The Magician's Lie by Greer Macallister Page B

down, just at. Into those blue-and-brown fairy eyes.
    â€œWhat year did you say?”
    â€œI didn’t say, I don’t think. But it was 1895. Ten years ago.”
    â€œAnd you were how old?”
    â€œFourteen. I was born in the summer. When were you born, officer?”
    â€œWinter,” he says.
    â€œAnd how old are you?”
    â€œI’m not making conversation when I ask you these things,” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m trying to get the facts. What few facts there are in this story of yours.”
    â€œAnd what’s your opinion?” She cocks her head.
    â€œOf your story?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI think it’s not true.”
    â€œWell, it is true,” she says, sounding insulted.
    â€œI think your story isn’t true, and I think you’re a murderer, and I think if someone put a knife in your hand, you’d stab me without a moment’s pause.”
    Her breath catches in her throat. He hears it, clear as anything. He knows what it means: weakness. So he presses.
    He says, “You’ve stabbed someone, but you didn’t like it.”
    She doesn’t say anything at first. When she speaks, her voice is soft and hesitant. “It’s not a thing a person can like.”
    â€œSome people do,” he says, trying to sound sympathetic.
    â€œThose people are monsters,” she says. “I’m not.”
    â€œI know you’re not.” He’ll flatter her, if that’s what she wants. “You’re sensitive and smart and you’ve had terrible things done to you, so I don’t blame you for striking back.”
    She eyes him, this time out of the all-blue eye, and says, “Oh, officer. Don’t be obvious.”
    His optimism disappears. He stands up and turns his back so she can’t see his face. It isn’t fair. He has all the power and none of it. The ceiling seems lower than it did an hour before, the room smaller, though he knows that’s not possible. So much is riding on this night. He can’t afford to lose control.
    She breaks into his reverie, saying, “Now I want to ask you a question. When you didn’t answer the telephone. Is it because you’re not a police officer?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, you could be an impostor. Maybe that’s why you brought me here instead of taking me to the authorities in Waterloo. People do it, you know. They pretend.”
    He walks over to his desk and grabs the nameplate, which he turns around to face her. “Officer Virgil Holt.”
    â€œI don’t doubt there is one. I just doubt you’re him.”
    He bristles. “You’re not convinced by the gun?”
    â€œThe gun is a detail. Details can be misleading.”
    â€œAnd the whole station?” He gestures at the room and its contents. A real desk, real walls, two real people. “Is the station a detail?”
    â€œI never said it wouldn’t take some doing.”
    He says nothing. Let her wonder, he tells himself.
    In silence, he kneels at her feet to check the cuffs around her ankles. He wishes he had more than five pairs of cuffs. It’s not logical. If she knows how to escape from one pair, she knows how to escape, period. But still, six would be better. Or eight. Or ten. At least she can’t enchant him. If she could, she would have done it already. Wouldn’t she?
    â€œIt’s interesting,” she says, raising her chin. “I still don’t think you understand. Escapists use different equipment altogether. They’d have chains and not just the cuffs. Ropes too. A straitjacket. You think I’m Houdini?”
    â€œHoudini is a genius,” says Holt. “And you’re only a murderer.”
    â€œMurderer? Not murderess? You deny me the badge of my sex.”
    He gets an idea and grabs the heavy, glittering fabric of her stage dress at the hem. He folds it back on itself,