"The gift is yours. Look."

The child stared into the cupped hands the woman held out to her. "There is nothing there."

The woman frowned, her face becoming as lined as a map of the many miles she had traveled to get here to the child. "Look more closely."

"I see nothing."

"Do not seek with your eyes. They will betray you. Seek always with your heart."

"My heart?"

The woman pressed her cupped hands against the child’s thin chest. "I can feel your heart from within you. You must heed it."

"I hear its thump, but I do not know what it means."

"Yes, you do. We have spoken of it before." The woman glanced at the fire burning in front of the small wagon where the child’s family slept. The faded letters painted on the wagon’s side were consumed by the darkness. To find a child possessing such a gift with the family who traveled in that wagon had been a great surprise. The child’s parents would have been even more astonished if they learned of the child’s gift. They must not, because they might try to put a halt to the lesson.

The woman’s hands clenched with frustration. Fools! Did they think they could keep the child away from her? The child was ten years old, and it was time for her to grasp her destiny. The gift she had been given was both a blessing and a burden. The woman understood that as no one else could. The gift had been hers for so many years, even though it now was far weaker than the child’s. Despite that, she was obligated to instruct the girl. It was the way of those who had the gift and recognized it in another.

"Help me," whispered the child. "Help me hear it."

She put her hands to the child’s chest again and then held them close to the little girl’s ear. A smile so bright that even the moonless night could not conceal it swept across the child’s face.

"I hear it!" she cried.

"Shh!"

A shadow moved by the wagon’s window. If someone were to peer out now . . . It did not matter. She had taught the child well, and now nothing was left but to bring forth the gift. Holding out her hands, cupped as if to hold water or a precious jewel, she said, "Look within and discover the gift inside you. Open yourself to it, but only if you wish. Guard your gift well and use your gift wisely or it will turn its power upon you. Think well before you look once more, because there is no turning back."

The child’s eyes widened as her mouth became a perfect O. Slowly, she raised her small hands and put them around the woman’s. Just as slowly, the woman drew her hands away and sat back, smiling, as the child stared at her own palms, transfixed.

With a sudden laugh, the child threw up her hands, and bright lights cascaded over both the old woman and the child. She flung her arms around the woman before running to scoop up the sparkles in her long nightdress.

The woman smiled with satisfaction.

It was done.

It could now begin . . .

Kent, England

1897

"And now, for your mystification and entertainment, The Amazing Nightingales!"

Madeleine Nightingale gave the simple front of her white satin gown one last tug before she followed her brother onto the makeshift stage in front of the church. She glanced at the crowd and sighed. A score of children and half that many adults made a poor audience and would bring a meager collection at the end of the show. Unless a bigger crowd attended the performance tomorrow afternoon, she would have to dip into their paltry savings to buy food for her and her brother Roland.

The applause was more enthusiastic than she had anticipated, and her hopes rose. An eager audience might put in a generous contribution when the hat was passed at the end of the show. But she could not think of that now. She had to make sure Roland completed each trick without a mistake. A single mistake could be costly because people would not pay to watch errors. They wanted to be dazzled, and it was her duty to be certain that Roland did just that.

Holding out her arm to focus everyone’s attention on her brother, she kept a practiced smile on her lips. She did not even bat away the insects buzzing around her head. After spending nearly every evening of her life standing in the bright glow of lamps, she had learned to pay them no mind. She had also learned not to open her mouth unwisely or to breathe in deeply when they swarmed around her head.

Roland bowed, and her smile became genuine. In the past year, her younger brother had outgrown his lanky awkwardness, and she began to see a resemblance to their father. His glistening hair, which was a deeper ebony than hers, and long, slender hands were his most obvious legacy from Papa. If only he had inherited Papa’s skill as a prestidigitator and . . .

She had no time to finish the thought as she handed Roland the battered top hat. Pulling a rabbit from a hat would charm the children, although the trick was as old as stage magic itself. She brushed down the back of Roland’s worn frock coat, not wanting him to chance revealing any props for upcoming illusions. He did not falter in his patter as he held up the apparently empty hat for all to see. He was accustomed to her tending to such details. In fact, he depended on her for those matters, whether he acknowledged the truth or not.

