December 24, 1898

Even with all the commotion plaguing London town during this merry season, I managed to find myself a most regal ensemble, if not a bit plain for my tastes. This night was not about drawing more attention to myself than necessary. There is only one person whose attention I required, and the invitation arriving on my doorstep was evidence enough that I had already acquired it. So with great restraint, I settled upon a plum-colored waistcoat made of a soft, reasonably expensive velvet with a long coat in a similar hue to match.

With suitable attire and the confidence of knowing Thomas wanted me to be there, I made my way through the cold, gray streets to the Pendleton manor. It was not until I neared the ornate stone fortress that I felt this strange fluttering inside. It was almost as though I was nervous, but even now it seems preposterous. I am not one to scare easily, nor do I ever get stage fright (not that I would know that for certain, I suppose, since Paolo will never let me out from behind the damned curtain).

I brushed off the odd sensation, as well as some snow that had collected on the shoulders of my coat, and brought myself to the mahogany doors. After a few raps upon the rich, dark wood, I waited for one of the servants to see me in, just as they had at the last social function I had attended at Thomas’s home. I waited far longer than I had to the last time, and when the door did finally swing open, it was not some mere servant but the magician’s apprentice himself.

I noted a quick intake of breath on his part as he looked me up and down, and it caused my own breath to falter slightly. I silently chided myself, but on the outside, I simply flashed the boy a grin I had rehearsed probably as many times as I have rehearsed one of Paolo’s signature illusions.

His smile had an apology behind his eyes, no doubt for his lack of contact and for not answering when I have called upon him in recent weeks. With my own smile, I attempted to convey that it was quite all right and that I was delighted to be seeing him again.

For a place that seems as stoic as a mausoleum, the home was surprisingly warm. Once again, I waited for a servant to rush to our sides, perhaps apologize to young Thomas for his lack of promptness, and take my coat. But just as he had been the one to let me in, Thomas was also the one to take my coat.

I raised my arms, allowing him to assist in slipping it off my back (though I was more than capable of removing the coat myself). When he brought his hands to my shoulders, I turned my face so it was near his. For the sake of being coy, I kept my eyes down toward the floor, not daring to connect with his, but I made sure my mouth was angled in such a way that he would be able to feel the heat of my breath as I exhaled. I did not have to look at the boy to observe his reaction…I could feel it in his very energy.

He lingered for a moment, and I let him take all the time he needed. Once he realized what he was doing, he pulled the coat off me with surprising force. It took a great deal of effort not to laugh—not for thinking him a fool, on the contrary. In spite of myself, I always find his nervous energy rather endearing.

Our footsteps echoed through the stark halls, and as we walked, I eyed each closed door, wondering which could lead to Thomas’s bedchamber. I followed him to the main foyer where the other guests were gathered and mingling. The very aura was worlds different from the drab, shadowy hall we exited as we entered a room bathed in a golden glow of warm candlelight and cheer.

Just as I knew they would be, members of high British society were adorned in their finest fares: the women in ball gowns with silk gloves and assorted gems and pearls decorating their ears and hair. The men…well, there was not much to say about the men’s attire. It is always the same with male fashion: similar black suits, cut into similar shapes, highlighting similar features of the male physique. In the sea of monochromatic clothing, my choice of dark purple pieces may have still been a touch too flamboyant—I have always held the opinion that women are far luckier when it comes to the world of fashion: so many more choices…but alas, I am forgetting myself here.

On the walls, strands of crimson fabric hung, meeting in the middle of each wall in a perfect bow. Green wreaths accented with pinecones and tiny fake birds were also hung in a neat order and caused the room to smell distinctly of pine.

This rustic, woodland scent danced alongside the aroma of freshly baked pastries. A pair of long tables on the far end of the room was covered with tablecloths more pure and white than the freshly fallen snow outside. Atop the tables were platters of the pastries: cookies, macarons, tarts, as well as fine chocolates (no doubt imported from either Belgium or Switzerland). Bowls of fresh fruit and what looked to be custard were placed in the center. Along the edges were flutes of bubbling champagne.

I looked to Thomas, expecting to meet his gaze, but his eyes were fixed on an older couple across the room. I assumed that they were Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton—it was only in the moment that I realized this was my second time being in their home and I had never been properly introduced. They were talking and laughing with a group of people, and the smiles on their faces looked anything but genuine.

My eyes wandered back to the boy, and I sensed a strain in his brow. I leaned in—not too close, of course; being in a room full of other people, I knew better than to push too hard—and softly asked, “Is everything all right?”

