It was our first show of the summer, and if fate had its way, it might also be our last.
The energy in the theater crackled with anticipation. While Nana stacked the champagne flutes into our signature R, I held the back of her chair, suppressing a smile as she grumbled about her decades of tightrope walking without a spotter. My uncles cast bemused glances our way as they swept windblown sand between the floorboards, the scratching of their brooms drowned out by giggles from the mezzanine, where the littlest Revelles huddled, plucking cockroaches from the torn velvet upholstery. A few years and a lifetime ago, that had been my job.
Nana positioned the final glass and stood taller on the chair, pride shining in her topaz eyes as she scanned the pit. After a bit of booze, and plenty of magic, the tourists might mistake the Big Tent for a classy establishment.
With a pop, I uncorked the champagne and handed it to Nana, but instead of shimmering gold, a clear, dull liquid dribbled out.
Watered down. Again.
She took a swig and grimaced. “This tastes like piss.”
“How do you know what piss tastes like?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t sass me, child. Is this the last of it?”
“I’m sure there’s more somewhere,” I lied. As if Uncle Wolffe hadn’t spent all winter trying to scrape together enough liquor to get us through opening night.
In a rare concession, Nana allowed me to help her off the chair. Although time had curved her shoulders, she still moved with the grace of a woman who’d spent years in the spotlight. A grace I should have inherited but didn’t, along with the cleavage she flaunted in her skintight crimson sequined gown.
“Let’s make it a cider fountain,” I suggested, leading her away. “The tourists will be too drunk to notice the difference.”
“Cider in our champagne fountain? We’re Revelles! We can’t be as dry as a nun’s—”
“Easy, Nana.” Fixing my smile, I stole a glance at the others. “Uncle Wolffe and I have a plan.”
More like a Hail Mary.
I started to turn away, but she grabbed my wrist, her voluminous bracelets cool against my skin. “Wolffe told me all about this plan of yours. Your magic may be strong, Luxe, but even you can’t charm a bloody Chronos. There’s no way he’ll give you a jewel.”
True. The Chronos family raised their young on tall tales of my family’s magic. Give a Revelle a jewel, and they’ll charm you into drowning yourself in the Atlantic. Give a Revelle a jewel, and they’ll shred your mind and keep your body as their own. Dewey Chronos would have to be a fool to give me the very thing I needed to manipulate his emotions.
Good thing I had a source of magic other than jewels. Not that Nana knew.
I squeezed her hand and checked my lipstick in the mirrored wall beyond the bar. Bloodred. Perfect.
With my head high, I crossed the theater, narrowly missing a burst of fire. My flame-throwing cousins snickered, and I flashed them a faux glare.
The familiar scent of buttered popcorn greeted me backstage. I maneuvered through a rowdy game of tag, averting my eyes from the tigers’ vacant cages. When our pantries had emptied this past winter, it was either eat them or sell them, and Nana had refused to serve her pets for supper.
Stepping between the costumes strewn across the worn wooden floor, I nearly knocked into my aunts wrestling themselves into their cancan dresses. Layers of colorful tulle pooled at their ankles as they paused to watch me pass. “Are you joining us in the Fun House tonight for once?” Aunt Caroline teased.
Always the same joke about the Fun House, the private rooms behind the Big Tent where customers went after the show. I flashed the haughty smile they’d come to expect. “The star shouldn’t get her hands dirty.”
“You’re supposed to use your magic, not your hands, silly.” She leaned closer, her breath sharp with the champagne they must’ve pilfered from our last case. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”
Like the rest of my family, when I was given a jewel, I could charm the gem’s giver into believing their fantasies were coming true. No desire was off-limits in the Fun House: bloody revenge on a rival, an intimate meal with a beloved celebrity, or the tourists’ favorite, bedroom delusions of grandeur. As long as they paid us in jewels, the customers’ emotions were ours to bend as we pleased. We didn’t even need to touch them. The fantasies were as fake as the enormous diamonds dangling from Nana’s ears, but the customers didn’t mind as long as they enjoyed themselves.
“I’m not afraid of the Fun House,” I assured my aunt. “I just need my beauty sleep after the show.”
Aunt Caroline’s grin widened as I patted her cheek and walked away.
“You have to join us before too long!” she called after me. “The customers don’t like ’em wrinkly!”
“And yet you do just fine!”
