’s not mentalism,’ he said. ‘It’s the best-known theatre superstition out there. For most people, it’s the only one they know. Bianca knew it, she just wasn’t saying it because she knew I’d say Macbeth.’

Sage winced.

‘Oh, now come on,’ said Herb. ‘Not you too. We’re not even on the stage!’

‘We’re in the theatre,’ muttered Sage. ‘It still counts.’

Herb pulled the screwed-up paper ball out of Sage’s ear, then turned it into a green jelly snake. ‘I saved you the last one.’

Sage felt herself blush a little as she took it. This snake was a flirting snake. A delicious, green piece of jelly flirtation.

‘What did you mean by “fraud”?’ she asked, chewing thoughtfully. ‘You said your career paths were designer, performer or fraud.’

Herb shrugged. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘Psychics. Mediums. All those people who prey on the grief of others and pretend to talk to their dead relatives.’ His face wrinkled in disgust.

‘So you don’t believe people can be psychic?’ asked Sage.

‘Nope, it’s all bullshit. You know that, right?’ Herb looked at her, suddenly concerned. ‘Right?

’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Sage, thinking about her ghost photo project. ‘I think that I shouldn’t automatically assume something is fake, just because I don’t understand it. Not everything is a trick.’

Herb rolled his eyes. ‘Just because I don’t understand something,’ he replied, ‘doesn’t mean it’s automatically magic. Don’t you think that’s kind of narcissistic? To assume that just because we haven’t figured out how something works yet, it can’t possibly have a rational or scientific explanation?’

‘You’re so closed, Herb.’ Bianca was standing in the doorway to the office, wearing a thin cotton dressing-gown over her sequined leotard. Her hair and makeup were done, and she looked like a porcelain doll. ‘It’s sad, really.’

‘Anyway,’ said Herb, ignoring her. ‘I do understand psychics. I know how it works. There’s nothing supernaturalabout it, it’s just cold reading and the Barnum Effect.’

Bianca sighed. ‘I supposed you’re an expert, then.’

‘What’s the Barnum Effect?’ asked Sage.

Herb looked at her, and cocked his head to one side. ‘You really want people to like you,’ he said. Sage immediately felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘Sometimes you seem extroverted and sociable, but in fact you are quite wary and reserved around people you don’t know. You are an independent thinker, and you don’t like to feel restricted or limited. You’re not achieving your full potential. Even though you’re disciplined and seem like you have a lot of self-assurance, in fact you’re very insecure on the inside, and often have serious doubts about decisions you’ve made. You’re often self-critical.’

Sage stared at him. She knew what he was trying to do, but his analysis had still been frighteningly accurate. ‘So,’ she said. ‘The Barnum Effect is like horoscopes. You just say general stuff and people assume it applies to them.’

Herb’s face split open in a wide smile. ‘Exactly!’ He turned to Bianca. ‘Why can’t you be that perceptive?’

Bianca sighed.

‘There’s a classic experiment where psychology students are given a personality test, then presented with a personality profile along the lines of what I just told you. They’re asked to give it a score out of five, with five being totally accurate, and zero being not accurate at all. The average score given is 4.3.’

‘You’re a genius,’ said Bianca drily. ‘You know all the answers to everything. There are no mysteries left in the universe. Congratulations.’

Herb shrugged. ‘Humans want meaning in life. We want to find meaning in everything.’ He leaned to yank an extension cord from a powerpoint, and held up the plug. ‘Sage,’ he said, showing it to her. ‘What does this look like to you?’

Sage studied it. The two prongs at the top sloped upwards like questioning eyes, and the bottom prong looked like a nose or mouth. ‘It’s a face.’

‘No,’ said Herb. ‘It isn’t. It’s just three bits of metal. But you see a face, because you’re looking for meaning. People see Jesus’s face in the soap scum on their shower screen, or in their breakfast cereal, because they want to. A bunch of people have tried to prove that psychic ability is genuine, using something called the sitter-silent condition, where the subject being read can hear the psychic, but the psychic can’t see or hear them, and gets no clues as to how the subject is reacting. The sitters still reported that the psychics’ predictions were accurate and relevant. But that proves nothing. The greatest trick of psychics is that they don’t do anything. The audience does it all for them. People hear what they want to hear. All a so-called psychic does is to give them back exactly what they want.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Bianca, perching on the desk. ‘Have you ever even seen a real psychic?’

