We left Abbotsford, walking along the riverbank until we came to the next town. Mr Bishop was friendly with a corn farmer, so we stayed in his work-shed for a night, before setting off early and arriving in Ravenstown shortly before midnight.

Being so late, we simply slept by the river until sunrise.

The birds were still in Ravenstown, and it was a beautiful welcome waking up to their morning songs to the sun. The small river trickled past our makeshift camp with sparkles of sunlight easing my mind, and I could see it eased Mr Bishop enough to decide that we would settle here and set up a new show.

New town. New show. New name. New tricks.

I stayed by the river, resting my tired feet, while Mr Bishop went into town to find a place to live.

I was just a little girl with pigtails and a little red dress. My parents were long gone. The only adult in my life was Mr Bishop.

He mentored me in the art of magic shows, but it did not really exercise and grow my own magic as a mind reader. Sure, I used mind reading in his shows, but that was all for the performance and entertainment of the patrons. It was not for any sense of expansion or contribution to humankind. Something always felt missing. I knew I could use my magic for good, but how? There was no one to teach me how. My only future was to continue apprenticing with Mr Bishop until I found someone else to take me under their wing.

Not many people understood magicians. Our art is a dark art. We can do things that people do not understand. Because of this, we need to find meaning in our work our own way. We can choose to be superficial and perform for the masses, or we can choose to hone our natural talents, and use our gifts to enhance our lives.

Mr Bishop didn’t always do magic shows. As his special gift was making things disappear, this was his absolute brilliance.

People would see him and he would make their worries disappear. He would make illnesses disappear. He would make errors disappear.

Word of his art spread, and soon enough people lined up to make other things disappear. And this is where magic becomes a dark art.

Councillors would see him and he would make their taxes disappear. Philanderers would see him and he would make their wives disappear. As the list of questionable disappearance requests increased, so too did his income, as dark magic is highly profitable.

Working in the dark arts, often with very powerful people, meant that Mr Bishop had to increase the secrecy of his work. This induced a change in personality.

A thread of anxiety ran through his daily thoughts. Anger at himself and those he worked for flashed through his veins. Fear and panic kept him up at night. After many years of doing good in the world, to now accepting payments from demanding members of the community, Mr Bishop decided his powers in the dark arts needed to be performed in a new light. And so Mr Bishop’s famous disappearing show began.

I had been apprenticing under Mr Bishop for a few years already in Abbotsford. I helped in his act. I read people’s minds, but made it look like a common trick. The show was a lot of fun, but it was all about smokes and mirrors. It was not a great use of our gifts. It did, however, provide great entertainment, and a good wage for Mr Bishop, who in turn provided me with a reasonable apprentice’s wage.

I sat down and watched some water boil with a handful of leaves I had picked, and I wondered what we would do next. I knew I could not stay apprenticing with Mr Bishop, but I was still so young that I could not just up and leave. And even if I did, where could I possibly go, and how could I possibly do it?

Mr Bishop returned as I was sipping my tea.

“Arca! I’ve found us a place to live and work! Mr Baker has an old farm on the far side of town. He doesn’t use it anymore, so we can live in the farmhouse, and we will have a large block of land to put up our tent and run our show. Finish your cup and we’ll head over there!”

Obediently I finished my tea, and followed Mr Bishop into Ravenstown.

Beautiful elm trees lined the main road, which housed enough shops for a good sized village. Mr Baker’s patisserie featured his delicious croissants and scones in the window.

I followed Mr Bishop into the patisserie.

“Mr Baker, this is Arcadia, my apprentice.”

“Welcome, Arcadia!,” Mr Baker said, “It is a privilege to have your show on my own property. I can’t wait to see it, and I am so glad that vacant lot can be put to good use.”

I nodded and smiled. I felt shy. Mr Baker’s eyes showed he was genuinely interested in us living on his property, but as I read his mind, I saw that he wasn’t interested in the show at all. He knew of Mr Bishop’s talents, and was more interested in how he could gain access to the dark art of disappearance.

Mr Baker handed a wad of keys to Mr Bishop, with a bag of scones, and let us make our own way to his old farm.

As I followed Mr Bishop along the main road, he turned to me and said, “Couldn’t you have said something to him? He is being so generous by letting us live in his farmhouse, and run our show from here. We need to get along with him and prove we are valuable tenants.”

“But –” I could not find the words.

I was just a little girl, exhausted from walking. I was truly grateful to have somewhere to call home, but I did not want it to be here. What I really needed was rest. So I remained silent until the following day.

I woke to the sound of hard work. Sunlight streamed in through my window. The sun was already high in the sky. I could hear Mr Bishop hammering away outside. He must be building the set for the show.

I still felt strange about being here, but as they say in the business – the show must go on.

Within a couple of days we had our new act ready for performance. Despite my usual reservedness, I was a natural on stage. With my evenings taken up by the show, I was free to explore the town during the day.

I was polite to our landlord, Mr Baker, and made sure to purchase all our baked goods from his patisserie. I could not bear to spend much time in his presence though, as I hated to see what he was thinking. He had plans to hire Mr Bishop, and I really did not want to know the details. Whatever it was, it was on his mind often enough that it was all I saw when I shopped from him.

I met a few other children my age in Ravenstown, and sometimes played with them down at the river, but generally I kept to myself. I was just a quiet kid with knobbly knees who wanted to play with other children, but also wanted to find a better use for her magic.

A few months into our residency at Ravenstown, when I was sewing a new performance costume, I saw Mr Baker through my window. He was walking through the farmgate towards the workshop where Mr Bishop was making some props.

Mr Baker had a disingenuous grin, and when I saw his eyes I saw his whole story. A mish mash of fact and fiction, dating back decades, relating to his parents, his brothers, the very farm we were residing on, and a long winded plan to make the farm disappear so that his aging parents wouldn’t move in. There were some lies he was going to tell Mr Bishop to make him look like a hero, while his brothers would appear to be the conniving ones.

Although my specialty in magic was reading minds, I could do other things. I could have made Mr Baker trip and break his foot before he reached Mr Bishop. I could have even made him turn around and go back home. I could have done a myriad of things to prevent what was to happen, but even as a young girl with knobbly knees who wanted to play with other children, I upheld the old school of thought where I only practised my speciality, in order to hone my gift rather than dilute it.

I continued sewing until I had finished a new red cape, and was adding the finishing touches on a red velvet hat with an eagle feather I found a few days prior, when I saw Mr Bishop walk Mr Baker out of the workshop. They shook hands, and Mr Baker left with a genuine smile on his face. I knew the plan. It left a knot in my stomach, and I understood that as long as I apprenticed under Mr Bishop, we would be forever on the run.