Disappearing Act

ii.

She flinched when she caught sight of him in the curtains' shadow at the end of her act, taking a short, sharp inhale.

"Hans? I... wasn't expecting to find you here," she said, and pulled back the curtains a little. The light from backstage shined across his face, illuminating his olive eyes. "Usually, you're—"

"In my dressing room, yes," he finished, catching the wrist of her gloved hand in his. She stiffened in his grasp, and the air around them pulsated with cold, their exhalations visible in the dark. She relaxed only when he'd lowered both of their hands and stepped further into the light, his face red from the drop in temperature. "But I wanted to see you sooner tonight."

Her cheeks flushed. "I see." After a moment, she withdrew her hand from his, and stepped back. "We may as well go to my room, then. It's nearer to here, and it's... well, it's more private."

"Of course," he said, and followed her out.

When they reached her room and she closed the door, she finally looked at him again, swallowing. Her normal pallor had yet to return as she lit a lamp. "So—what was it that brought you here early?"

Hans remained standing as he spoke. "Something that one of the men said last night about you was rather curious, and I thought I'd better ask you about it, instead of wondering on my own to no end."

"Oh?" Elsa asked.

He moseyed over to her table and mirror, picking up one of the props she used sometimes during her act. It was a blue folding fan with silver snowflakes stenciled along the creases, and it glittered even under the dim light of the lamp. He opened and examined the fan at length before meeting her wary gaze.

"It matches your dress," he said, gesturing at the blue and silver garment she wore during her performances, and which she was wearing then. "Where did you get it?"

She blinked. "Get what? The fan, or the dress?"

He shrugged. "Either. Both?"

"The fan I bought from a peddler some years ago and decorated myself, and the dress is—" She stopped and shook her head. "Why are you asking me these things, all of a sudden? I thought you were going to ask me about... whatever it is that one of the men told you about me."

He feigned an apologetic expression. "Oh, yes, of course! I can be so forgetful sometimes, forgive me." He placed the fan back on the table, leaning against it as he continued: "I'm sure you know Leif, the stage manager?"

She frowned. "Yes, of course. What about him?"

He glanced back at the fan, and then at the small rack upon which a number of other snow-themed props hung, including hats, feather boas, garments, and decorations. "Well, you see, Leif is rather convinced that your magic is not just some trick." He fingered her fabric snowflake pin that rested against the mirror with interest. "He believes that your snow, and ice, and all the rest of it is actually... quite real."

She stared at his hand on the pin. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he replied, catching her stare. "He claims he's seen it at work in... 'mysterious ways,' as he put it."

Her stare narrowed. "Such as?"

"Oh, you know," Hans said, "making the air go cold around you, making it snow in the middle of July over the entire fairgrounds, turning a live tiger into an ice sculpture—things like that."

Elsa paled. "Those are just... just rumors," she stammered. "Utter nonsense."

"Are they?" he asked, standing tall as he drew closer to her. "I've certainly noticed a few odd things about you, myself." He stopped just a few inches short from her nose and sighed, looking down at her hands clasped together in front of her ribcage. "For instance, I don't think I've ever seen you without your gloves on when you're not performing, Elsa. Why is that?"