‘There is no such thing as a real psychic! Here.’ Herb leaned forward and stared intently into Sage’s eyes. She swallowed. ‘I’m sensing pain,’ he said. ‘And loss, but you’re still trying to hide it behind a façade. I’m getting … April. Something happened in April. The number sixteen. I can see … a dinner table, and a letter in a white envelope. And I’m getting the letter M. Michael? Mark? Or is it a D? David? Who is this David?’

Sage caught her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘My ex-boyfriend’s name is Daniel.’

‘Daniel, yes! That’s it,’ said Herb. ‘Tell me what happened with Daniel in April.’

Sage thought about it. ‘April was when Dad found out he was getting this new job in Melbourne.’

‘And did you tell Daniel?’

‘I–I thought he’d be more upset. That I was leaving.’ Sage remembered the conversation, outside the science block at her old school. Sage had struggled not to cry, expecting a passionate avowal of everlasting love from Daniel, or at least a poignant kiss. But Daniel had just said, ‘Wow, that really sucks,’ and asked to borrow two dollars for the vending machine. In hindsight, it wasn’t surprising at all. Daniel wasn’t the passionate-avowal kind of guy, and Sage wasn’t the kind of girl guys got passionate about.

Herb nodded sympathetically. ‘When did you and Daniel break up?’

‘The twentieth of May,’ said Sage. ‘It was my birthday. He took me out for lunch and told me that there was no point in us being together if I was just going to leave anyway.’ She didn’t add that Parama had seen Daniel with his tongue down Alice Petricavich’s throat at the beach four days later. Alice was definitely the kind of girl that guys got passionate about – all wispy and glimmering, like early-morning sun.

Herb saw her expression and snorted. ‘What a douchebag. That was your sixteenth birthday, right? Did he give you a present?’

‘A scarf. Because it gets cold in Melbourne.’

‘Was there a card?’

‘I think so – yes.’

Herb punched the air and grinned. ‘A full strike! I said April – that was when you found out you were leaving. I said sixteen – it was your sixteenth birthday. I said D – that’s Douchebag Daniel. He took you out for lunch – that was the dinner table I saw, and he gave you a crappy present and a card – which is the white envelope.’

Sage stared at him. ‘How did you do that? How did you know about Daniel taking me out for my birthday?’

‘I didn’t. I just said a bunch of random stuff and you made sense out of it. You did all the work.’

‘But everything you said was true,’ said Bianca, putting her hands on her hips. ‘Maybe you just don’t realise that you’re channelling stuff from outside of yourself.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Herb. ‘I got it all wrong. I said Michael or David – you turned that into Daniel. I said April, but he actually broke up with you in May. I said sixteen – but I already know you’re sixteen because you wrote it down on your employee information form the other day. Then I said a dinner table – but he took you out to lunch. And I said there was a letter in a white envelope, which you decided was a birthday card. Was it even in a white envelope?’

Sage thought about it. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘There wasn’t an envelope at all.’

Herb folded his arms. ‘See? You just remembered the things that applied to you, and forgot all the stuff I said that didn’t. This is what humans do. This is why people buy lottery tickets – because we only remember the extraordinary and the unusual stories of people winning, not the millions upon millions of totally uninteresting stories about people who don’t.’

Bianca picked up Warren and stroked his ears. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But just because you’re a crappy fake psychic doesn’t mean that the real deal doesn’t exist.’

‘If it does,’ said Herb, ‘then there’s absolutely no evidence of it. There’s a stage magician called James Randi who is offering a million dollars to any psychic who can prove their abilities. He opened the offer in 1968. More than a thousand people have taken the challenge. Nothing so far.’

‘So maybe real psychics aren’t interested in money.’

‘Then how come they’re demonstrating their abilities on psychic phone hotlines and daytime TV, instead of using them to actually help people? How come they’re not working for the government?’

‘How do you know they’re not?’

Herb made an exasperated noise. ‘It’s impossible talking to people like you.’

‘Nobody asked you to,’ said Bianca.

‘You came into my office!’ said Herb.

‘Only to see if Sage can help me with this wispy bit of hair,’ said Bianca huffily. She handed Warren to Herb and smiled at Sage.

Sage followed Bianca back to her dressing-room. It was littered with shoes, sequins and discarded feather boas. An ancient couch covered with cushions and blankets took up an entire wall, and above it were various vintage posters for old magic shows.

