Born of Illusion Read Online Free PDF Page A

mother doesn’t know why.
    My mother leads me off the stage, then lays my hand on someone’s arm. I clutch it, letting all the sounds and scents of the theater fall away, reaching to connect with the person beside me. In my mind, it’s like a silver cord or thread stretching from me to the other person. For years, I thought everyone experienced the same thing when they touched—that everyone communicated on a level deeper than just words or actions. I figured that was why people shook hands when they greeted each other. But things didn’t add up. Why couldn’t my mother tell when our manager was going to skip out on us? Or that the nice woman at the boardinghouse was only gathering information for the sheriff? It all seemed so obvious to me. After a time, I realized that she couldn’t feel what I could—and that no one else could either. By then, I already knew enough to keep my mouth shut. My ambitious mother would happily turn me into a circus sideshow to further her own career. Or maybe in a fit of jealousy take me out of the show altogether. There’s no way to tell.
    Usually, the first emotion I sense while doing this particular trick is excitement at being chosen, quickly followed by doubt that I can really do it. This man—for it is a man’s arm I feel under my fingers—is different. He’s intensely curious about me. I sense a barely concealed anticipation. There’s also a low buzz of suppressed energy coming from him, as if he’s thrown up a dam that is barely holding. I’ve never felt anything like it. Puzzled, I let him lead me through the theater, trying to pick up on his other emotions. Normally, the guide becomes a bit agitated as we near the needle, but that doesn’t happen tonight. He seems calm, patient. But there’s also something else. An emotion I can’t quite identify. Panic assaults me and my heart accelerates. Surely it’s been too long! Will I just wander around the plush aisles of the theater until the audience realizes I’ve failed?
    I probe again, my hand tightening on his arm, and beads of sweat break out on my upper lip. Then it flashes over me as clearly as if he’s whispered it. I stop short, a sly smile coming to my lips. “Tricky!” I say, projecting so everyone can hear me. “The gentleman hid two pins! One over there”—I point vaguely toward the center of the theater—“and one in his pocket. The one in his pocket is the one I was looking for. The other is a decoy!”
    Laughing, I whip off my blindfold.
    And stare straight into Colin Archer’s handsome face.
    His eyes search mine for a moment before he bends to formally kiss my hand. “Well, done, Miss Van Housen,” he says in a low voice. “Truly impressive. You passed that test with flying colors.”
    Surprise at his words silences me on our way back to the stage as the audience claps wildly. Test? Did Mother know about this test? I wonder as I join her onstage. And what kind of test was it anyway?
    Woodenly, I curtsy and wave at the crowd. I have no time to ponder what Colin meant, however, as we move quickly into the next portion of the show. Now it’s time for my mother to amaze and awe.
    I bring her the basket of audience questions and blend into the background while she answers the ones I’ve pre-chosen for her. Then the lights dim as she calls up audience members, purporting to read their minds. They, too, were all pre-chosen. One of the bellhops was assigned to talk with the audience as they came in. Then he reported back to Mother. Jacques has also helped. He knows everything about everyone in New York society and sent out special invitations for the grand opening. Once he saw who would be in the audience, he fed us tidbits of gossip, which have now become a part of the act.
    I hide a smile as the amazing Madame Van Housen shares some new insight with a stout lady whose turban glitters with rhinestones as she moves. The audience gasps in shock and admiration at my mother’s perception.
    The truth