The Transference Engine by Julia Verne St. John Page B

say such things. I had no place in her society, and therefore nothing to lose by insulting a royal.
    She gasped and her posture stiffened. “I must see my daughter. I must warn her . . .”
    â€œShe is well protected, Your Grace,” Drew said.
    â€œBy such immoral riffraff as you two?” She tried to sound outraged, but I suspected much of her energy dissipated in the face of opposition.
    â€œYes,” I replied, as if proud of being immoral riffraff. “And others who are loyal to the crown. Now may we escort you to your carriage?”
    She stalked toward the theater front, shaking off the supporting hand on her elbow that Drew offered.
    â€œSpeaking of carriages, should I summon mine as well?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.
    â€œNot yet. I wish to see the end of the performance.” And observe Ruthven’s obsession.

    The second act lived up to the expectations of the first. Vivid sets, gorgeous costumes, and voices so well-tuned to the orchestra as to make my heart ache and my lungs tremble. Each exquisite note that lingered and faded to nothing kept the audience on the edges of their seats. Ruthven pushed himself so far forward as to lean over the rail, still crouched as if sitting but with no chair beneath him.
    Not a single sound wafted from the audience, not a whisper or rustle. More than one jaw gaped. Her Majesty’s eyes grew wide and round above the lace fan she held before her face.
    Then the horrific and yet mesmerizing climax when death and hell consumed Don Giovanni in dark flames.
    I could smell the brimstone. The actor’s screams lingered in my ear long after his “death.”
    I shivered in fear.
    Finally, the audience gasped as one when the fire ceased abruptly to reveal a pile of ashes where the actor had writhed moments before.
    â€œI have to know how they do that,” Ruthven whispered.
    I wondered if he meant anyone to hear his utterance.
    When the actor reappeared to take his bow, the audience applauded with extra enthusiasm—for his performance or the fact that he survived, I couldn’t tell.
    â€œThat was dramatic. And exhausting,” Drew said as he slumped in his seat, gaze still fixed upon the closed curtains after the cast, director, and conductor had all taken their bows. Flowers still littered the stage apron, far too many bouquets for the performers to gather.
    I nodded agreement, too drained to speak.
    The others of our party prepared to leave, many of the ladies still fanning flushed faces. Then they had all departed with thank yous for sharing the box and reassurances they would reciprocate, etc. etc. etc.
    I heard little of the ritual phrases; my attention lingered on the breathtaking opera, and Lord Ruthven leaning over the railing, a puzzled frown on his face.
    â€œRuthven, there are ladies present.” Drew looked pointedly at me. Then he relaxed into his chair as if he had made his point and no longer needed to reinforce it. “And if you must learn the secrets of stage effects, I suggest you become a patron of the arts and thus gain a detailed tour of the entire theater.” Drew affected a lazy drawl. His clenched hands belied his lack of interest. “All tricks and sleight of hand. Distraction and misdirection.”
    â€œThat I may do. I may have to forgo a few little luxuries to afford a large donation, but the knowledge gained should be worth it.” He bowed abruptly to us and strode out of the box with new purpose and energy. His bodyguard lingered a moment, briefly scanning the box and the theater beyond before he clicked his heels, bowed shortly and abruptly, and left. I hadn’t seen his gloved hands leave their clasped position behind his back.
    Drew and I stared at each other. “What was that about?” I finally asked.
    â€œI do not want to know. Ruthven’s esoteric hobbies range widely.” Drew dismissed my question with a flip of his fingers. But he broke eye