Uncle Wolffe peered up from his paperwork as I closed his office door, muting my aunts’ laughter. Little streaks of silver wove their way through his slicked-back dark hair, and I thought of my mother, his sister, frozen in time. Forever black-haired and twenty-nine.
“What’s wrong?”
My mask of calm must have faltered. Uncle Wolffe and I worked together, uncle and niece, showrunner and star, but we didn’t lean on each other. Uncle Wolffe leaned on no one, as far as I could tell.
I sank into an armchair. “We’re out of champagne. Whiskey’s low, too.”
“Already?” He grabbed a worn notebook and flipped through the pages. “I thought we hid some backstage.”
“Your thirsty siblings found it.” Champagne on opening night was tradition, one Uncle Wolffe didn’t have the heart to forbid. He never liked the rest of the family to worry. “Did you invite the bootlegger?”
His outlandish clown smile tightened to an eerie red line. More than once, I’d seen grown men tremble at the sight of Uncle Wolffe in full makeup. “I don’t like this plan of yours.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No,” he admitted. “If we don’t secure a liquor contract tonight, then tomorrow, we’ll either open bone-dry or not at all.”
Stunned, I sat back in the rickety chair. When hurricanes pounded our illustrious island, he’d kept our doors open. When puritanical protesters took the ferry from New York to picket us in droves, he’d kept our doors open. When the best among us drowned, and the Big Tent had been shrouded by grief so dark that my vain grandmother didn’t change out of her nightgown for months . . . Uncle Wolffe had kept our doors open.
But now my fierce uncle was afraid. Of Prohibition.
I’d imagined the new law to be a distant problem for mainlanders, not for our little isle of Charmant. Yet here it was.
“So, tonight.” The words squeezed past the knot in my throat. I lifted my head higher, lest he think me nervous.
Uncle Wolffe shook his head. “You’re too young for such responsibility. You’re still a child—”
“I’m eighteen. Most mainland girls are popping out their second baby by now.”
“Your mother wouldn’t have wanted you to debut with a bloody Chronos.” His dark eyes flitted to the framed photograph on his desk: Nana’s eight children in full showtime regalia. All of them laughing, as always. That had been the soundtrack to my childhood: belly laughs and clinking glasses and the rat-a-tat–tat of the Revelle drums.
And then grief. Nana’s sobs so raw, they hardly sounded human. A hole in our family so wide, we couldn’t fathom a way forward. But the Revelle show went on. It always did.
I rose from my chair. “My mother wouldn’t want us homeless, either. Don’t make this into a big deal, Uncle Wolffe. We both know my plan’s a good one. Is he coming or not?”
Nana claimed we Revelles had giants’ blood that made itself known every few generations. As Uncle Wolffe stood, towering a good two feet over me, it was easy to believe her. “The kid bootlegger’s on his way. I’ll seat him in the executive suite and serve him what remains of our best brandy, not the watered-down junk in the pit.”
“Can’t have him thinking we’re desperate,” I added drily. As if we could obtain alcohol from anyone but him. The bloody battle over Charmant’s liquor industry had been fought, and the island’s youngest bootlegger was the last one standing. The last one alive, if the rumors were true. “Nana said he bought that old warehouse by the docks.”
A tight nod. “My sources say he’s turning it into a theater. A big one.”
Like he could find an act to compete with ours. “How will I know it’s him?”
As the mayor’s oldest son, Dewey Chronos had been in the public eye when we were children, but for the past few years, he was rarely seen outside his harborside mansion. Perhaps he’d grown even sicklier than he’d been as a pallid little boy clinging to his mother’s skirts. Or perhaps he, too, had secrets he wished to keep from the mind readers.
“White boy,” Uncle Wolffe grumbled. “Dark hair, brown eyes.”
I gave him a look. He’d just described the majority of our audience.
“He wears his company’s emblem on the lapel of his suit jacket. It’s a—”
“Diamond-shaped clock,” I finished. As if I could forget the black symbol cropping up all over the Night District, a taunting reminder of the Chronoses’ familial power: time travel.
