Free Born of Corruption by Teri Brown Page B

kicks my pulse up a notch. My mother says I’m a show-off, but I prefer to think of myself as a performer. Plus, it’s been weeks since I’ve done any street magic. It doesn’t go with the shiny new image of respectability we’re trying to cultivate.
    “Wonderful,” I tell him, taking the scarves and crumpling them into a tight ball. I wink at the people gathering around us. “I was looking for those.”
    They laugh appreciatively. With a snap of my wrist, I flick my fingers open toward the man’s face. There’s a small gasp and scattered applause as they realize that the scarves have disappeared.
    “Hey!” the man protests good-naturedly. “Those were mine.”
    “I’m sorry.” I set the basket by my feet to free up both hands. Now I am showing off, but performing in front of an audience is so much fun, I can’t resist. “Perhaps you would take these in trade?” I whisk three silver bangles off my left wrist. They were made especially for me by a silversmith in Boston, and, along with my deck of cards and the balisong in my handbag, I never leave home without them. Working them expertly between my fingers, I juggle them a bit to show everyone they’re three separate circlets. Then I catch them one at a time with the same hand and clutch them together. Moments later, I hold them up and the onlookers gasp. The bracelets are now connected like a chain. 
    The man throws up his hands, laughing. “I give up; you win!”
    The boy adroitly maneuvers through the dispersing crowd, passing out flyers.
    I replace my bangles and pull the ball of scarves out of the basket where I’d secreted them. “Looking for these?” I ask.
    He takes the scarves and shoves them into the pocket of his baggy trousers. “You’re quite good—for a girl.”
    “Thank you,” I tell him, ignoring the girl remark. If I argued with every male magician who made a snide comment about my gender, I’d never have time to do magic. I prefer to outperform them onstage, where it really matters. “My mother and I are opening tomorrow night at the Newmark Theater.”
    “Swanky! A magic show, I take it?”
    My stomach sinks a bit. I wish it were just a magic show. “I do a bit of magic in the show, but Mother’s a mentalist. I mostly assist her. If you’d like to come, I’ll leave you tickets at the box office. Just tell them Anna Van Housen sent you.” I nod toward the boy. “I’ll leave one for him, too.”
    “That would be grand! My name is Ezio Trieste.” He holds out a grubby hand and I shake it firmly. “You and your mother might be interested in this show Sunday night. Dante!” he yells at the little boy still handing out flyers to anyone who will take one. “Give the lady one of those.”
    I take the proffered paper with a smile, then hand the man back his coin.
    I glance down at the flyer and everything around me dims as I read the headline.
     
    DO SPIRITS EXIST?
HOUDINI SAYS NO AND PROVES IT!
     
    “Thank you,” I whisper, and turn away, forcing my heavy limbs to move. The ringing in my ears drowns out the sound of the automobiles on the street as I hurry down the sidewalk. After half a block, I slow and crumple the paper in my hand. Tossing it into the gutter, I stop and take a measured breath. My mother’s sharp eyes see everything, and the last thing I need is for her to find out that Houdini’s in town.

Two
    I stare at the paper in the gutter and bite my lip. Glancing around, I retrieve the flyer from the street and smooth it out as best I can with my hands. Then I fold it up and slip it into the bottom of my basket, where Mother won’t see it.
    Why am I so shocked? I wonder as I head toward home. Though he tours most of the year, New York is his home. I should have known our paths would cross at some point.
    I shake my head as I reach the steps to my building, resolving not to give Houdini another thought. At least until my mother catches wind of his arrival.
    Taking a deep breath to clear my mind, I stare up