Ally slipped a smooth strand of hair behind her ear and rinsed off another shell. Arthur poked holes into each end of an egg, which immediately began to ooze. He aimed it towards a bowl and blew. Don’t touch it with your mouth! Ally, it doesn’t work otherwise. You’ll get salmonella. And then, for my next trick, I’ll drop dead on stage! You worry too much. He half-raised an affectionate hand.
She turned back to the eggshell, dabbed it dry. I won’t kiss you, then.
His hand dropped. The day was sluggish, the off-white walls and Ally’s thin arms beaded with humidity. Mosquito stained curtains slumped against the screen of the open window. Hardly the atmosphere to prepare for a magic show in.
Just think how cool these’ll look! he said. Colour! …show more content…
Come over here, Toasty. She swirled her hands through the dog’s fur. Slight smile. Arthur bent down and scratched the retriever’s ear. I bet Toasty’d love to be in my act, wouldn’t you? You like smoke bombs, don’t you, Toasty? Toasty flopped down, tail thumping. The smile slipped off. Toasty is not a performer. He opened his mouth. He’d tell her what happened to Algae had nothing to do with him, that he would never hurt a fly, let alone a turtle, he was practically a professional – she stood. Let’s fill them, she said. See if they work. He scrambled up. Paper funnels, right? He slipped a receipt out of his pocket. Some sleight of hand . . . and it re-emerged from his hair. …show more content…
Love, love . . .
Ally stared down the hall. Maybe she’d been ensnared by the portrait; why anyone’s parents needed a framed painting of George Vancouver was beyond him. An off-centre George Vancouver to boot, one eye higher than the other, head tilted, eyebrow arched and quizzical. Smart girl, Ally, that eyebrow said. Too smart to ignore that pathetic cape. Too smart to stick with you. But he didn’t take advice from paintings, at least not when the eyes looked in different directions. The nose had a sharp slant, half a peaked roof yanked upward. The wig flicked out, a continuation of the wave the eyebrow started. White-powder hair flowed into the high collar, which melted into the double chin. The coat, an I-like-the-ocean-do-you-have-a-problem-with-that? shade of navy blue, merged with the dark background. Brush strokes swirled like an abyss, or like the painter had wiped their brush off on the canvas. But the eyes – that half-direct gaze – he tore himself away.
He scooped up an egg and sidestepped the ooze with a theatrical leap. Would you do me the honour? Ally turned and blinked. Shrugged. Took the bomb. He bounced on his heels. you, you belong to me