Above this was a picture of whom Vivian supposed was Surazali, reposing corpse-like in a beautifully lacquered Chinese box, hands clasped tightly over his breast, eyes wide and glassy.

Vivian's eyes lingered there for a moment, turned away to rest again on the profusion of items in the room. These things held no memories for Vivian, and certainly no magic.

When Stephen first began to practice magic, she had been mildly interested. She wanted to know how things worked, how Stephen was able to fool her, deceive her into seeing things that weren't actually happening. This was useful information, for once she knew, he would never be able to do that to her again.

But Stephen wouldn't tell her. He would shake his head and say, "It's magic, honey."

Vivian didn't see it that way. It was not "magic." Stephen was keeping a secret from her. She kept no secrets from him, for, in truth, she had none to keep.

No, it was not magic. There was no room in Vivian's life for that. Magic paid no bills. It cooked no meals. It drove no one to work. It simply occupied a space in her home and in Stephen's heart, neither of which she would ever be able to enter.

Now that he was gone, it, too, would simply have to go.

Vivian emptied the room quickly into one of three large traveling trunks. Every type of object, every imaginable color found its way into these trunks. Minutes became hours, measured in swallows of gin, as the room became more and more empty.

At times, Vivian would pause, holding a particular illusion Stephen had deceived her with long ago. She would not put it down until she had figured out how it worked. And each time, she would curse herself when its simple answer became apparent.

Eventually, the three trunks were filled and pushed out into the front hall, near the door. Only the closet remained to be cleared. Its unadorned door swung easily on its hinges, and the aroma of cedar drifted out.

The incandescent bulb spat light onto the contents of the closet, filling it with sharp colors and harsh shadows. In contrast to the main room, the closet was surprisingly bare. The makings of a black tuxedo, crisp and recently pressed, hung in a plastic bag from one of the clothing rods. It hung here because she had denied her husband's request to be buried In It. So, It hung here like the untaxidermied skin of some animal, limp and docile.

Several pairs of white gloves, a pair of highly polished black shoes, a silver-capped cane and a silk top hat sat on a small shelf above the hanging clothes, all neatly arranged.

At the rear of the closet, there was a large object covered with a heavy, padded quilt. Vivian assumed it to be another of the large, false-bottomed or mirrored trunks.

She tugged at the thick quilt, and it slid off as easily as if it were resting on ice.

A large, black box with brightly colored designs, heavily lacquered, gleamed in the bright light. It looked Oriental, and it was perfectly beautiful. Not a scratch, not a smear, not a fingerprint marred--or looked as if it could mar--the black, glassy finish.

Vivian, in rapt admiration, reached down and drew her hand along its smooth, ebony surface.

A look of revulsion shuddered over her face, and she quickly snatched her hand back, rubbing it against the legs of her pants.

The box felt slick, cold and wet.

It must be another of Stephen's stupid tricks, she thought. And, not one she was particularly interested in unraveling. To the garbage with the rest of it.

The tuxedo was pulled without care from its hanger and thrown into the box. The gloves, hat, cane and shoes followed without ceremony. Using the quilt like an oven mitt, she closed the lid of the box and pushed it out of the closet.

As she closed the door, her eyes fell on the playbill depicting the reposing Surazali, to the box he rested in.

It was the same box.

Angrily, she covered the box again and pushed it into the hallway. Minutes later, all four boxes sat outside, in the place usually left for trashcans.