Condolences NEW YORK, MARCH 1885
he announcement in the paper states that Hector Bowen, better known as Prospero the Enchanter, entertainer and stageT magician of great renown, died of heart failure in his home on the fteenth of March.
It goes on about his work and his legacy for some time. The age listed is erroneous, a detail few readers perceive. A short paragraph at the end of the obituary mentions that he is survived by a daughter of seventeen years of age, a Miss Celia Bowen. This number is more accurate. There is also a notice that though the funeral services will be private, condolences may be sent via the address of one of the local theaters.
The cards and letters are collected, placed in bags, and brought by messenger to the Bowens’ private residence, a town house that is already overowing with appropriately somber oral arrangements.
The scent of lilies is stiing and when Celia can no longer tolerate it, she transforms all of the owers into roses.
Celia leaves the condolences piled on the dining-room table until they begin to overow into the lounge. She does not want to deal with them, but she cannot bring herself to toss them away unread.
When she is unable to avoid the matter further, she makes a pot of tea and begins to tackle the mountains of paper. She opens each piece of mail one by one and sorts them into piles.
There are postmarks from around the globe. There are long, earnest letters lled with genuine despair. There are empty well- wishes and hollow praises of her father’s talents. Many of them comment that the senders were unaware that the great Prospero had a daughter. Others remember her fondly, describing a delightful,
tiny girl that Celia herself does not recall being. A few include disturbingly worded marriage proposals.
Those in particular Celia crumples into balls, placing the crushed missives on her open palm one by one and concentrating until they burst into ame, leaving nothing but cinders on her hand that she brushes away into nothingness.
“I am already married,” she remarks to the empty air, twisting the ring on her right hand that covers an old, distinctive scar.
Amongst the letters and cards there is a plain grey envelope.
Celia pulls it from the pile, slicing it open with a silver letter opener, ready to throw it on the pile with the rest.
But this envelope, unlike the others, is addressed to her father proper, though the postmark is after his date of death. The card inside is not a note of sympathy nor a condolence for her loss.
It contains no greeting. No signature. The handwritten words across the paper read:
Your move.
and nothing more.
Celia turns the card over but the reverse is blank. Not even a stationer’s imprint marring the surface. There is no return address upon the envelope.
She reads the two words on the grey paper several times.
She cannot tell if the feeling creeping up her spine is excitement or dread.
Abandoning the remaining condolences, Celia takes the card in hand and leaves the room, ascending a winding stair that leads to the upstairs parlor. She pulls a ring of keys from her pocket and impatiently unlocks three separate locks in order to access the room that is drenched in bright afternoon sun.
“What is this about?” Celia says, holding the card out in front of her as she enters.
The gure hovering by the window turns. Where the sunlight hits him he is all but invisible. Part of a shoulder appears to be missing,
the top of his head vanishes in a utter of sun-caught dust. The rest of him is transparent, like a reection in glass.
What is left of Hector Bowen reads the note and laughs delightedly.
