The Masquerading Magician Read Online Free PDF

eat.”
    I lifted the more precariously-perched platter with my free hand and led the way to the dining table.
    â€œI already looked them up while we were at the theater,” Brixton said. “I knew that magician looked familiar as soon as I saw him, but it wasn’t until the intermission that I could use my phone without Veronica punching me. But then I couldn’t find you to tell you. Anyway, the magicians Prometheus and Persephone are a married couple, Peter and Penelope Silverman. They didn’t announce their secret identities or anything.”
    â€œNow you think they’re both alchemists?”
    He shrugged. “I only recognized Prometheus, but who knows? That’s why you should look into it. With two alchemists helping you, that could totally save Dorian.”
    I opened the laptop while Brixton inhaled a piece of chocolate zucchini bread. Peter Silverman’s website bio was short, but as a magician he was well-known enough that an online encyclopedia had listings for both himself and Penelope, who was both his wife and magic show partner. They were both in their early fifties, and Peter was the child of Marge and Herb Silverman of Silver Springs, Ohio. Penelope Silverman, née Fitzgerald, began her career as a circus performer and she’d been an expert lion tamer and knife thrower before she ran away from the circus to become a magician.
    Peter and Penelope met in Las Vegas, where they each had their own stage show. Penelope’s page had a photograph from her solo show, and Peter’s showed an illustrated poster of their joint Phantasmagoria act, similar to the one I’d seen that night. Before the two met, both of them were struggling, performing only as opening acts or at hotels nobody sober would stay at. About five years ago, they’d become the marginally successful team of Persephone & Prometheus. There was nothing controversial except for one thing: Peter had once punched a theater patron for taking a photo of the show.
    I looked again at the poster illustrations. Their likenesses were approximate, but not photographic quality. There were no photographs on either their own website or the external listings. That was odd. I typed in an image search. Hundreds of images of Penelope popped up, most of them showing her as a young woman in a skimpy costume with a whip. Though Penelope was stunning in her fifties, she’d aged normally.
    But I couldn’t find a single photograph of Peter Silverman.
    â€œWhat is it?” Brixton asked.
    â€œNothing.” I tried one more quick search, finding more of the same. Penelope had several social media accounts, but Peter had none.
    â€œWhat are you looking at?”
    I closed the laptop. “I’m sure your mom is worried that you’re not home yet. Let me put your bike in the back of the truck and give you a ride home.”
    It was a fifteen-minute drive to the cottage where Brixton and his mother were staying while Blue was gone. Brixton slipped on headphones as soon as he sat down in the passenger seat, which was fine with me. I needed time to think.
    Peter Silverman was hiding something. That didn’t necessarily mean he was an alchemist. In fact, it was more likely to mean any one of a dozen other things that had nothing to do with alchemy. Maybe he’d changed his name to get away from a life of crime. Or perhaps he was running away from alimony payments. I briefly considered that he could be a hero in the Witness Protection Program, but they’d never let him appear on stage.
    Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
    After I dropped Brixton off at the cottage, I selected one of my favorite songs to listen to on the drive home. I had installed a compact cassette player in the early 1970s, about thirty years after buying the truck. I had a sentimental attachment to the countless mixed tapes I’d made myself for my long drives across the country, so I’d never upgraded. I found the