Childish squeals welcomed the bunny that Roland lifted from the hat. Madeleine took the hat and Pudgy. She slipped Pudgy another piece of the carrot that had been too soft to put in their stew. Setting them behind her, she again motioned broadly toward Roland, aiming the applause at him.

"That went better than last week," he murmured under his breath as he reached for the deck of cards she offered him with another graceful wave of her hand.

"Pudgy is not hungry tonight," she answered as softly. "He is always more cooperative when his stomach is full."

A scowl darkened his thin mustache. "Me, too, but who knows when that will be?" He glanced at the meager audience.

She gave him a bolstering smile. Roland should not be thinking of anything but the next part of the routine.

Stepping aside, she folded her hands behind her, letting them rest on the cascade of deep blue ruffles dropping along the back of her gown. She watched Roland closely. With every performance, he gained more confidence. Maybe someday he would do as he had vowed and become the star in a fine London theater. Then, the rough life of traveling from town to town, wondering each day how they would afford to eat tomorrow, would be over. He wanted that desperately, and she would do what she could to help him obtain his wish.

Madeleine stole a glance beyond the lanterns at the edge of the simple stage to appraise the audience. They appeared fascinated by Roland’s sleight-of-hand. More people were gathering. The day had been rainy. Maybe folks had been delayed in town by muddy roads. She must pick exactly the right moment to pass the top hat to collect whatever pennies these farmers and small merchants would part with.

She heard Roland say, "And now the lovely Miss Madeleine Nightingale will . . ." She turned to collect his baton from the table and froze as her gaze was caught by the eyes of a tall man near the back of the audience.

He walked slowly toward the stage. She did not need to take note of his elegant clothes to know he did not belong in this small village any more than she and Roland did. She could tell he was a man of some standing by the way the others glanced over their shoulders as he neared and then stepped aside. Unlike the others, who were dressed casually, he wore a top hat as dark as his frock coat. The tip of his walking stick matched the gold buttons on his vest. His stylishly trimmed mustache was the golden-brown of spun caramel.

"Madeleine, assist me," hissed her brother.

She could not tear her gaze away from the man’s, not even to answer Roland. Those heated eyes held her. The man paused directly in front of the stage, so close that his eyes were hidden by shadows cast by the lantern. Yet, when he folded his arms over the front of his coat, she could see the bold smile he aimed at her. Something . . . something unquestionably pleasurable, twisted through her.

His gaze moved easily along her, as if she were wares in a market and he was considering buying. She resisted straightening the satin straps of her gown which left her arms immodestly bare. As he looked at her breasts, his smile broadening slightly, she did not dare to breathe. She was unsure if she could have, even if she had wanted to. His attention did not linger there as it continued along her, making her aware as never before that her dress was too short for anywhere but the stage, because the hem barely reached the top of her high-button shoes. His smile curled into a knowing expression. The only problem was she had no idea what he thought he knew.

"Madeleine, what is amiss?" her brother demanded.

"What—?" She stared at Roland. He was frowning. When he gestured toward the table, she nodded.

What was wrong with her? Only once before had she lost her place in a performance, but then she had been no more than four or five years old. She had gone through his routine so often with him during so many shows that she should have been able to make each motion without thinking. She reached for the bowl he needed for the next part of their act.

He turned back to the audience to begin his introduction to the next illusion. "My dear friends, you are in for a treat. I—"

The bowl slipped from her fingers and smashed into dozens of pieces that skittered across the small stage. Laughter trickled through the crowd, embarrassed laughter for the magician’s assistant who could not manage the simplest task. She stared at the broken bowl, appalled. Her gaze flicked from the shards to the man by the stage. He gave her a sympathetic nod, but his smile never wavered.

"What is wrong with you?" Roland asked in a taut whisper.

