#sixth borough

Even in the Sixth Borough, people stared.

“It’s not that I mind them being that way,” the barkeep would mutter, “but d’they have to be so muchthat way, all in front of everyone? Even a… a traditional couple would blush, to carry on like that.”

They all thought it was Fran, leading Lilian astray, of course. What could you expect from a vaudeville illusionist, who turned magic to the most frivolous and ostentatious purposes? Lilian, though, she was a good girl; had worked in her mother’s apothecary shop since she’d been old enough to stand, carefully measuring out mandrake roots, powdered moonstone, and squill bulbs. It was only when she started frequenting that theatre – not the proper one, the new, trashy one, that Merlin’s House of Mysteries (and what a tacky name, only a Muggleborn could come up with that) – that she bobbed her hair, shortened her skirts, and started whistling as she walked down the street.

Would they laugh, or be scandalized, if they knew? That it was Lilian’s soft hands, Lilian’s sweet lips that had drawn Fran down the primrose path. Those sweet eyes, gazing up during the illusions, that had captivated Fran even through the glimmer and haze. Hers, the first move – a rose which unfolded into a love note, such a pretty charm.

And after that… if they couldn’t feel free to be themselves in a gin joint behind a theatre in 1928, when and where on earth could they?

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