We might be the heart and soul of Charmant’s tourism, but the Chronoses were the landlords and politicians. They ruled over our small island, and they kept it that way by turning back the clocks to sabotage the other magical families, especially mine. We Revelles were allowed to exist, to entice the tourists to flock to our shores, but the Chronoses were wary of our ability to influence voters’ minds. If we dared inch too far above poverty, tragedy always seemed to strike. Like the time my great-grandfather attempted to open a much-anticipated family-friendly show, but met his bloody end in a supposed robbery gone wrong before opening night. Or three years ago, when the Chronoses failed to tell us a massive hurricane was barreling toward Charmant, though they evacuated in secret. We lost four of our own in that storm.
Just thinking of cozying up to one of those time-traveling goons made my stomach twist something awful. And I needed to convince him to do business with us. For cheap.
Uncle Wolffe nodded toward the door. “Go tell the others you’re joining them in the Fun House. I’m sure Colette and Millie will be glad.”
Doubtful. A few years ago, they would have been thrilled, but these days, we hardly spoke to each other outside rehearsals.
“Having second thoughts?” His booming voice remained casual, but concern flickered in his dark eyes.
I flashed him my most confident stage smile. “By tomorrow, we’ll be swimming in the world’s finest booze.”
“At a steeply discounted price, I hope,” he muttered. “With how much he’s charging the hoteliers, the whole island is going to be either indebted to him or out of business soon.”
“Not us.”
“Never us.” He turned to his paperwork, my cue to leave.
Careful to keep my head high and my smile self-assured, I returned backstage.
“Looking for your cousins?” Nana, seemingly recovered from her bout with the champagne, stood in front of the rusty backstage mirror draping strings of faux jewels around her neck. “I saw Colette and Millie climbing the rafters with those boys from the lighting crew.”
Millie loved to flirt with the few non-Revelles she could find in the Big Tent. Colette, however, was more likely to challenge them to a wrestling match, then plant a knee in their most sensitive places to ensure victory.
“It’s almost showtime.” I glanced around the backstage mess. “Is everything ready?”
“You should be canoodling in the rafters, too! A pretty girl like you should have plenty of beaux.”
I rolled my eyes. “You were the star once. You know they only want to boast to their friends about what’s underneath this leotard.”
She winked. “That’s half the fun. Now go. Find your cousins.”
As if they wanted an intruder. Instead, I did a final sweep of the theater. Someone had already lit the candles, their long shadows hiding the cobwebs. With their soft luminance, the thick purple and black stripes of the outer canvas painted the pit in mystical shades of plum. My mother used to say the Big Tent reminded her of the inner chambers of a beating heart. An enormous, unbreakable Revelle heart, fit to hold everyone we loved safe inside it. But she hadn’t been safe. None of us were, not with the Chronoses in charge.
And tonight I was going to make one of their fantasies come true.
In a flash of skinny limbs and faded hand-me-downs, my youngest cousins burst from the mezzanine stairwell. Little Clara led the way, the others at her heels. She skidded to a halt in front of me. “I won!”
I lowered myself to them. “Did you miss any?”
“’Course not.” She knocked her too-big newsboy cap away from her eyes. “I checked each seat three times. There’s no roaches left.”
“Nice work.” Roaches crawling into the bootlegger’s lap wouldn’t exactly be seductive.
“Caught one the size of my fist,” she added, holding out her hand. She was just as competitive as Colette, if not worse.
With eyes as round as their distended bellies, the children watched as I reached into the pocket of my backstage robe for the prize I’d promised the winner. Sensing my Revelle blood, the jewel prickled my fingertips, hot and insistent. I’d missed the ease of gems, the way my Revelle magic kissed the nape of my neck. There was nothing sweet about my other magic.
The emerald was a tiny flake that could barely buy sodas, but Clara cradled it as if it were priceless.
I fixed her cap and rubbed her brother’s head. “Go to bed, all of you. And nice work.”
Clara blinked up at me with her big chocolate eyes. “How about a demonstration?”
She was a Revelle, all right. “A fast one, okay?”
They squealed, and for a moment, it was Colette, Millie, and me, begging our older cousins for magic lessons backstage. How I’d lived for those moments.
Clara offered me her minuscule emerald, but I produced a few more shards from my pocket and laid them in the palm of my hand. The candlelight refracted off the sharp edges.
“Everyone take one. Careful, Clara.”
It was a risk, giving Revelles jewels. They could turn around and charm me if they pleased.
“Now give them back. Remember, our magic only works on gemstones freely given.”
The children dropped the emeralds in my waiting hand and leaned forward, their smiles taking shape before I began. The power of anticipation.
