Conjured

“Come,” the Magician said to the doll. He hauled her through a silver mirror at the back of the tent. He kept a grip on her arm tight enough to bruise if she’d had human skin, and they stepped out of a second mirror onto the stage—a dramatic entrance. At his signal, a stagehand wheeled away the silver mirror.

The audience clapped politely. They had seen portals before. In most worlds, they were ubiquitous. A few patrons fidgeted and rustled their bags, gathering their belongings as if preparing the leave. But they quieted when she walked forward on her shaky cloth legs—a living doll. Somewhere in the tent, a baby cried.

“My beautiful assistant!” the Magician said.

The audience laughed at her thread face, her yarn hair, her wobbling legs.

And the Magician began the show.

He started with sleight of hand, magicless tricks with cards, balls, and scarves. But then he added real magic: he tossed the scarves into the air, and they didn’t fall. Over his head, the scarves twisted slowly as if they were underwater. And then the scarves burst into flame.

The audience gasped, their attention rapt.

Silent on the stage, the doll watched the audience through glass eyes. Children. Men. Women. Most had painted faces: leopard spots, zebra stripes, fish scales, feathers. Their clothes were fashioned out of fur, feathers, and scales to match their faces. A few held caramel popcorn in a red-and-white-striped bag, forgotten as the Magician performed. One child sucked endlessly on a lollipop.

Near the center of the audience, one face was unpainted: a perfect face with blond tousled hair and bright-blue eyes. He watched the Magician as intently as a hawk watches a mouse.

The doll watched this boy as she took the Magician’s cloak and waved it with a flourish, the perfect assistant. The Magician pretended to kiss her cheek in thanks and instead stole her breath. She kept watching as he tossed card after card into the air. Each card stopped in midair until at last he had a ladder of cards leading up to the scarves.

The Magician climbed the card ladder up to where the fiery scarves spun and sparked. On one foot, he stood on the top card, and he juggled the silken balls of fire. As the scarves dissolved into ash, the applause was thunderous.

The boy in the audience didn’t clap.

The doll knew his name. Aidan. She fought against the memories that rose inside her, and she fixed her eyes instead on the Magician.

Coming down from the ladder of cards, the Magician held his hand out toward the audience. A girl in the front row leaped to her feet and scrambled onto the stage.

No, the doll thought.

The girl looked so innocent. Her face was painted like a swan. She wore white feathers in a skirt. She was smiling as if she’d won a prize. With broad gestures, the Magician invited her to climb the ladder. Laughing, the girl climbed, and he stood beneath her. On the tenth card, her foot slipped. She grabbed at the card above, but it slid out of her hand. Screaming, she fell.

He turned her into a bird before she hit the ground.

The Magician scooped his hat from the doll’s hands. He laid it over the bird that fluttered on the stage. Slowly, he raised the hat up, and the girl stood under it, wearing his hat. She laughed and clapped her hands. The Magician bowed. The girl curtsied before scurrying back to her seat, and her parents hugged her with proud smiles on their painted faces.

The girl wasn’t his next victim. The doll wished her cold, dry eyes could cry. She wished she were more than cotton inside so she could feel relief in her heart, her stomach, and her breath. Perhaps no one would die today.

The show continued. Soon, other carnival people gathered at the back of the tent. The Magician’s shows never went so long. But the Magician didn’t slow or tire. Between tricks, he’d kiss his doll assistant on the cheek, secretly filling his lungs each time. He drew a cloud into the tent and caused it to rain on the stage. He transformed the raindrops into butterflies, and then he forced the butterflies to fly in patterns against the roof of the tent—and then he changed them back into rain that fell toward the audience, transforming at the last second to paper confetti that melted into nothingness.

He then caused the seats to sprout, as if watered by the vanished confetti. Vines spread over the arms and legs of the audience. Roses blossomed on the vine, and then just as quickly, they wilted. The vines blackened and crumbled. Each audience member was left with a rose on his or her lap.

The applause was thunderous.

The Magician bowed. “And now for my final trick …”