THE HOUDINI METAMORPHOSIS – The Greatest Novelty Mystery Act in the World!

THURSTON THE GREAT MAGICIAN – The Wonder Show of the Universe

ALEXANDER – The Man Who Knows

T NELSON DOWNS – Once Seen Never Forgotten

A little side table held an old sewing machine, and there was a smallish dressing table against the opposite wall, cluttered with little pots, brushes and lipsticks. Above the dressing table hung a mirror, with mostly blown light bulbs surrounding it.

‘Thank you,’ said Bianca, handing Sage a bobby pin.

Sage pinned the stray wisp of hair back in place, feeling oddly pleased that Bianca needed her help for something. Bianca shrugged off the cotton dressing-gown, revealing her smooth long limbs and glittering costume.

‘Is that a bruise?’ asked Sage, frowning at a deep purple mark on Bianca’s upper thigh.

Bianca looked down. ‘Damn,’ she said. ‘That was quick.’

‘Where did it come from?’ The bruise was angry, veined with red streaks. It looked very painful.

Bianca made a face. ‘I just ran through the Zigzag Effect with Armand. I haven’t done it since I was eighteen, and I was a bit smaller then. The blades are blunt, but they’re still very hard when they scrape along your body.’

Sage winced. ‘Did you say anything? To Armand?’

‘He’d just tell me to lose weight.’ Bianca smiled a bright smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘It’s fine. I’m a bit out of shape.’

Sage felt furious on Bianca’s behalf. ‘What a dick,’ she said. ‘Only a man would say something like that. You don’t have to put up with it, you know. Refuse to do it. Go on strike!’

Bianca looked puzzled and strangely touched by Sage’s concern. ‘It doesn’t work that way.’

‘Who says?’

‘The world. Anyway, it’s just a magic trick. It’s not important.’

Bianca leaned towards the mirror and touched up her eyeliner with a stubby, worn-down pencil. Frustrated, Sage tried to think of a way to make Bianca understand.

‘Are you guys ready?’ Herb was standing in the doorway.

‘You!’ Sage pointed a finger at him. ‘Can’t you fix the cabinet? Make the blades smaller?’

‘Hmm?’

Sage felt her heart sink. Herb was staring at Bianca, not listening to anything she’d said. Of course he was. Bianca was beautiful. Like stupid Alice Petricavich, Bianca was the kind of girl who boys got passionate about. Tall and beautiful, like a delicate long-stemmed flower. Bianca was the kind of girl whose face launched ships. She was the kind of girl people had written poetry and songs about for thousands of years. She was perfect in every way, like a daydream come to life. And it wasn’t a sex thing. Even Sage wanted to protect her, make her smile. She was just that kind of girl.

Suddenly everything made sense. Herb and Bianca’s constant bickering. The assistant and the magic designer. It was like a romantic comedy. Herb had basically admitted he was in love with Bianca before – when he’d said that she was beautiful and he’d tried to get close to her. And the only role for Sage in this particular rom-com was as the third wheel; the short, dumpy, comic-relief friend with flat brown hair, who would help bring the two lovers together and almost certainly bring the laughs by falling on her bottom several times, in increasingly humiliating circumstances.

‘Sage? Are you okay?’ Bianca touched her arm.

It was perfect timing, really. Just when it would have been convenient for Bianca to play the ice-queen, she turned all nice so Sage couldn’t even quietly despise her. But Bianca was lovely. Lovely and sad and in need of protection. Herb was lovely too, and he could help her, be her knight in shining armour. They deserved each other. Sage was sure that the fire of their arguments would very soon mature into a different sort of fire – less antagonistic, but no less heated.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, plastering on a smile. ‘Good luck tonight. Break a leg.’

What did she care, anyway? She hadn’t taken the job because of Herb. She didn’t need a boyfriend. She just needed enough money to take Yoshi Lear’s photography class.

After the show, Sage started to think seriously about asking Armand if she could photograph him. With no sign of Bianca’s ghost, Sage wanted something impressive she could show Yoshi Lear, and a shimmering series of magic at work could be just the thing. But how to approach Armand?

Herb was backstage, tinkering with the blades in the Zigzag cabinet, and Sage was sweeping the rose petals off the stage and pondering her best strategy. The door to the foyer banged.