“Now what should I focus on?”
Clara rocked on her heels impatiently. Every Revelle knew the basics. “The emerald. Trying to make it last.”
“And what happens if I use it all up?”
“It’ll turn to dust, and you won’t be able to spend it on anything else.”
“Exactly.” My mother had drilled this lesson into me countless times. “Magic always has a cost, and ours is the jewels themselves. They crumble under our power, and if we’re not careful, we won’t have anything left over for food, or costumes, or any of the things we need.”
“Aw, c’mon, Luxe! Do it already!”
I closed my fingers around the emeralds. The magic called to me like the sea to a sailor, and I let myself drown in it. The rush was exquisite. This magic felt right.
You are happy, I whispered in my mind. Perfectly happy, like you’re being tickled.
They roared with laughter, collapsing on the ground in a heap of skinny, sun-kissed limbs. The jewels shrank, leaving glittery green dust in my palm.
Everything is funny. The air, the ground, the clothes you wear.
As the children rolled and hooted, Colette glided down the ladder, pausing at the bottom to watch. The ghost of a smile graced her lips, as if she, too, remembered how we used to laugh until our sides ached, tickled by our family’s magic.
Our eyes met, and she looked away.
You feel the love of all ninety-six Revelles wrapped around you. You are on top of Charmant, on top of the world, and you’re never, ever alone.
Their smiles grew dreamier, their faces softer. And even though, at their age, I would have given anything to be old enough to perform, part of me longed to be seven years old again, when summer shows meant magic and sweets and falling asleep backstage with Colette and Millie, our limbs as tangled as our unbrushed hair. No Prohibition. No Chronoses to charm. Just the three of us playing until we woke to the gentle sway of our mothers carrying us to bed.
I kissed my little cousins’ foreheads, letting the jewel magic slip away.
They groaned in protest. “One more time?” Clara begged.
“You always have to leave some left over for profit. See?”
Even the older children leaned close to glimpse the emerald remnants in my palm. My family believed I was the most powerful among us, making jewels last longer than anyone else. In their eyes, it was the only plausible explanation for Uncle Wolffe naming me the star instead of Colette, who was twice as talented and even harder-working. We couldn’t tell them the truth, not when the island was crawling with mind readers.
Uncle Wolffe strode to the center of the stage and clapped his hands, any sign of distress replaced by his unflappable focus. “Places, everyone! It’s time to open the doors.”
Revelles sprang into action. The children darted for the costume racks, hoping to catch the first act before they were chased to bed. A familiar pang of longing snuck up on me as their parents caught their hands and planted kisses on their little foreheads.
The lights dimmed. My uncles drew the enormous velvet curtains in front of the stage, cloaking the theater in familiar lilac and candlelight.
The air stilled. I’d performed in countless shows, but never before had my heartbeat thrashed the way it did now.
What would happen to us if Dewey Chronos didn’t fall under my spell?
We’d lose it all—the theater, the Fun House, the ramshackle bedrooms we crammed into beside the sea.
I couldn’t think such things. Seduction required confidence. Besides, any hint of unease from me, the unflappable ice princess, would lead to questions Uncle Wolffe couldn’t answer. Not until we secured booze.
With her head high and her sagging cleavage jutting forward, Nana strutted toward the foyer like a sparkling peacock. She’d greet customers, collect admissions gems, and send word back about whose pockets were the heaviest.
“Did you find Millie and Colette?” she asked. “You should celebrate your first night in the Fun House!”
Our mothers had raised us together, hoping we’d be as inseparable as they were.
They’d died together, too.
“I’ll find them now,” I demurred.
The cancan dancers took their places behind the curtain, ready for the opening number.
Alone, I waited.
Nana opened the doors, and the crowd roared as they rushed into the pit, vying for coveted positions beside the stage, pink-faced and sweaty, like pigs in colorful top hats. Somewhere among them was Dewey Chronos, with that garish diamond-shaped clock sewn to his lapel. He was destined for the executive suite. Center mezzanine, roach-free.
The band began plucking a punchy melody. Nana’s hips swayed at the entrance, and through the haze of cigar smoke, she looked young and beautiful and so much like my mother, I had to turn away.
The drums went rat-a-tat-tat. Anticipation whipped the tourists into a frenzy.
Within my pocket, the jewels sang.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
Showtime.
