Mortlock

Extract

Josie Chrimes levelled the knife, holding it by its blade.
She felt its weight shift towards the handle, the cool steel pressing on her forefinger and thumb as she extended herarm. The Great Cardamom stood twenty strides away. It could be twice as far and I’d still be able to send the blade through him, she thought. Josie never missed. She reached her arm back, then snapped forward and, with a confident flick of her wrist, sent the knife whirling towards its target.
The sound of the audience’s gasp made her smile. The knife flashed across the stage until – with a thunk! – it pinned the Great Cardamom’s top hat to the corkboard behind him. Knife after knife had described his outline, so close that Josie had seen the front rows of the audience craning forward, wide-eyed, eager to spot a trickle of blood. But now this last knife had hit its mark, Cardamom stepped neatly from under his hat, still pinned to the cork, and smoothed his red hair. With a flourish, he gave a deep bow, looking over at Josie to share a secret wink. The crowd went wild, clapping and cheering.
Josie strode across the stage, narrowing her eyes against the harsh glare of the footlights. Then she took Cardamom’s hand and shared the second bow, dipping so low that her nose brushed against her skirt.
As the two of them straightened up, Josie glanced over at Cardamom. She was almost taller than him now. Out in the street, they would have made a curious sight: he stocky, with dyed red hair, clipped moustache and redlined cloak, she dressed in leggings and a light shift, her long, blonde hair spilling from under a black bow. But onstage, they still made a perfect fit.
Josie took a deep breath, smelling the sweat from the audience and the dust ingrained in the velvet curtains.
The music from the orchestra’s pit filled the air, vibrating through her bones. This is where I belong, she thought, squeezing the hand of her guardian, the Great Cardamom.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He raised his hand, asking for quiet. ‘I give you Artemis the Huntress! Thirteen years of age, a lifetime of talent!’
After a fresh round of applause, their act moved on.
Josie watched as Cardamom amazed the audience by producing almost anything they called out from his pockets: pork pies, mousetraps, fruit, coins, doves . . . Even a ferret appeared in his hands. He dragged a bunch of fresh carnations from inside his coat, winked at Josie and threw them to her. Now and then he would release a balloon, and Josie would flick a knife from her hand to burst it.
Josie kept her smile fixed but she wondered how Cardamom conjured up all these things. Backstage, she’d often secretly checked his pockets and found them to be ordinary and empty. Her guardian didn’t let her in on his secrets. ‘That’s magic,’ he’d say mysteriously. Josie knew it was nothing more than sleight of hand, but that still didn’t explain how he knew what the audience was going to ask for.
A levitation act followed the conjuring, then filling a jug from a bottle that never seemed to run dry, rabbits from hats – it was all standard material. Cardamom and Josie often went to the Lyceum up the street to see Professor Anderson, the so-called ‘Wizard of the North’, perform similar feats. But Cardamom’s performance was seamless. As he wove his real magic, Josie would tumble, cartwheel, flip and roll in between tricks or when she brought props on. The collective gasp from the audience when she ran across the stage, then bounced and somersaulted to Cardamom’s side, made her grin. She enjoyed herself almost as much as the audience.
Tonight, the clapping and cheers spilled into the wings as Josie and Cardamom squeezed past the dancers who were next on.
‘But why Artemis?’ Josie asked, pressing herself against the wall and blowing the dancing girls’ plumes from her face as they filed by. ‘It’s such a dull name.’ Cardamom stopped and turned, thrusting his face into Josie’s. ‘Your talents come from ancient gods,’ he hissed, suddenly sombre. The flush of excitement had faded from his cheeks. Then he gave a wink. ‘And we wouldn’t like to upset them, would we?’
Josie watched her guardian push past the stagehands and waiting actors, heading out of sight into the dark interior of the theatre. She frowned. Those moods of his!
Cardamom could shift from maudlin to joking in the blink of an eye. Onstage he looked demonic with his pointed red beard and arched eyebrows. And yet, in rare
moments, he could reveal the gentlest of souls. She hurried after him.
Josie caught up with Cardamom in a storeroom, where they could talk with no fear of their voices disturbing the action onstage. It was the place they always went to when they needed to talk.
‘If it makes you happy, Uncle,’ Josie sighed, ‘I’ll keep the name Artemis.’
Cardamom gave a faint smile. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘The audience is going to love you whatever stage name we choose. As you grow up, the act gets . . . easier.’