The Fortune Teller's Daughter

__________________

On the day the carnival closed, it had snowed. Great
big frozen flakes fell from a murky grey sky and quickly buried the tents, the
wagons, and at last, the harlequin carousel until all went still and silent. An
avalanche wouldn’t have done a better job of dousing out the fires that lit the
lamps between tents. And then it was over, just like that. Before, and then,
after.

Standing on the dark side of Prague some hour past
midnight, with snow blanketing the stone and muting all sound, it reminded Mr.
Alistair Rook of that day when he’d locked the gates one last time so many
years ago. In the breast pocket of his jacket he could even feel the iron key,
growing colder and heavier as the snow dusted his hair and shoulders.

No one saw him walk through Old Town alone, or if they
did they forgot almost right away, and within minutes the steady snow fall
covered his tracks. He strayed from his path only once that night to bring
himself close to the famed astronomical clock, a bewitching thing in the middle
of the day and a truly haunted one at night. Watching the many hands pass the
hour, he could feel the thrum of time tick away inside him.
One, two, three,
one, two, three, blink once and you’ll miss me…

Mr. Rook’s final destination was a house at the last
stop on a dead end street, past the spires and Baroque façade houses, hidden
far from the trains and traffic, shopping and theaters. Alone out here in the
dark, it could have existed two, maybe three hundred years before except for
the light seeping out from every window on the top floor apartment.

The landscape of snow leading up to the magician’s doorstep,
like a white stage carpet glittering by moonlight, lay pristine like glass as
if no one had come or gone for days.

Mr. Rook rapped his gloved knuckles against the wood
door. The sound echoed deep within the house, but fell dull against the crisp,
cold air outside. And then, he waited.

He did not expect a warm welcome. He expected to find
the inhabitant sprawled upstairs on a king sized bed, possibly drunk or getting
there. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found the magician calling demons in the
cellar or casting charm spells on a parlor full of beautiful Czech women. He
expected threats, maybe violence. He expected his old friend to slam the door
in his face at the very least, forcing Rook to resort to bribery, begging, or
grave warnings of his own.

He did not, however, expect to be left waiting in the
cold.

Rook tapped the toe of his boot on the door frame to
knock the snow away and tightened his long black coat around him. He knocked
again. Waited. Knocked. A confrontation, at least, was something Rook could
talk his way through. A confrontation had a beginning and eventually an end.
The silence was the magician’s distracted way of saying
no
. And also,
get
the fuck off my doorstep
.

“I’ve got all night,” he told the door knocker.

This time when he brought his fist to the old door, it
opened.

* * *

Firelight spilled around the shape of a woman with
gold hair as long as her elbows, fanned out like a full moon around a soft,
small face. She rested her cheek against the door and canted her hip enough to
show off the curving shape of her petite body. She wore a t-shirt for an
American rock band and absolutely nothing else. Cold broke goose bumps out
across her bare thighs and she shivered almost imperceptibly.

Mr. Rook tilted his hat. “Dobrý večer.”
Good
evening
. He knew his Czech was worse than rusty, but she was polite enough
not to wince at his broken pronunciation. Her sweet eyes gazed at him
expressionless, maybe a little curious. Rook struggled to remember the right
words. It had been a long time since he was last in Prague. “Promiňte…
um
…hledám…
Matteo
?
Eli Matteo?”

He glanced beyond the pretty face when she made no
sign that she understood him.

“Galina,” a voice said from behind, and at her name
she turned to greet it as a lover, hooded eyes and pouting lips. The voice
spoke to her briefly in Czech, a command that would brook no objection. It did
not return the affections of her body sidling up against it. The woman
stiffened and backed off with a sharp glance at the carnival director before
disappearing up the stairs at a run.

Then the magician stepped into the sliver of open
doorway where the blonde beauty had been a moment before. Despite there being two
decades since the last time they’d seen each other, the magician hadn’t aged a
day. Not a moment, and the effect was unsettling.

One glance in the magician’s eyes spoke volumes though
- if he hadn’t aged on the outside, he lived through millennia within. An old
soul, that’s what Rook had first thought when he’d met the magician so long
ago.