"Nothing, nothing." She hastily picked up what looked like an empty cage and held it out to him. "I am sorry, Roland."

He frowned at her, but continued the performance.

Madeleine listened to his patter and waited for the exact moment to place the paisley scarf over the cage. She was astonished when her fingers trembled. She did not suffer from stage nerves. But if that was not the reason her fingers shook, what was? Or who? Although she knew she should keep her focus directed on the scarf, she looked over it to the tawny-haired man who stood right in front of her.

His eye closed in a lazy wink.

She gasped as something flapped against her fingers. A pair of doves erupted from beneath the cloth and flew up in her face. Roland cursed, and heat rose along her cheeks. The children in the audience shrieked and pointed skyward as the gray shadows of the birds vanished among the stars. Laughter rose in their wake. Not a titter this time, but a roar.

Her brother took her by the arm and turned so his back was to the audience. "What is wrong with you tonight? You are never clumsy."

"I . . ." She still faced the audience and found herself staring at the handsome man whose smile sent sweet sensation through her once more.

The man leaned forward and rested his arms on the lip of the stage. Now that he stood so his face was fully lit by the lanterns, she could see that his eyes were a cool moss green. They twinkled as brightly as the lamps.

"Madeleine!"

Roland’s insistent voice brought her own eyes back to him. His square face furrowed with frustration. She could not blame him. Everything she had done tonight was wrong.

"I am sorry," she said yet again, struggling to keep from looking at the handsome man. Was she out of her mind? Other men had tried to flirt with her from beyond the lights. Not once before had she succumbed to silly giddiness.

"Are you all right?"

She managed a smile. Dear Roland! How kind of him to think of her when she had made a jumble of everything. Patting his arm, she whispered, "I shall be fine. Why don’t we continue?"

"There is only one illusion left."

"Making us both disappear?"

The anger in his voice lashed at her. "If only we knew how, I would be grateful for such a finale tonight."

Madeleine bit her lip so she would not speak the truth. Roland did not believe in magic, only illusion. If she were even to hint . . . No! She silenced the reckless thought, especially when he was so discomposed.

But she could not stand here and do nothing. After all, she had ruined tonight’s show. It was her obligation to fix it. She watched as Roland went back to the middle of the stage and began the final deception aimed at convincing the audience that he truly controlled nature and could twist it to his will. Stepping into the shadows beyond the edge of the curtain tied back to hide its fraying edges, she closed her eyes and cleared her mind. She formed an image of Roland in her head. Her mind’s eye focused on his hands. Painting them with a golden glow, she concentrated on keeping the light around his fingers. Old Saza had taught her to center all her thoughts so she could help steady Roland’s hands and bring them the skill Papa had had. It was almost as good as creating the illusions herself.

Explosive applause and cheers brought her eyes open. She had done it! The audience and Roland believed the skill was his, and that was the way she wanted it. With a smile, she moved back into the light and raised her hand toward her brother as Roland took a deep bow. Even the handsome man by the stage clapped appreciatively.

She picked up Roland’s top hat and went to the steps on the far side of the stage. Her eyes widened when the handsome man paralleled the stage at exactly the same pace she walked. When she reached the steps, he held up his hand to assist her to the ground.

She hesitated, and he raised a golden brow and asked, "Miss Nightingale, may I?"

"Thank you." She gave him her coolest smile and placed her hand on his gloved palm. The leather, she noticed quickly, was uncracked and an amazing light gray.

His fingers closed around hers, and she forgot all about the fine gloves. The warmth that had whirled within her became a windstorm as the heat of his skin oozed through the leather. Slowly he drew her down the steps until her eyes were even with his. The light from the stage glowed on only one side of his face, hiding the other half. He said nothing. He did not move nearer. Even so, she wondered if she had ever been so intimately close to another human being. She was certain she had never been so close to a man who unsettled her as he did.

He! She did not even know his name. What a fool she was to let his impertinent smile delight her! She shook herself free of her own fancy and edged off the lowest step.

"Thank you, sir," she said.

