The magician was a fraud.
He knew. His audience knew. Everybody knew.
But Rhea wasn't everybody; she was only Rhea, and she was seven. So Rhea believed in magic.
"Mister?"
The magician felt a small tug on his sleeve and turned, saw his face reflected in Rhea's wide eyes.
"What is it, child?"
"Give me a rose, a rose for my mother. She's sick."
It was time for the performance;
someone came backstage and saw the girl and yelled. They grabbed her by both arms and led her away.
But the magician slipped a small red flower into her hair.
but she kept
on
coming
back
.