He jumped and turned to look at me with wide eyes, as if just remembering I was even in the room. The look lasted only for a moment before he smiled, sweet and warm, and nodded. He led me to one of the tables and reached for two glasses of the refreshment. It was as if the boy were a true magician himself and possessed the ability of a mind reader.

He then spoke his first words of the night. “I’m glad you are still in London. When you stopped calling upon me, I was not sure.”

I smirked. “And yet you sent an invitation all the same.”

He laughed. The kind of laugh one feels proud to have elicited from another. “I said I was unsure; I did not say I had lost all hope.”

And then I felt it for the first time of the night: a strange warmth emanating from someplace within my chest.

“I must say, I was starting to. When you did not answer any of those calls…well, I was quite certain I would not be seeing more of you.” As soon as I uttered the words, I worried that it might have been too much guilt to place on him for his silence, so I quickly added, “I’m glad that my assumption was wrong.”

Another smile. Was it not days ago that I was so certain I had lost my grip on the boy’s heart?

The woman he had just been scowling at then made her way toward us. She smiled politely at me, as any good hostess would, but there was a question in her eyes. Actually, it was more of an accusation. Like she wanted to say something along the lines of, “What in heavens is this oily haired Italian boy doing in my home?” Of course her breeding would never allow for such improprieties, so instead she merely looked to her son and said, “Thomas, dear, who is your friend? We have not had the pleasure.”

Thomas took a sip from his champagne. “This is Saverio Moretti. Sav, this is my mother, Mrs. Katherine Pendleton.”

She had a visible reaction to Thomas calling me Sav, as though his familiarity with me offended her in some way, but she offered a passably warm, “Welcome to our home.”

At this point she pulled Thomas gently by the wrist so that he was right at her side. She leaned in to speak to him in “private.” I took the hint and continued to sip on my champagne as I let my eyes wander around the room, appearing not to be listening to their every word (which I most certainly was). Some of it was hard to make out, but I caught the main points. In the most polite way she could, Mrs. Katherine Pendleton pointed out to her son that they would not have enough place settings or food for an added guest. Thomas informed her that a woman named Amelia would be unable to attend tonight’s festivities, and surely it would be no trouble if I took her place.

This seemed to end the discussion, though I could tell that Thomas’s mother had quite a bit more she would’ve liked to add. He excused himself from her grasp and passed in front of me, suggesting I follow him with a simple nod. I assumed we were off for more painfully uncomfortable introductions and mingling, but we wove our way through the partygoers, swimming through a sea of heavily ornamented skirts and dull conversations, to another stark gray hallway.

Even with a room bustling with people still so nearby, in the empty corridor it managed to feel as though we were the only two people in the house…in London…in the world. I walked right up to him, now with a shred of privacy. My intent had been to ever so suggestively inquire as to where he might be leading me. But my breath along with all my words caught in my throat, and all I could do was stare at the way his blond curls framed his innocent, hopeful stare.

Fool, fool, fool.

Since when have I ever been the softhearted buffoon to let a pretty face have me stumbling over my words?

I finally regained my composure and ran a hand through my hair, which had been expertly coiffed to look as though I had put no effort into it whatsoever.

“Don’t you want to talk to more of your guests? Bask in their company?” I hoped the suggestion wasn’t too blatant. I was getting eager to slip away and carry out my search. I would never be able to do so with him at my side the whole night.

Thomas shot a look of disdain back in the direction of the foyer. “You mean the sycophants who pretend to be friends with my parents because they have money? Or because they think…” At this point, Thomas bit his tongue, but he’d already said quite enough. It would not have taken much cleverness on my part to piece together that despite appearances, the Pendleton family may not be as successful in finances as such an extravagant party might suggest. And all at once, the severe lack of staff working the room made all the sense in the world.

His mind seemed to be elsewhere as he led me down the maze of hallways and stairs. Eventually he stopped in front of a closed door and opened it, waiting for me to step in first before following and closing it once more behind us.

It was a bedroom. His bedroom. He was taking me exactly where I had planned on going.

Dear God, I could not believe it. It was not actually going to be this easy, was it?

He strolled over to the bookshelf that stood opposite his bed with a humble desk of iron and wood beside it. I imagined the boy sitting at the desk to pen his poems, and the thought made me smile.

He pulled a small white book from the top shelf and turned back to me with an eager smile, telling me that it was one of his favorites. He opened it and flipped a few pages before landing on the desired one, and then he began to read. It brought me back to that night when we were alone in the theatre, as he recited poems and sonnets from memory on the barren stage.

And the more I thought on that night, I remembered the feeling of failure that overtook me upon my return to my flat. The missed opportunity. All the things I could have done—could have learned. Well, another opportunity was now presenting itself at my feet, and it was not one that I was about to waste.