He leaned against the door frame, black hair, badly in
need of a brush and a wash, fell unkempt across his face. He needed a shave and
by the half-moon shadows beneath his eyes, he also needed sleep. He did not
look well.

The magician shoved his fists into his pockets and
tried almost successfully to look uninterested and careless, but those wise,
cautious grey eyes gave him away.  

“I don’t go by that name anymore,” the magician said
after the men had looked each other over for answers to two decades of lost
time. “What do you want?”

“To talk.” Rook shrugged.

The magician snorted. “That’s a lie.”

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

Rook laughed. “And why not?”

“Because I don’t want whatever you’re selling.”

“Eli,” Rook sighed. If the magician was won over by
the familiarity of his name, he didn’t show it. “It’s cold and I’m already sick
of the Czech snow. I just want to talk. No tricks.”

“No tricks,” he repeated. He thumbed the black suspenders
he wore and finally brought his gaze fully to meet Rook’s. No, there was no youth
in those eyes, even if his face lied. “I find that extremely hard to believe.
Alright, come in if you must. But don’t get comfortable because you’re not
staying.”

“I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

The magician stepped aside and let the carnival
director pass. He stomped his feet as quiet as he could, but still left a trail
of powder and water up the narrow staircase. Eli trailed him.

The apartment looked smaller inside, barely more than
a room with a bed and a couple of chairs. A fire cast everything in yellow
gold, romantic enough to hide the shabbiness of the greasy walls, the cracked
plaster, the toss of forgotten, dirty clothes in the corner. There was a vanity
with some stage make-up across from the bed, a dresser, and a table with a hot
plate. Not a single scrap of nostalgia or trinket to be seen. Nothing
permanent. Nothing personal.

Only one object commanded Rook’s attention. Set on a
glass mannequin head on the dresser was a top hat, black as the Czech night
sky, tall with a wider top than its base, theatrical but exquisitely made. Rook
knew that in all the world there was only one object Eli Matteo cared about and
it was that hat, though he’d never gotten the magician to reveal its origin in
the lifetime of their friendship.

The fur, like satin, as crisp as if it had been
stretched only yesterday, reflected the firelight.

Galina stood in front of the vanity gazing at her own
reflection, tucking and twisting her hair so that she looked effortlessly
tousled. She jerked straight when the two men returned from the door, clearly
surprised that Rook had been allowed inside. She did not, however, seem the
least bit modest about her lack of clothing. Alistair Rook was polite enough
not to stare much.

Eli spoke a few words without meeting her eyes.
Time
to go
. The girl pouted. Eli repeated as if she hadn’t heard him the first
time. She shook her head in disbelief then started dressing. The magician
pulled a chair out near the fireplace and motioned for Rook to sit.

Galina, once dressed, took her time to see if the
magician would change his mind about dismissing her. Rook remembered a
different man than the one who stared into the fire, ignoring both his guests.
Though he didn’t treat her unkindly, there was a kind of exhaustion to him now
that could not be replenished by this girl, no matter how beautiful and
effortless her charm might have been. It was clear by the state of the
magician’s apartment that he only kept what was necessary and even if he’d
enjoyed Galina’s company, Rook doubted she’d become invaluable.

Being a settled man was a burden Rook thought the magician
would never have to bear.

When he didn’t stop the girl from leaving, she let
herself out, proud enough not to beg. He’d seen that too. Ugly moments of
sharp, broken hearts.

Rook waved his gloved hand across the room.
“It’s…cozy.”

Eli made a non-committal, derisive noise.

“She was beautiful.” Rook settled into the offered
chair. “I see your tastes haven’t strayed much.”

“Yes, and far too smart to be hunting for a man to
beholden herself to, but she thought I was in show business and had great big
American stars in her eyes. I tried to tell her I was from London, not Los
Angeles, but…” The magician trailed off with a shrug. He leaned against the
mantle and assumed a posture of glowering indifference. His default setting.

“Your accent is wearing off.”

“So is yours.”

“Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve been back to Surrey.
Too many summers in southern Louisiana will have any good Brit drawling his way
through the Queen’s English.”