Ann’s lips tremble. “I suppose they wouldn’t want a girl like me—the true me—on their stage.” Every bit of confidence she’s mustered disappears, and the illusion of Nan Washbrad flickers.
“Ann,” I warn.
It’s no use. The full knowledge of what she’s done, the complications of it, overwhelm her. The illusion is fading fast. She can’t become Ann—not here, not now. It would prove disastrous.
“Ann, you’re fading,” I whisper urgently, pushing her behind a long velvet curtain.
Her eyes widen in horror. “Oh! Oh, no.” Her hair shifts from a lustrous black to a dull, light brown. The gown she has fashioned fades to drab gray wool. We watch in horror as it begins with the sleeves and travels quickly up her arm to the bodice.
“If my mother sees you like this, we’re as good as finished,” Felicity snarls.
“Ann, you must change it back,” I say, my heart beating fast.
“I can’t! I can’t see it in my mind!” She’s too frightened. The magic will not respond. The dress reverts to its former self. Her hat vanishes. I must do something to stop it, and quickly. Without asking, I grab hold of her hands and force the magic on her, imagining Nan Washbrad standing before me once again.
“It’s working,” Ann whispers. What I’ve begun she completes, and within seconds, Nan is with us, her jaunty butterscotch hat securely on her head. “Thank you, Gemma,” she says, trembling, as we step out from behind the curtain.
“There you are,” Mrs. Worthington purrs. “I was afraid I’d lost you. It’s very odd, for I was certain I saw Madame LaCroix, but when I reached the woman, she looked nothing at all like her. Shall we?”
On the street, a man wearing a sandwich board passes out adverts for an exhibition at the Egyptian Hall. “Amazing and astounding! See the spectacle of all spectacles! Late of Paris, France—for a one-week engagement only at the Egyptian Hall—the astonishing Wolfson brothers’ famous magi-clantern show—moving pictures! Prepare to be amazed! Sights beyond your wildest dreams! Here you go, miss—wouldn’t want to miss it.”
He puts the leaflet into my hand. The Wolfson Brothers present: The Rites of Spring. A Phantasmagoria. “Yes, thank you,” I say, folding it in my hand.
“Oh, no.” Felicity stops suddenly.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Lady Denby and Lady Markham,” she whispers, glancing up the street. I spy them in the afternoon crowd. Lady Denby, Simon Middleton’s mother, is an imposing woman, both in form and in reputation. Today she wears one of her famous hats with a brim so broad it could blot out the sun, and she walks with the commanding stride of a naval hero. Lady Markham is as thin as a twig and struggles to keep pace with her friend. She nods as Lady Denby holds forth.
Ann gives a little gasp. It was Lady Denby who revealed Ann’s charade at Christmas, largely to humiliate Mrs. Worthington. I hold my friend’s arm to steady her. I won’t risk another mishap with the magic.
“Lady Markham, Lady Denby,” Mrs. Worthington says, all smiles. “How grand it is to see you. What a lovely surprise!”
“Yes. How nice.” Lady Markham does not take Mrs. Worthington’s hand. Instead, she looks to Simon’s mother.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Worthington,” Lady Denby says without smiling.
“We’ve just come from the theater and were about to take tea. Would you care to join us?” Mrs. Worthington asks, blushing at the slight.
“Well…,” Lady Markham says, sparing a glance at Felicity.
“I’m afraid we cannot,” Lady Denby answers for her. “My dear cousin, Miss Lucy Fairchild, has arrived from America, and I’m most anxious to introduce her to Lady Markham.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Worthington’s smile falters. Desperation creeps into her voice. “Lady Markham, I thought perhaps Felicity and I might pay a call at Easter, if you would be so good as to receive us.”
Lady Markham fidgets, casts a glance toward her imperious friend again. “Yes, well, I am rather full of engagements, it would seem.”
Lady Denby’s thoughts intrude on my own: This is what comes of not playing by the rules. Your daughter shall pay the price. No one will present her, and her inheritance shall be forfeit.
I should like to slap Lady Denby. How could I have ever thought she was a good woman? She is petty and controlling, and I shan’t let her ruin my friend’s life.
I summon my courage and close my eyes, sending my intent to Lady Markham: Felicity Worthington is the most wonderful girl in the world. You want to present—no, you’ll insist upon presenting—her at court. And a lovely party in her honor is in order, I should think.