"My pleasure, Miss Nightingale. My deepest pleasure, if I may say so."

Madeleine decided anything she said might be the wrong thing, so she simply nodded. She started to turn away, but he halted her, dropping several coins into the top hat. "Thank you, sir," she said again, glad to fall back on the trite. "I am pleased you enjoyed The Amazing Nightingales’ show."

Strolling among those who had viewed the show, she smiled each time someone dropped a coin into the hat. Most offered only pennies, but even these few pennies would help feed them and their animals.

"Excellent entertainment," said a deep voice from her left.

She sighed silently. Reverend Mr. Spinner had been kind to offer his churchyard for the performance. It was a kindness, she knew from experience, based on the expectation that The Amazing Nightingales would share part of the money collected with the parish church.

"Not exactly what I anticipated, I must say," the parson continued, "after you expounded on your brother’s skill with sleight-of-hand."

"You must not fault my brother for my clumsiness," she hurried to say. She gave what she hoped sounded like a giggle. "Thank goodness Roland is patient with me at times like tonight."

He offered her a sympathetic smile, and she guessed he was sorry that anyone who worked on the stage was so apparently ungainly. "I must say that the congregation enjoyed you immensely."

"And we thank you for making it possible for us to present our show for them." She reached into the top hat and pulled out the handful of coins.

Her eyes widened when she saw two half crowns amidst the other coins. Who—? She glanced over her shoulder at the handsome man by the steps. When he tipped his hat to her, she looked hastily away. He must have put the half crowns in the hat. Judging by the audience’s clothing, nobody else could afford to be so generous.

"Miss Nightingale?" the parson prompted.

Grateful that Roland was not the only one who had learned sleight-of-hand from their father, Madeleine made the half crowns vanish into a pocket within the hat. She counted half the pennies and dropped them into the parson’s outstretched hand.

"Thank you again, Mr. Spinner," she said. "I do hope you will attend our performance tomorrow afternoon. I intend to be far more competent."

"Perhaps I will." He shook the coins before dropping them into a pocket. "You know that you are always welcome to perform here."

"That is kind of you to say." Wishing him a good evening, Madeleine hurried back to where Roland was gathering up their props. She wanted to share the good tidings of the largesse that had come their way, but first she must apologize for being so absentminded.

He squatted by the table on the stage and did not stand or look at her when she said, "Roland, I am sorry about my mistakes during the show."

"I do not want to talk about it now." His lips were a straight line beneath his thin, black mustache.

"But, Roland—"

He glanced at her as he packed colorful scarves into their box and reached for Pudgy’s cage. "Madeleine, Mama always told us to curb our tongues if we thought we could not speak calmly, for words said in anger are hurtful. I find her advice useful tonight."

"She also said there should be no misunderstandings left to fester between us."

"Madeleine, please! Not here." His hands clenched on the small cage.

"All right," she whispered, touching his shoulder in apology. She jerked her hand back when she felt how he trembled. Was he that furious with her? "When we get back to the wagon, I will make you a cup of your favorite tea. Then we can talk."

"We shall see."

Madeleine swallowed harshly. She could not recall the last time Roland had spoken to her in such a frigid tone. Picking up the baton which had been transformed into a rose bush, she set it atop the other props.

"Madeleine, I would rather finish alone."

She flinched as if he had struck her. He must be even angrier than she had guessed. Edging away, she clenched her hands by her sides. She wanted to tell him that she had not ruined the show. She had saved it . . . just as she had saved it so many nights before. But telling him the truth now would only infuriate him more. Her brother had ambitious dreams, and he would not welcome her being honest about how she helped him.

When she whirled to go back to the small wagon that was their home, her satin gown flowed around her legs. She dashed blindly from the stage. What a to-do! She and Roland must not be at odds with one another when they next performed, or the result could be even more dreadful than tonight.

She never wanted to come back to . . . She could not recall the name of the village. It could have been any of a dozen in the Kent countryside with its stone church that looked as if it had been built within days of the Norman Conquest. A small shop and several houses edged a green graced by a pair of oaks that were probably older than any of the buildings. The villages and their names blurred together after more than two decades of traveling the dusty roads between them.

