The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the masts of the ships in the harbor with strokes of bruised purple and gold.
Near the water's edge, a small crowd had gathered around a makeshift stage—little more than a few sturdy crates and a heavy rug.
Torches flickered in the evening breeze, casting dancing shadows that played perfectly into the hands of a performer.
Faust stood at the periphery of the crowd, the ticket Lola had given him tucked into his palm. He spotted her almost immediately.
She was leaning against a stack of barrels, her eye patch catching the torchlight, watching the stage with an expression that was uncharacteristically soft.
On stage, her brother was a whirlwind of motion.
He was a tall, lean man with the same olive skin as Lola, though his features were sharper, more kinetic.
He wore a doublet of faded crimson and moved with a practiced, flamboyant grace.
This was Mateus.
Coins vanished into thin air only to reappear behind the ears of wide-eyed urchins. Handkerchiefs turned into fluttering white doves that vanished into the salty mist of the harbor.
The air was filled with the rhythmic clapping of tiny hands and the high-pitched gasps of delight from the children.
Faust felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest.
The sound—the pure, unadulterated joy of the crowd—tugged at a thread of memory he thought he had buried deep.
He saw himself, a century ago, sitting between his brothers and sister in a crowded tent in Germany.
They had gone to see the Althoff Family circus.
He remembered the smell of sawdust and roasted nuts, the way his sister had gripped his arm when the acrobats took flight. For a moment, the mud of 1614 New Netherland vanished, replaced by the warmth of a family that had loved a boy they didn't have to.
A small smile touched Faust's lips.
He wondered, briefly, if the rush of a successful trick felt like the rush of a successful surgery.
Was the gratitude of a patient whose life was saved similar to the wonder of a child who had just seen the impossible?
But as Mateus reached the climax of his show—a complicated maneuver involving three silver rings—the illusion faltered for Faust's trained eyes.
As Mateus threw the rings into the air to lock them, his left hand didn't snap shut with its usual precision.
His fingers spasmed, a brief, ugly clawing motion that nearly caused a ring to fall.
To the children, it looked like a dramatic flourish.
To Faust, it was a diagnostic red flag.
He noticed Mateus reflexively grab his left shoulder as he bowed, a grimace flickering across his face before being masked by a performer's grin.
"Brachial plexus?" Faust wondered. "Or perhaps a chronic subluxation of the joint affecting the ulnar nerve."
It reminded him of a stonemason he had treated decades ago at the Aalborg Kloster—the Holy Ghost Hospital in Denmark.
The man had the same tell-tale numbness, the same loss of fine motor control. In a magician, it wasn't just a pain; it was a career-ending death sentence.
The show ended to a roar of applause.
As the crowd began to disperse, Faust moved through the thinning ranks.
Lola caught his eye and nodded toward the back of the stage.
Mateus was sitting on a crate, breathing hard, his left arm hanging limp at his side.
He was staring at his hand with a look of quiet desperation.
"You should be more careful with that last lock," Faust said, his voice calm and authoritative as he stepped into the torchlight. "The rings are metal, but your nerves are only silk."
Mateus jumped, his right hand instinctively flying to a small dagger at his waist, but he relaxed when he saw Lola approaching behind the stranger.
"Easy, Matt," Lola said, stepping forward. "This is the man I told you about. The one with the hands of a sculptor and the brain of a library."
"Yes, I remember, the man whose brain is not the only thing that is 'big'," Mateus smiled, lowering his head towards Faust's pelvis.
She gave him a slap on the back of the head
Faust inclined his head slightly, the professional mask of the scholar slipping into place.
"Doctor Faust. Your sister mentioned you were having... technical difficulties. Though I suspect 'difficulty' is a mild word for what your shoulder is doing to your hand."
Mateus looked from Lola to Faust, his pride warring with his pain.
Finally, he let out a long breath and slumped.
"Pleasure. If you can make this hand work for one more show, I'll believe in whatever God you pray to."
Faust stepped closer, his fingers already itching to palpate the joint.
"I don't pray much, Mateus. But I do know how to fix what is broken. Let's see the damage."