“I’ve got to get out of these clothes⸺fast.”

Sam clumsily removes my headpiece as I strip out of the ridiculously elaborate Victorian style dress I’ve been forced into and step into another one, equally as frilly.

“He’s trying his new trick tonight.”

“I thought he wasn’t doing that one until tomorrow night,” Sam says, placing a horrid confection of stiff straw and fake flowers on my head. I shrug and make some quick touches to my makeup. A business degree from Syracruse and I’m assistant to the Great Paraceni, I think in dismay at my reflection in the dirty mirror.

“Be careful out there, Lindsay” Sam cautions.

“Like I need to be. I’m just glad it’s the last trick for tonight.” I go from looking at Sam’s caring brown eyes to the glow of the spotlight that follows me as I emerge onto the stage.

Marco Paraceni stands stooped in front of the giant wardrobe needed for the next trick, his arms shaking as he leans on his cane.

“Lara, my beloved wife, died seventy years ago in childbirth,” he tells the small audience, pausing for sympathetic murmurs and surprised exclamations at his age in turn. “As she lay dying, I swore to her I’d find a way to bring her back. Her time in this world was far too short and after all this time, I have found a way to bring her back.”

He looks to me and I step forward, climbing into the wardrobe. It’s stuffy inside as he closes the heavy doors, the sudden darkness making purple and green dots pop where the spotlights had just been. I hear the click of the key being turned and Paraceni beginning to beseech the spirit of his dead wife to use my body and come back to him.

I take a few deep breaths, listening to his haunting voice, trying to get into character. We’d talked about this; Paraceni had shared a few details about his wife with me, enough for me to do at least a good imitation of her. There’s a reason this is the last trick of the night; at the end of a two hour show, people are usually too tired or distracted to notice a bit of forced acting.

“My dear, please return to me,” I hear Paraceni muffled through the wardrobe. “Don’t you remember how we’d go out for ice cream after all my shows? Come back to me, honey, so we can do it all again!”

No, Marco, it wasn’t ice cream. Your memory’s failing you. We’d go to the speakeasy down the street and party all night to Bronson’s horrible jazz band. Don’t you remember how we ran from the cops when the raid happened? We ran into the woods, howling with laughter; we thought we’d get caught but we were free.

My breath catches in surprise at my own thoughts. What’s happening?

“Lara, you always thought I was the greatest magician there ever was. Now I have the magic to bring you back. Please don’t resist; come back to me!”

Marco, please don’t cry! You always were the greatest magician, though your folks laughed at you, I didn’t care. I was the first to fall under your spell.

Memories of Mr. Paraceni, much younger, cascade through my mind. Him on stage, him taking a bow, him rolling over in bed to smile at me, the sheets rustling as he reached for my hand…

I find myself encased in a dark room. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can hear Marco’s voice, sounding so much deeper and more tired than when last I heard it.

“Marco! Marco!” I pound on the walls, panic increasing until I hear a key being turned and my husband opens the door, surprise clear on his face. I fly at him, entering a world of light and I hear the astonished gasps of the audience as we embrace.

“Lara?” Marco takes my face and holds me steady. “Is it really you?”

I take his wrinkled hands in mine, which are firm and strong as they once were. “Yes, Marco Antonio Guido Paraceni. I’ve come back to you.”

Marco throws his arms around me, tears falling down his cheeks, and the audience bursts into applause though I have no clue why.

“It must be you, Lara. I didn’t think to tell Lindsay my full name.”