A Magician Never Tells His Secrets

A woman banged the door open, almost sending her son flying. She had scraggly blond hair, a curvaceous body and a cigarette between her lightly lined lips.
“Who’re you?” She asked, pulling the fag out from her mouth and nodding to us. Her brusque manner made me nervous, and I waited for Tori to speak.
“I’m Victoria Youdell, and my associate is Megan Woodville,” she began, for once using our full names. “We’ve come to enquire about the available position of magician’s assistant.”
“You’re quick,” Mrs Prescott said, taking another drag. “I haven’t even put out an add yet. Come in.” She waved us inside her caravan.
Tori and I exchanged glances before we stepped inside. It was cramped, with a bed in one corner, a tower of packing cases adjacent, and a desk and filing cabinet opposite. The walls were covered in advertisements for the carnival and the typical family portraits documenting a child’s life. A child with a mischievous grin and rumples of light brown hair. In the newer pictures the same child could be identified as Peter, though the hair was died black and his smile haughtier, though just as cheeky. The smoky room was panelled in dark wood floorboards and walls.
Mary Prescott went over to the filing cabinet and ruffled through one of the drawers while we stood awkwardly at the door.
“Ahh,” she said after a minute, pulling out a sheet of paper. “The measurements for the magician’s assistant.”
She read through it slowly, every now and then inspecting us and clicking her tongue.
“Some of the tricks need someone shorter,” she informed us.
“I’m shorter than Meg. And I did gymnastics until I was sixteen,” Tori cut in quickly. I looked at her enquiringly.
“Then you’ve got the job,” Mrs Prescott said, squashing the butt of her cigarette into an ashtray.
Tori beamed, looking at me to share her excitement. But all I could manage was a hurt bewilderment.
“Sorry kid,” Mrs Prescott said to me, drawing out another fag. “But if you want I’ll be able to find you another job. Maybe not one as glamorous, but a job no less.”
I shrugged, the knife twisting painfully. “What’ve you got in mind?”
Mrs Prescott leant against her desk, rummaging in a drawer and pulling out a lighter. “A carnie quit after last’s night round. Said he was over it. He worked the ticket booth. If you want it, the jobs your’s.”
I managed to force out a smile.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll take it.”
She grinned, satisfied.
“Good. Come back before eight o’clock tomorrow morning. That’s when we’ll be hitting the road.”
Taking it as our que to leave, Tori and I turned and walked out the door, down the little steps. When we reached the grass Mrs Prescott leaned against the frame.
“Thankyou, Mrs Prescott,” I said, actually feeling grateful. At least she didn’t throw me away after Tori stabbed me in the back.
“Call me Mary kid, your part of the Magic and Mischief family now.”