‘I can’t believe this old theatre is still here,’ said a smooth voice from the auditorium. ‘I’m surprised nobody’s torn it down and put up apartments.’

Sage looked up to see a middle-aged man in a suit standing in the middle aisle.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘But the theatre’s—’

The man walked towards the stage. He waved a nonchalant hand at Sage. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ he said. ‘I’m family.’ He flashed her a warm, open smile, and Sage couldn’t help smiling back.

‘Um,’ she said. ‘I’m not—’

‘Jason Jones,’ said the man, reaching the stage and holding out his hand for her to shake.

So this was Armand’s rival magician. Although he wasn’t tall or particularly attractive, Jason Jones radiated confidence and charisma. His suit was impeccably tailored, his short black hair perfectly cropped and styled. His teeth were straight and white, and when he smiled, it was like the sun coming out.

‘I don’t know you,’ he said to Sage. ‘Are you new?’

Sage nodded and introduced herself, stumbling over the words. Why was she so flustered? It wasn’t like she was attracted to Jason – he was much too old for her. But there was something about him … Sage wanted him to like her. She glanced into the wings and saw Herb watching her with amusement.

‘And how are you finding the old Lyric?’ asked Jason. His gaze locked with hers and filled her with warmth. All his attention was on her, and she basked in his glow.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sage saw Herb roll his eyes and mime being sick.

‘It’s good,’ said Sage. ‘Everyone’s very nice.’

Jason raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’ he said, his mouth curving into a conspiratorial smile. ‘Even Armand? I find that hard to believe.’

Sage found herself giggling. What was wrong with her? ‘He’s not so bad,’ she heard herself say.

‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ said Jason. ‘Speaking of whom, would you mind telling him I’m here?’

Sage nodded and mumbled something inarticulate before rushing off to Armand’s dressing-room.

‘Excuse me?’ she called through the door. ‘There’s a gentleman called Jason Jones here. He wants to talk to you.’

There were a few moments of silence, then the door was yanked open. Armand’s face was creased with displeasure. Sage took an involuntary step back as he swept past her and stomped down the corridor. She followed, a few paces behind.

Next to Jason, Armand looked like a shabby pastiche – someone from a comedy skit about magicians. Sage hung back in the wings and watched.

‘Good to see you, Jason,’ said Armand stiffly. ‘Have you been well?’

Jason Jones rolled his eyes and shrugged. ‘You know how it is,’ he said. ‘Just so busy putting this new show together. And of course everyone wants a piece of me. I swear, if I get one more phone call from a talk show or journalist, I’ll go postal. Sometimes I think I’d like to just pack it all in and become a Tibetan monk or something.’

Sage noticed Herb, still standing in the wings on the opposite side of the stage. His eyes met hers, and he raised his eyebrows slightly as if to say what a douchebag. And suddenly, now she wasn’t in Jason’s spotlight anymore, Sage found herself agreeing with Herb. When he’d been bathing her in his golden light, Sage had felt like he was the most interesting person on the earth. Now, watching Jason with Armand, Sage could see that it was all fakery. A great magician indeed.

‘You must be very pleased,’ said Armand. ‘A show at the Arts Centre.’ Armand didn’t look pleased at all.

‘It’s no big deal.’ Jason Jones’s superior expression implied that it was, in fact, a very big deal.

Armand said nothing.

‘Fun show tonight,’ said Jason Jones, with an insincere smile. ‘I think it’s a credit to you that you can always make such old material seem so fresh. I mean, if I had to do exactly the same routine day in, day out, year after year, I’d go crazy.’

‘It’s not the same routine,’ Herb burst out indignantly, stepping out onto the stage. ‘What about the floating chair and the rose petals?’

Jason Jones turned his gaze upon Herb with a slight air of confusion, as though he hadn’t realised that there were other people in the universe. ‘That was yours, was it?’ he said. ‘I’m impressed. Not bad work for a beginner. I thought it was really … cute.’

Sage saw Herb’s face cloud over. ‘I have to …’ He looked around vaguely. ‘ … go and do a Thing. Over there.’

He stomped past her, muttering cute under his breath. Jason Jones watched him go, and winked at Sage as he noticed her standing behind the curtain. For a moment Sage was sucked back into the vortex of his charm. Then she blinked and it was all make-believe again. Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at Jason, Sage followed Herb back to the office, bumping into Bianca on the way.

