The sorcerer sits in his chaotic and ramshackle study, slumped in anguish, his head upon his desk and his right hand clutching the edges of a framed portrait of his departed love. His grip upon it slips and it falls forward, but the portrait disappears in a plume of flame before it can hit the ground.
He gets to his feet and reaches for a dusty spell book upon his shelves. A moth flies from between its pages as he opens the tome, and with a gesture of disgust he waves three fingers at it, turning it into a dove. It flies around the room and lands upon a perch while he thumps the book down on the desk before placing a black crucible alongside it. Flicking through the pages with his left hand, he produces a shrivelled wand in his right and embarks upon a frenzy of spell-casting, causing various of the arcane and occult artefacts about the study to levitate, vanish, reappear or transform, his frustration growing with each clearly unintended feat. Finally, he causes a porcelain bust of his beloved to suddenly become liquid, the sculpted head disappearing in a milky splash, whereupon he collapses to his knees on the floor in ultimate despair.
At this, the study falls dark, allowing him to become aware of a glow outside his window. He looks up in astonishment and sees her face in the glass. As he climbs waveringly to his feet, the walls around him disappear, leaving him alone in the presence of his love, his departed, his angel. She is floating in the air against a backdrop of stars, her hair like an aura around her, her dress shimmering about her body like wings. The sorcerer staggers towards her, reaching out a hand. She beckons him, seeking his embrace. Then, as his arms are about to clutch her, she vanishes as though those wings, that aura, simply collapsed upon themselves.
He takes another few despairing steps through where she had been, then finds himself standing in front of what a spotlight suddenly reveals to be her headstone. He nods, understanding, accepting she is gone, and reaches into his coat for a flower. All he can find is a withered and sad-looking specimen. He places it upon the grave and walks away. As he does so, it becomes a bounteous bouquet of red roses, then the curtain falls.
A few moments later, Zal is bowing before tumultuous applause, but none of it sounds as good as when his angel joins him to take her bow. She’s breathing hard as she stands next to him, smiling and exhilarated. He recognises that look: she’s feeling the buzz, and he intends to get her dependently addicted.
Morrit is trying to disguise the fact that he’s got a tear in his eye as they come backstage. This final illusion, the Vanishing Angel, was Zal’s take on one known as the Mascot Moth, which the old man hasn’t seen performed in decades, and which he had always wished to stage again. The old man is delighted to witness that even in the twenty-first century, it is still capable of astounding an audience. The angel disappears live on stage, right before their eyes: no billowing cloth to hide the magic moment, no cabinet, no smoke pellets. It was pioneered by deKolta and perfected by David Devant almost a century ago, but it took Morrit’s knowledge and instruction to bring it back to life. Not to mention the talents of a very promising new magician’s assistant, who has recently opted for a radical career change.
Angelique was sick that morning, so nervous was she about making her stage debut, but as Zal told her, everybody went through that. He was sure she’d be great, and so far she’s proven him right.
‘It’s much the same as your old job,’ he’d explained. ‘You have to perform all kinds of athletic and daring feats, except nobody will try to shoot you. You may have to dodge a few swords, and you will almost certainly be sawn in half, but there’s a waiver covers that.’
Truth be told, Zal was probably even more nervous than Angelique about tonight, but not due to any fears regarding her performance. His principle concern was that he wanted her to love it, because he wanted this to work. From what he witnessed onstage, neither of them had ever had anything to worry about.
‘What did I tell you?’ Zal says to Morrit. ‘She’s a natural.’
‘You sure are, pet,’ Morrit assures her, pouring both of them a flute of champagne. Angelique declines, picking up a glass of water instead. Come to think of it, Zal hasn’t seen her touch a drop for a while, figured she was avoiding anything that might affect her concentration. She’s earned herself a drink now, though, surely.
Zal chimes his glass against hers as Morrit impatiently ambles off to fuss over the Vanishing Angel apparatus.
‘You did it, kid,’ he tells her. ‘You were great. I reckon you’re ready for the big time.’
She smiles, puts out a hand and rests it on his thigh.
Zal takes a big gulp, feeling the nerves again in anticipation of what he has to say.
‘Which is just as well,’ he goes on, ‘because we’ve been offered a very big opportunity. Singapore. Extremely good money, and it’s owned by the same people as own several hotels in Vegas. Play it right, and one day I’ll be able to take my show to the city where I first watched my dad perform.’
She gives him a weird look, one he can’t read at all. It’s like she’s real happy, but she’s also afraid she’s about to let him down.
‘Look, there’s no pressure,’ he assures her. ‘This was on the strength of my one-man show, and that’s what they’re expecting. We can work the assistant stuff into the act gradually.’
She smiles and gives a subtle shake of the head, mumbles a reply.
‘...a little late,’ is what he catches.
‘To start this? Don’t be insane. You’re only, what, thirty-six? And you’re a natural.’
She laughs, takes hold of both his hands, pulling him towards her. ‘I believe you,’ she says. ‘But it might be tricky, in the short term at least.’
‘Why?’
Then she draws his head close, puts her mouth to his ear, and whispers.
‘I didn’t say it was a little late...’