As she walked across the green, paying no mind to the dew dampening her shoes, she prayed that someday, when her brother achieved his most precious dream and they were performing in one of the elegant theaters near Covent Garden, she and Roland would look back at the jumbled performance tonight and laugh. Together. She wished they could laugh tonight, but, with a shudder, she knew they would not.

"Cold?"

The man’s voice came out of the shadows beneath the closer oak tree, startling Madeleine. She spun and gasped as she looked up into the green eyes which had held her gaze on stage. What was the handsome man doing here? Waiting for her? She hoped not . . . and she hoped so. No, she must not encourage any stranger. Most men believed that a woman who made her living on the stage was eager to earn a bit more gold in his bed.

He slipped off his frock coat and draped it over her shoulders. His fingers brushed her bare skin lightly, but fierce electricity seared through her. His fine lawn shirt stretched across his muscular chest when he reached to lift her hair from beneath his coat.

"What do you think you doing?" She stepped back and pulled off the coat, holding it out to him.

He smiled, but did not take it back. "I am sorry if I have given you cause for alarm. All I wished to do is be certain you did not take a chill."

"You took a year off my life blurting out that question. I did not see you lurking there."

"I hope that is not true." His smile broadened. "What a shame it would be to deny the world even a moment of your charming talent and grace, Miss Nightingale."

Madeleine took a steadying breath. Who was the well-dressed man? Of one thing she was certain. If he was like other men she had encountered, he did not care about her life beyond tonight. He thought only of seducing her and taking his pleasure. "I bid you a good evening, sir."

"Must you?" He put out his hand as if to take hers.

She draped his coat over his outstretched arm. "Sir, I must. There is much to do before my brother and I may retire."

"So the inimitable Mr. Nightingale is your brother, is he?"

"Yes." She hoped her coolness covered her disappointment. Just once she would like to meet a man who did not think she was easily wooed into offering a very private performance after the lanterns were extinguished.

"I am glad I chanced upon your show tonight." Another smile twitched on his lips. "You were very amusing, Miss Nightingale."

"That was not our goal."

"Really?" He settled his coat on her shoulders once more. "I thought you would be happy to learn that you entertained all of us."

"Entertain, yes, but our intention was not to leave the audience weak with laughter."

He rested his hand on the tree and glanced past her toward the stage. "I suspected from the color brightening your cheeks up there that all was not going as you had hoped."

"I did not blush!"

"Ah, but you did." He touched her cheek with his gloved finger. "The color splashed here was very becoming."

"Sir, desist!"

He held up both hands in a pose of surrender. "I did not mean to put you to the blush again, Miss Nightingale. I beg your indulgence."

The wisest thing would be to put an end to the conversation on this almost deserted green. Again she pulled off the coat and handed it to him. He did not take it, and she tossed it onto the lowest branch of the tree. "Please excuse me. Roland is expecting me."

"That sounds like a convenient excuse."

"It does, doesn’t it?" she returned in the same icy tone.

He chuckled. "You are very amusing, Miss Nightingale." He tugged his coat off the branch, drew it on, and held out his arm. "At the very least, let me escort you to where you are staying."

"No thank you."

"Why not?"

"I do not know you, sir."

"Would you feel more comfortable if we were introduced?"

Madeleine was torn between vexation and amusement. The handsome man seemed determined to keep the conversation going until she thawed from what Roland called her ice-princess pose. She turned and walked away, not surprised when he matched her step for step.

"Sir, leave me alone!" she ordered.

"Why? You said you would be more comfortable if we were introduced properly."

"Maybe I would, but it is a moot point. There is no one here to introduce us."

"Can’t you conjure some magic spirit up to do the honors?" His hand twisted through the air. "Abracadabra, and a jinn pops out to tell you my name is Christopher and to grant me leave to call you Madeleine."

