Free Masters of Illusions by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith

even Sherlock Holmes, all those detectives who never
     wanted wives. Margie’s detective wanted one—wanted Margie. She asked Charlie if Martha could sit in.
    At this stage, Martha had gotten to be a real friend to her parents, holding up her end of the conversation. She loved being
     read to, and she was just learning to read herself. Now, Margie was reading the
Odyssey
to Martha, a chapter a night. She loved gore, as did her mother. Reading the poetry that they couldn’t understand geared
     them up for all Homer’s gore, which they could.
    Charlie agreed to let Martha sit off in a corner while the Master hypnotized Dixie. So Margie explained what hypnosis was
     to her daughter beforehand. Margie told her it was
real
magic as opposed to make-believe magic like in the
Odyssey.
Martha said, “Make-believe?” And Margie had to backtrack and explain that there wasn’t any such thing as a giant with a big
     eye in the middle of his forehead.
    Martha said, “But I bet there are Sirens.”
    Margie said, “Well, there are whirlpools, that’s for sure.”
    Martha shivered. “I know. Right down the drain.” Then she did an imitation of a drain, though she looked more like a person
     sucking up spaghetti.
    Charlie warned Martha that the lady might say some really sad things about what she saw when the circus burned down.
    Martha said, “About Mommy’s back getting burned?”
    “Well, yes, she’ll talk about all kinds of people getting burned.”
    “About the little girl that got burned that no one knows who she is?”
    “That’s right.”
    Martha’s eyes sparkled. She couldn’t wait. Neither could Margie. And neither could Charlie.

Chapter Six
    T hey both wore capes except that the Master’s was black. After Dixie had made the introductions, and they’d shaken hands, the
     Master of Illusion stooped down by Martha, reached out to her, and said, “Now what’s this in your hair?” And he pulled a tiny
     paper butterfly out of one of her curls. Martha was agog and immediately felt in her hair for more. He said, “Just this one,”
     and he put it into her hands. Margie said to him, “You really are a master of illusion.” He said, “Well, we all are, aren’t
     we? It’s just that circus people can’t let themselves get carried away.”
    The Master didn’t swing a watch on a chain. He hypnotized people with his voice. Martha was sitting next to Margie by the
     tape recorder. Thirty seconds after he started hypnotizing Dixie, Margie noticed Martha swaying. She caught her and put her
     to bed. Margie whispered to Charlie, “I hope I won’t have to spend another thousand in the morning getting the Master of Illusion
     to wake this kid up.”
    When she got back into the room Dixie was chatting away and Margie thought that they were waiting for her. Then she realized
     that Dixie was talking to an invisible point in the air about a foot above the Master’s head. She was back in time, back at
     the circus describing what she saw of the catastrophe as it was happening: “… and then the Wallendas went right to their wagons
     except for Hermes; he’s the youngest. He stayed for a minute or two to pull a few kids over the chute. I’ll tell ya, the Wallendas
     were strange birds. Kept to themselves. Couldn’t speak any English whatsoever. Don’t know what they spoke. Someone asked them
     once if they were Hungarian and that bent them all out of shape. They’re Gypsies. ’Course I wasn’t born circus, so I never
     could understand why Gypsies aren’t something besides Gypsies. I mean, it’s not like there’s a Gypsyland somewhere.”
    The Master interrupted her with his serene voice. “And tell me what happened, Dixie, after the Wallendas had gone back to
     their wagon.”
    Dixie’s brow wrinkled. She said, “Well, the clowns’ faces were melting. Emmett was late for his act because he’d been trying
     to keep his nose on. I’m not talking about the fire, now. This was before the fire. Y’see,