I let the boy read a few more poems to me in a voice soft and gentle. At a natural pause in his speech, I joined him at the bookshelf and grabbed for a tome that looked most like a journal. I innocently claimed that though his selections were lovely, I would much prefer to read some of his original work. That was the claim; my true intent was to accidentally happen upon the boy’s private log—perhaps containing notes he had taken with his mentor on how to perform a certain illusion…

But as I pulled it from its place, Thomas also grabbed for the journal, knocking it from my grasp. It fell open upon the floor, right between our feet. I was not about to lose my chance to glimpse some choice information on Neville and his doings, so I bent down to gather the fallen book. As I reached for it, I noticed there was something in between the now-open pages. A flower, a dried flower, and not just any kind of flower…a rose. I looked up at Thomas and offered him a genuine smile, but he was avoiding eye contact with me. I turned my attention back to the book and flipped the page, even though I knew what I would find: another rose dried and pressed into the pages. He’d kept them.

All of them.

I closed the book, a wave of involuntary guilt washing over me for my dastardly motives for pulling it out in the first place. As an apology in my own mind, I offered it back to Thomas, who still was not looking at me, but then my ears caught the sound of a low rumble. A fountain pen lying on the desk started to roll, and the books on the shelf shifted as their weight caused them to lean from one side to another. I looked to the ground, which seemed to be moving from under our feet.

And just as instantly as it all began, it was over. Inexplicable! I looked to Thomas, who let out a sigh of relief. The poor boy was spooked. But it was calming that he’d clearly felt it, too, and I was not simply going mad.

“Did you feel that?” I asked, just for added comfort and assurance.

He nodded, his gray eyes wide.

I stepped in closer, pressing the book into one of his hands, and with my other hand, I grabbed his free one and placed it over the top cover, holding it firmly in place. His milky-white cheeks turned the same color as the rose petals pressed between the pages.

He then informed me that we should return to the party, for dinner would soon be served.

So close, but once again I had not gained any information that would aid me in re-creating and perfecting that ever-elusive illusion.

Thomas exited his room first to investigate, ensuring that no stray party guest had drunkenly wandered through the halls and would see us leaving his bedchamber together. What a scandal that could cause. Once he was sure our way was clear, he led me back to the cacophonous foyer. The other guests were beginning to filter out into the connected dining room—although “room” hardly seems to be the proper term. The space was sleek and narrow, more akin to a hallway, but like a great hall. With chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, their crystal strands ornamented even further with cream and gold ribbons for the occasion.

Long tables, just like the ones serving up sweets and refreshments in the main party room, were pushed together, but with the tablecloths draped over their frames, it looked as though there were one expansive table stretching for miles down the narrow space. I could hardly imagine trying to hold a conversation with someone at the other end.

It was in that moment I looked to the other end and saw our esteemed hosts for the evening looking to their son expectantly. But Thomas made no move to join them. He stayed right by my side before taking an open seat near us, not even deigning to glance in their direction. I followed suit and sat beside him, surprised that such a high-class function did not have place cards assigning guests to specific seats to coordinate some sort of microcosm of the social hierarchy. But it only took looking back up to the few individuals who were hired as staff for the night scurrying around frantically to remind me that certain aspects likely suffered in the planning of this party.

One aspect that certainly did not suffer: the meal.

Once every guest had ceased with the mindless chattering, platters, trays, and bowls were ushered out from the kitchen along with the heavenly scent of roasted meats, vegetables cooked in lemon juice and various vinaigrettes, rolls and baguettes smelling as divine as if they had just been pulled from the oven in a French bakery.

After all the dishes were properly placed along the table, Mr. Pendleton stood and cleared his throat.

I will not take the time to scribble down here what he said. Just the same old nonsense hosts are always required to say: thanking everyone for attending, talking about what a year it has been (in the case of the Pendletons, I am sure it has been one for the books), and then throwing in some stale, forced jokes that no one truly finds funny but the whole room will cackle and roar as if they were utterances of comedic gold.

I paid little mind to the formulaic speech being addressed to the room. It was something under the table that had my attention… As his father droned on, Thomas’s hand found its way into my own. He gave my hand a quick squeeze, and there was so much need in that small shaking gesture.

He needed me.

There is still so much to write on…so much that occurred. But the hour is late early? I grow wearier and wearier by the moment. If I do not retire soon, I shall be met with the unwelcome sight of dawn as its dim light filters through my apartment window. I shall continue recording tonight’s events in the morn, after I have had some rest.