Not many women are magicians in 1870, but that doesn’t stop eighteen-year-old Valentina Gianetti. However, when her father is killed onstage at her debut performance, she abandons her dreams in order to find his killer. Her journey starts in Paris and leads her to an underground society of spectacular performers, along with a conspiracy that reaches up to the government. Valentina soon finds herself entangled in multiple murders, suicides, secrets, and cover-ups.
With the help of complicated individuals, including an escaped convict, Spanish spy, and old fortune teller, Valentina immerses herself into the clandestine underground in hopes of tracking down her father’s murderer. Between solving crimes spanning decades, traveling Europe with hired assassins, and performing onstage, a love triangle develops and Valentina is forced to choose between a deep-seated love and a passionate lust.
The Magician’s Daughter is a Historical Fiction novel, complete at 92,130 words. Readers who enjoyed The Historian, The Night Circus, and The Thirteenth Tale will appreciate this novel. I’m a technical writer by day and an aspiring author by night with an unhealthy addiction to the BBC. Thank you for this opportunity!
THE MAGICIAN'S DAUGHTER
The custard of the fruit tart gently jiggled at the rumbling of the train. I was hypnotized by its slight vibration; if only to distract myself from what I soon faced. The tranquility of my private carriage lulled me into a moment of calm. I lit the small candle poking from the tart’s middle and closed my eyes.
“Happy birthday, Mama.” The flame extinguished before I could take a breath to blow it out. I smiled. I didn’t have to turn around to see him standing in the doorway, though he made no sound.
“Are you prepared for tomorrow?” His English accent sounded like home; I turned to face him.
“I’ve practiced the three acts so many times I could perform them with my eyes closed.”
“Good girl.” He smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. He aged so much these last few years and I wondered what he kept from me. It wasn’t only his growing paranoia that tipped me off; but the way he became more and more distracted during his acts, almost expecting an interruption.
“I have a gift for you,” he said, producing a small red flower between his fingers and presenting it to me. The instant that my fingertips brushed against its stem, the flower disappeared, and in its place, hung a gold necklace with a simple red pendant.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Father.” His eyes twinkled. I knew he appreciated the term, though he wasn’t my real father.