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Vinci’s anatomical sketches, the great man’s studies of the perfect human form.
    Returning to Elizabeth at the kitchen table, Roy said, “My sister. We talk all the time. We’re very close.”
    When the manicure was complete, he exfoliated the skin of her perfect hands with an aromatic mixture of almond oil, sea salt, and essence of lavender (his own concoction), which he massaged onto her palms, the backs of the hands, the knuckles, the fingers.
    Finally, he rinsed each hand, wrapped it in clean white butcher paper, and sealed it in a plastic bag. As he placed the hands in the freezer, he said, “I’m so happy you’ve come to stay, Elizabeth.”
    He didn’t find it peculiar to be talking to her severed hands. Her hands had been the essence of her. Nothing else of Elizabeth Lavenza had been worth talking about or to. The hands were
her.

CHAPTER 10
    THE LUXE WAS an ornate Deco palace, glamorous in its day, a fit showcase for the movies of William Powell and Myrna Loy, Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman. Like many a Hollywood face, this glamour had peeled and sagged.
    Deucalion accompanied Jelly Biggs down the center aisle, past rows of musty, patched seats.
    â€œDamn DVDs screwed the revival business,” Jelly said. “Ben’s retirement didn’t turn out like he expected.”
    â€œMarquee says you’re still open Thursday through Sunday.”
    â€œNot since Ben died. There’s
almost
enough thirty-five-millimeter fanatics to make it worthwhile. But some weekends we run up more expenses than receipts. I didn’t want to take responsibility for that since it’s become your property.”
    Deucalion looked up at the screen. The gold and crimson velvet curtains drooped, heavy with dust and creeping mildew. “So…you left the carnival when Ben did?”
    â€œWhen freak shows took a fade, Ben made me theater manager. I got my own apartment here. I hope that won’t change…assuming you want to keep the place running.”
    Deucalion pointed to a quarter on the floor. “Finding money is always a sign.”
    â€œA sign of what?”
    Stooping to pick up the quarter, Deucalion said, “Heads, you’re out of a job. Tails, you’re out of a job.”
    â€œDon’t like them odds.”
    Deucalion snapped the coin into the air, snatched it in midflight. When he opened his fist, the coin had disappeared.
    â€œNeither heads nor tails. A sign for sure, don’t you think?”
    Instead of relief at having kept his job and home, Jelly’s expression was troubled. “I been having a dream about a magician. He’s strangely gifted.”
    â€œJust a simple trick.”
    Jelly said, “I’m maybe a little psychic. My dreams sometimes come sorta true.”
    Deucalion had much he could have said to that, but he remained silent, waiting.
    Jelly looked at the moldering drapes, at the threadbare carpet, at the elaborate ceiling, everywhere but at Deucalion. At last he said, “Ben told me some about you, things that don’t seem they could be real.” He finally met Deucalion’s eyes. “Do you have two hearts?”
    Deucalion chose not to reply.
    â€œIn the dream,” Jelly said, “the magician had two hearts…and he was stabbed in both.”
    A flutter of wings overhead drew Deucalion’s attention.
    â€œBird got in yesterday,” Jelly said. “A dove, by the look of it. Haven’t been able to chase it out.”
    Deucalion tracked the trapped bird’s flight. He knew how it felt.

CHAPTER 11
    CARSON LIVED ON A tree-lined street in a house nondescript except for a gingerbread veranda that wrapped three sides.
    She parked at the curb because the garage was packed with her parents’ belongings, which she never found time to sort through.
    On her way to the kitchen door, she paused under an oak draped with Spanish moss. Her work hardened her, wound her tight.