‘I wouldn’t go out there if I were you,’ Sage told her. ‘Jason Jones is here. What a creep.’

Bianca craned her head round the wings so she could see onto the stage. ‘Jason’s here?’ she asked. ‘Why?’

‘He came to the show. He’s talking to Armand now, being patronising.’ Sage frowned. ‘Do you know him?’

‘What? No. What makes you think that?’

‘You called him Jason. It sounded like you knew him.’

Bianca laughed. ‘Oh, I mean, I know him a bit. It’s like that in the magic industry. We all know each other. It’s not a big field.’ She glanced at her watch and frowned. ‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting friends.’

She turned and started to hurry back to her dressing-room, but stopped halfway down the corridor. ‘Oh, Sage?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you,’ said Bianca. ‘For saying what you did, yesterday. About how things don’t always have to be this way. You made me … think about a lot of stuff. I guess sometimes it takes an outsider to remind us how weird this industry is.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Sage, feeling totally thrilled that she’d gained Bianca’s approval.

‘It’s … it’s been a while since anyone said anything like that to me,’ said Bianca.

Sage resisted an almost overwhelming urge to give her a hug.

‘Girl power, hey?’ Bianca giggled. ‘Sisters are doing it for themselves!’

Sage nodded, suspecting that Bianca might have totally missed the point. ‘Absolutely.’

‘See you tomorrow!’ Bianca smiled brightly and slipped into her dressing-room.

Sage went into the little office she shared with Herb. He was sitting in his swivelly chair with his feet on the desk, crankily scribbling on a notepad.

‘Do you feel special?’ he asked, not looking up. ‘Now you’ve been personally condescended to by Lord Jason of Douchebaggington?’

‘So special,’ replied Sage, collecting her bag. ‘I shall treasure this day until I die.’

‘You fell for it a little bit, though, didn’t you?’ said Herb.

Sage made a face. ‘Totally,’ she admitted. ‘It was like, for a moment, I was the most interesting person in the universe.’

‘He’s such a tool.’ Herb stabbed his notepad savagely. ‘He’s a master of the backhanded compliment and the humble brag.’

‘The what?’

‘You know,’ Herb struck an aloof pose. ‘I ruined my shoes last night, stepping in chewing gum. It was so annoying. I mean, who spits their used gum on a red carpet?’ He sighed. ‘And this is the third awards ceremony I’ve been to in a week. I mean, I’m totally honoured, but it’s getting embarrassing.’

Sage laughed.

‘So where’s Bianca?’ asked Herb. ‘Usually she’s in here by now trying to convince me I need my chakras realigned.’

‘She had to leave,’ said Sage. ‘She’s meeting up with friends.’

Herb snorted. ‘Is that what she said?’

‘Why is that so unbelievable?’

‘Bianca doesn’t have friends,’ Herb said. ‘None of us do. That’s why we’re here all the time.’

Sage felt taken aback. ‘Really? You don’t have any friends? Nobody who you hang out with on the weekend?’

‘We do three shows every weekend,’ said Herb. ‘There are some other magic nerds I meet up with once a month to play cards with, but otherwise it’s just me and Bianca. And now you.’

Sage frowned. ‘That’s … kind of sad.’

Herb shrugged. ‘That’s magic.’

After Sage heard Jason Jones’s ostentatious farewell, she made her way down the corridor and knocked timidly on Armand’s dressing-room door, slipping inside when she heard his voice. Armand was sitting at his dressing table, looking over a pile of papers. His expression was sour.

‘I was wondering if I could ask a favour,’ she said.

Armand raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look up. Sage explained about her photography class, and that she wanted to do a series of portraits of him.

‘You know,’ Sage finished. ‘Capture the glamour and mystery of the show.’

Sage saw a flicker of light in Armand’s eyes, and he turned away from his table and actually looked at Sage for what felt like the first time ever.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You may photograph me tomorrow, before the show.’

Sage grinned. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It won’t take long, I promise.’

‘It will take as long as it needs to,’ said Armand. ‘Oh, and don’t worry about the accounting query you had the other day. I’ve taken care of it. It was just a glitch.’

Sage waited for him to explain further, but Armand didn’t say anything, just turned back to his pile of papers. Sage walked slowly back to the office, thinking. What kind of glitch would make nine hundred dollars disappear? And why the secrecy? Could Armand be hiding something?