Chapter 1: Sleight of Hand

"Your card is ... the eight of spades!"

The girl peered impassively over her yashmak, reached into the cleavage of her harem top and pulled out a playing card, turning it towards the imagined audience with a theatrical flourish. She looked at it. "It's the Queen of Diamonds, you dummy, Gregg Gillstrom! That's so it! I've had it with this stupid idea. It's just some lame plan to get me into this stupid slave girl costume. I'm going." Samantha Wallace pulled off the scarf she was wearing across her face and grabbed her coat from the back of a chair.

"Hang on, Sam." Gregg was rummaging around in a pile of playing cards trying to work out what had gone wrong. "Look you can't go. What about the show?"

"If you think I'm standing on stage while you lose rabbits in hats, turn water into water, or fail to find the flags of all nations in a hollow tube then you've got another think coming." By now Samantha had knotted the scarf around her neck to hide the two hopeful hickeys that Gregg had managed to inflict before she'd insisted they get on with rehearsing. "Not one of these tricks has worked. This is so a waste of time." She pulled on her short camel coat. Now she was wishing she'd worn something longer; the filmy fabric of her harem trousers looked incongruous beneath it. The limits of style were not, however, going to discourage her from leaving right away as she grabbed the rest of her things, and exchanged the curly toed silk slippers for her trainers. "I should have stayed on the cheer leading team. Just get yourself a life Gregg Gillstrom. And another girlfriend!"

The door to his room slammed as she left, Gregg sank glumly down on his bed and looked at the pile of conjuring paraphernalia that he had failed to make work. She was right, of course. There was no way he was going to be performing this weekend. He ran his hands through his ginger hair, feeling more of a failure than ever. Irritated, he flicked the playing card across the room; it hit the top hat standing on the pile of superhero comics on his desk and disturbed the small switch on the brim. With an audible "sproing" a bunch of artificial flowers sprang up and stood quivering. "Oh shit," said Gregg to no one in particular and headed off to find himself a beer by way of consolation.

A week later, he was still feeling glum about the evening and its outcome — or lack of it. He was down near the harbour when he saw Sam, laughing and chatting with a bunch of friends. He caught her scowl as she noticed him. That, and the giggles from her friends, was sufficient to deter him from crossing the street in any hope of a reconciliation.

As much to avoid the group as anything else, he stepped into the small junk shop down near the lighthouse. He'd picked up a few props there in the past. He'd even found a very dog-eared 1857, first edition of "The Magician's Own Book" even though he hadn't been able to find the $100 they'd wanted for it. The shop's owner nodded as Gregg peered into the dark piles of accumulated pottery, odd bits of furniture, old clothes and the occasional picture frame. Wedged under a small table was a round, pot bellied, ragged, wicker basket. Gregg pulled it out. He pulled the top open and peered inside. There was a dusty turban, a small bamboo musical pipe and a coil of rope.

Perhaps, Gregg thought, some version of the Indian Rope Trick might convince Sam of his competence. "How much for the basket?" he said.

The owner peered across, not even bothering to get up. "Five bucks should do it," he said.