Magic Mansion by Jordan Price (best fiction books to read .txt) 📕

sky, and just as Marlene had warned him, he steeled himself from looking anywhere near the camera. Within the space of a few heartbeats, it almost seemed natural to just ignore the scurrying of the crew around him. Maybe he could actually get used to it, if only for a few weeks. He was a performer, after all. He was accustomed to being scrutinized.

The mist parted as he strode across the dewy lawn toward the juniper where a group of men and women in tuxes and sequins awaited. Magicians and their assistants…but one of the women was holding a child-sized ventriloquist’s dummy, and another wore a saucy top hat on her blazing red hair. He then realized that when he’d initially pegged them as assistants, it was really his age showing. That, and his life experience, because Rose Topaz could never have aspired to do her own act.

Though magic was a male-dominated profession, the Magic Mansion contestants wouldn’t all be male. This was prime time TV—and it looked like the ratio was half and half. The group he approached was not magicians with their assistants. Just magicians. And that was a relief.

It made John feel less alone.

But only slightly so. When he saw Fabian Swan in his dusky purple tuxedo, a sense of relief flooded him so profoundly, he suspected he wouldn’t have needed Marlene’s instruction to greet his contemporary warmly, though they’d never been formally introduced.

Fabian was a black man of sixty or so, with iron gray in his hair and mustache. He was medium height, though he projected an air of authority that made him seem taller. And while he wasn’t known for boisterous displays of good cheer any more than John was, when he saw John approaching him through the crowd of tittering magicians young enough to be their children, his gaze softened into what, on him, passed for a smile.

John extended his gloved hand. “Fabian. Good to see you.”

Fabian took it. He wore gloves, also. Pale yellow, to set off the plum. “You too, Professor.”

It seemed they should banter a bit for the cameras—but John had never been good with small talk, and Fabian didn’t seem inclined toward chitchat, either. The cameras sensed their proclivity toward quiet contemplation as John and Fabian appraised each other wordlessly, and then they sidled away to focus on the women in the glittery makeup and low-cut gowns.

Good. John knew he shouldn’t think so—the more face-time he got, the more likely he would be to advance—but right now he needed to evaluate his competitors. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? He looked into Fabian Swan’s eyes, and he searched.

While age was not necessarily an indicator of depth, and there could theoretically exist a twenty-year-old of profound complexity and a seventy-year-old just as profoundly simple, Fabian Swan’s years had certainly shaped him. In his eyes, John read a life filled with dark lows and dizzying highs. The struggle of poverty, the pain of loss, the intoxication of success.

The glow of a good man? Yes. But the spark of True magic?

No.

He hadn’t realized he was on the lookout for the Truth—not until he didn’t see it. “Are you ready?” he asked Fabian, to cover his disappointment.

“Will we ever be?” Fabian turned to watch the latest magician to embark from his town car.

Fog—both real and manufactured—billowed. The car door opened. A graceful figure in a traditional tux with tails and red cummerbund stepped from the mist. John was filled with gratitude that the cameras were not currently trained on him, since his infamous poker-face was nowhere to be found.

The man in the tux smiled, and his smile lit up the night.

Ricardo the Magnificent.

A small gasp escaped John. Fabian leaned toward him and said, “You know that guy?”

“He’s…very talented.”

“Good to know. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

While John’s arrival had been forgettably low-key, Ricardo made a splash. Several women in the crowd cheered at his appearance. They greeted him with delight, hugging like long-lost friends, and even kissing him on the cheek. But before John could envy the ease with which Ricardo flowed through the crowd, the generosity of his warmth and his smile, the Truth within him flooded John’s awareness, and it took all his focus to keep from knocking the other magicians aside and embracing him.

Ricardo worked the line—a handshake, a smile, a clap on the shoulder—until he looked up and noticed John. And then his smile went even broader, and he darted past Fabian Swan with two cameras trailing him and said, “Professor Topaz!”

“Ricardo.” John would have liked to sound warm. Mostly, though, he came off as a bit dazed.

Ricardo thrust his hand out for a handshake, and John took it. He squeezed firmly, and he stared deep into Ricardo’s eyes. How much can a man say with just a look? They never told me you’d be in the mansion. I’m stunned that you made it in. I’m overjoyed to see you again. I’ve been rehearsing what I might say to you for weeks, now, and come up with absolutely nothing. And I hope you’ll forgive me if I’ve made a complete fool of myself. 

John narrowed his eyes to see if any of this had somehow managed to be conveyed.

Ricardo gave his hand an extra squeeze.

“What a surprise,” John said.

That seemed to sum it up about right.

One more squeeze, and then Ricardo pulled his hand away with a long parting look before he turned to Fabian, offered a handshake, and said, “Great to finally meet you. That’s quite a tux.”

Another town car rolled up, and the cameras flocked toward it.

Ricardo turned to John again, and now his expression seemed less polished, more genuine. Relief? Anticipation? What? John couldn’t very well have a heart-to-heart with him, not here, not now. A young blonde lady in pink lamé tiptoed over to keep her spiked heels from sinking into the turf, and slid her hand through the crook of Ricardo’s arm. “Come wait for the big greeting with us,” she said, a bit breathlessly. John