What’s wrong with me, gawking at a stranger in the street like that! At sixteen, you’d think I’d be more experienced, especially considering how much time I spend around theaters. I swerve to avoid him at the last moment, the sleeves of our coats brushing as we pass. I’m so caught up in watching him that I don’t notice we’re on a collision course until it’s almost too late. But it’s the way he walks that captures my interest: confident and self-assured, each foot firmly and properly placed in front of the other. He too must have just bought a newspaper because he’s studying the front page, a studious frown across his solemn features. I’m briefly tempted by the mouthwatering scent of meat pies coming from a nearby pushcart.īut before I can decide, I spot a young man striding toward me.

I stop and buy a paper for my mother, who has become obsessed with the new crossword-puzzle craze. Office girls, with their modern bobs and tight cloche hats, hurry off to work, and the sidewalk newsstand vendors scream out headlines as if they’re going to change at any moment. Even the little girls and boys in their bloomer dresses and sailor suits look harried. I’ve only been in New York for a month but have already noticed that everyone acts as if they’re frantically busy. After several moments, I take a deep breath of relief and slow my pace, enjoying the bustling activity around me. My green Chanel-style suit, with its boxy jacket and calf-length pleated skirt, doesn’t raise suspicion (or eyebrows) like the gaudier costumes I used to have to wear when money was tight. Sometimes I forget how respectable I look now. The officer nods at me and I return his gesture casually, my eyes sliding away from his as he passes. It’s the private séances the authorities object to, but the amount of money we get is worth the risk. They allow us to hold our magic and mentalist shows because they’re considered harmless entertainment. My fear of policemen is as much a part of me as the deep brown color of my hair, and for good reason.įortune-telling laws are getting stricter and stricter, so all it takes is one disgruntled client ratting us out to the authorities and we’re in deep trouble.

My spine stiffens automatically and my pulse races. He saunters toward me, swinging his billy stick, tipping his blue cap here and there to passersby. The hair on the back of my neck prickles even before I spot him rounding the corner ahead.

Born of Illusion by Teri Brown