The dressing room we had promised them ended up being more of a little alcove, set off from the banquet hall and covered by a thick tapestry. The real Lord and Lady Thorne probably wouldn’t be so thrilled, but it was better than an alley or a closet.

Fir ran his hand down the back of the tapestry, noting the way the ends of the various threads were neatly woven in and the long floats of colors had been twisted together so that no threads sagged or pulled. The back of a tapestry was always a good indication as to the quality of the work, and this one looked to be top-notch.

“Almost ready?” he asked, turning.

Mockingbird stood in front of the full-length mirror at the back of the room, but instead of putting the finishing touches on her dramatic makeup, she was running her fingers along the gilt mirror frame. She shot him a guilty grin over her shoulder. “Sorry.” She reached over and grabbed the little box of loose shadow powder, using her fingers to dab some of the dark purple color into the creases of her eyelids.

Fir checked his own appearance in the mirror. Although his makeup was nothing as dramatic as Mock’s—after all, the mysterious Lady Thorne had to live up to her reputation—he’d still shadowed his eyes, making them appear sunken and dark, and highlighted his cheekbones. The entire point was to make themselves look as eye-catching as possible without being garish—and to disguise their own faces.

He double-checked the hidden pockets in his sleeves and the inner lining of his vest. This was where the loose, flowing clothing he was used to as an Alfaren came in handy. The folds hid the small pouches of handheld firecrackers and other bits and bobs they’d use for most of their show, although Mock’s illusory magic would definitely support a good bit of it as well.

A knock on the wall next to the tapestry startled Fir, and he spun. Lord Datheil stood in the doorway, eyes alight with excitement.

“Lord and Lady Thorne!” The man advanced, stretching his hand out.

Datheil was tall for a human, nearly at Fir’s eye level. Fir shook Datheil’s hand, trying not to show how much the tall, muscular man made him nervous. If it came down to it in a hand-to-hand fight, he wasn’t sure that any of their crew—even Snitch—could take this one down.

Right now, though, the lord was like a giddy child. He nodded excitedly to Mock, who answered with a little half-bow in the mirror, then turned back to Fir. “My wife just told me who she engaged for my birthday celebration. So marvelous! I’ve heard stories of your exploits all over Lerem and Teshinn. I know a few folks who think the point of an illusion show is ridiculous—after all, ley manipulators are so common here—but I think it takes a certain skill to it. And then there’s the fun of how the trick is done, isn’t there?”

“Indeed, Lord Datheil,” Fir said, forcing a smile. “We find that the mystery of the tricks is always the draw.”

Lord Datheil nodded so vigorously that the green ribbon around his tail of hair nearly slipped loose. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Your cue should be coming here in just a few minutes, and I imagine you’ll need that time to finish your preparations. I just wanted to come extend my thanks for your attendance and let you know that we are all eagerly anticipating your tricks.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Lord Datheil treated them to another bow, then he left, the tapestry swishing back into place behind him.

“Poor man,” Mock said. “All he wants is a little entertainment. I almost feel sorry for him.”

Fir snorted. “Almost?”

Mock shrugged and smirked, turning back to the mirror. “I’m sure his wealth will help ease his disappointment.” Just as she finished the final stroke of makeup, transforming her into the mysterious Lady Thorne, the chatter and music outside of the room stopped. The light filtering into the dressing room went dim. Fir quickly glanced around the room, making sure nothing crucial—his lock-picking kit, or the daggers Mock had smuggled in under her skirt—had been left behind, then blew out their own candles. He stepped up to the tapestry, stomach twisting into a knot.

Silk rustled as Mock joined him. Her elbow nudged his arm, and he felt more than saw her nod. 

“Ready with the smoke bomb?” she whispered.

Fir touched his hand to his left sleeve, where he’d tucked the twist of brown paper holding the tightly packed powder. One flick of the firecaster concealed in his right sleeve, and the powder would explode into thick, drifting smoke—perfect for a getaway.

“My honored guests,” boomed Lord Datheil’s voice from beyond the tapestry. 

Fir’s heart rate quickened. This was the part of the job he’d dreaded the most. Reading about the Thornes, practicing the ways they might pull off their illusions, that was entertaining. But actually having to perform in front of people? He wanted to hide. To grab his dark cloak from the corner of the room and slink into the shadows. To go back to his room at their inn, where he’d amassed a small library, and bury himself in research. Thankfully, Kil had said this was the last time they’d use the Thornes as a cover. One or two charlatans using the name of the famous couple were to be expected, but any more than that, and real suspicions might be aroused.

“Tonight, in order to provide the best of entertainment to you, my honored friends who have traveled to celebrate with me—may I present to you the amazing, the astounding, the one and only traveling illusionist act of nobility and class, Lord and Lady Thorne.”

Fir felt the steadying pressure of Mock’s hand on his sleeve. He gritted his teeth. They’d practiced these tricks for weeks—he could do this. 

He flung the tapestry aside and, in the same smooth motion, drew a firecracker from his pocket, flicked it against the concealed firecaster, and tossed it forward. As it exploded into colored purple and golden sparks, he and Mock stepped forward, hand in hand, and bowed. 

Tonight, he was Lord Thorne, master of illusive tricks.