"The Amazing Nightingales do not perform that sort of conjuring." It was only a small lie, because she had only once made the mistake of calling a jinn into service. She had been barely ten years old. She had learned her lesson and would not do that again, because she had grown annoyed with the creature’s endless grousing about everything and everyone he had encountered in his eight thousand years of existence.

He chuckled. "What your brother performed on stage, a skilled manipulation of small items to the amusement and awe of an audience, is sleight-of-hand, not conjuring."

"So you do not believe in real magic?"

"Real magic? Those words do not belong together." His gaze glided along her. "Something I could not say about you and your lovely gown."

"You are bold."

"I have found that being overly polite gains a man nothing." His smile broadened. "If I had been overly polite, I would not have waited here in hope of having this opportunity to speak with you. Think of what we would have missed."

Madeleine took another deep breath of the evening air, hoping the cool breeze would ease the heat swirling through her with each word he spoke. "You are also very confident that I feel the same way you do."

"I am confident that I would like to continue our conversation." He offered his arm again. "Will you allow me to escort you now that we are introduced?"

She shook her head. "My answer remains the same. I ask you to excuse me."

"In that case, I must ask you to excuse me as well."

She frowned, puzzled. "For what?"

"For this." His hand curved around her nape, and he captured her lips with an ease that was both frightening and exhilarating. When his arms enfolded her to his chest, heat consumed every thought.

Every thought but one. She was a fool to let him kiss her. She should slap his face. She should run screaming for her brother. She should call out to the pastor to reprimand him.

Even as she thought that, she softened against him, as he wooed her into returning his kiss. His mustache brushed her skin while the tip of his tongue caressed her lips, teasing, gentle, but insistent that she give herself to the pleasure. His tongue teased her lips apart, and it slid into her mouth. She gasped, and the sound echoed into his mouth. When his lips slipped along her face, ethereal heat remained. He bent to sample the curve of her neck, and her breath came sharp and rapid in her ears.

When he raised his head, she opened her eyes to discover his face still close to hers. "You should not do that," she whispered.

"Sometimes it is amusing to do what one should not." His tongue teased her ear before he murmured, "Don’t you agree?"

"Yes . . . I mean no . . . I mean—" Halting at his warm chuckle, she forced her voice to steady. "Sir, I ask you again to bid me a good evening."

"Why so soon?" His finger trailed sweet delight along her bare arm.

"It is late, and I must—"

"Then there is no need for you to hurry away." His lips brushed her neck. "Stay with me tonight, Madeleine."

"You are mad!" she gasped, pulling back.

His hands edged along her shoulders and down her arms. "Mad with the desire to hold you all night long."

She jerked away. "You have mistaken my courtesy for something else, sir."

He grasped her face and tilted her mouth beneath his in a hard, demanding kiss. Her reaction was instinctive. He yelped as a brilliant spark burst between them.

"What the hell was that?" He stared at her.

"How many women have you burned with your smooth ways? Now you have gotten a bit of your own medicine."

"How did you do that? No, you do not need to explain." He smiled coldly. "I saw your brother creating sparks during several of his tricks. Apparently he is not the only illusionist in your family."

She was so tempted to be honest with him. Roland had used stage fire, but what she had used to scorch Christopher’s finger was no illusion. She knew better than to speak the truth, and she had known better than to create that spark. She would pay for that mistake.

Turning to leave, she replied, "Butter will take the sting out of that, sir."

"Just the burn, not the rejection."

She did not answer as she began to walk away.

"We could have had an amusing time together tonight." When she glanced back, he tipped his hat toward her. "I wish you a good evening, Miss Nightingale."

She watched him leave. If she had been a different woman, a less respectable woman, a woman who did not always try to do the proper thing, then she might even now . . . With a sigh, she went to the wagon to try to soothe Roland. She wished she could soothe her own body which resonated like a tuning fork with the sweet memory of Christopher’s brazen caresses.

She definitely was not going to have a good evening.

Text Copyright 2010 by J. A. Ferguson
Web Page Copyright 2010 by ImaJinn Books, Inc.