Episode 3: The Showman’s Gambit Scene 1 – A Most Curious Invitation A little more than a year ago—before the alleyways whispered of blood and symbols—London brimmed with a different kind of spectacle. The gaslights burned brighter then, their playful glow casting shadows more theatrical than sinister, and Oscar Wilde’s attentions were drawn not to Jack The Ripper, but to invitation and intrigue. This was a time of wonder, of showmanship, of curiosities paraded through fairs and carnivals. There were no murders or mysteries or troubling newspaper articles—only a letter from an old friend whose peculiar flare for the uncanny would raise his curiosity like a big top circus tent. The morning arrives with a reluctant stretch of light over the rooftops of Chelsea, and a modest drizzle tapping politely against the windowpanes of Oscar’s study—hardly enough to dampen the spirits of a man who found rain romantic and gloom rather fashionable. Wilde, swathed in a burgundy silk robe, lounges amidst an opulent nest of cushions and discarded manuscripts. A silver tray rests beside him, bearing a half-eaten pear, a lukewarm pot of tea, and—most curiously—a letter of extravagant design that would have scandalized any sensible postman. It is a riot of color: peacock-feather borders, calligraphy as flourished as a debutante’s sigh, and embossed in the boldest gilt, the unmistakable signature of P.T. Barnum. OSCAR Oh, Barnum. There are stage curtains more subtle than your stationery. He breaks the wax seal—shaped like a lion’s roaring head—and unfolds the letter with theatrical care. OSCAR Dearest Oscar…The world feels far too drab without a touch of your peculiar genius. I am bringing the greatest show on Earth to London—miracles, marvels, and mischief alike—and I’d be most honored to have you as my guest of distinction. The performance will be unlike anything Europe has seen, and I’m told you never could resist a good show… or a better scandal. Oh, and I’m acquiring an elephant while in town—a particularly philosophical one, I’m told. You simply must meet him. More importantly, I’ve made the acquaintance of someone extraordinary—a gentleman with a curiosity not unlike yours, only tinged with a few shadows and secrets I believe you might relish. He insists I make the introduction. He’s even promised to behave. Consider this your summons to the improbable, Oscar. London is about to remember what wonder feels like. Respectfully Yours in Spectacle and Spirit…Phineas Taylor Barnum Wilde sets the letter down with a glint in his eye—a fusion of amusement and intrigue that rarely failed to precede trouble. OSCAR An elephant. A mystery man. And Barnum himself? He swings his legs from the divan and plants his feet on the parquet with the finality of a stage cue. OSCAR So the showman has come. London will forget herself now—trade her secrets for spectacle, her soul for a song and a brass band. She’ll dress in borrowed light and call it wonder, laugh too loudly at things she doesn’t understand. The old poets will go unread, the salons will grow quiet, and truth—truth will be repackaged as novelty, sold by the yard beneath a striped tent. Scene 2 – Wilde Among the Phantasmagoria The circus unspools before Wilde like a delirious dream stitched in scarlet and smoke. Massive striped tents strained against their moorings, groan under the weight of brass music and public astonishment. Steam from roasted chestnuts mingle with sawdust and perfume, swirling into an air as thick with pretense as it is with anticipation. He moves through the chaos alone, a large but fragile figure in emerald velvet and soft-spoken disdain. Everywhere around him, illusion clamors for attention. A fire breather exhales a furious ribbon of flame that dances too close to the hem of Wilde’s coat. Oscar mutters dryly to himself. OSCAR Careful…I’ve no interest in becoming a martyr to theatrical excess. A sword swallower arches his neck beneath the glint of a dozen blades. Children squeal. Adults hold their breath. Wilde merely tilts his head and continues commenting to no one in particular. OSCAR There’s something terribly modern about a man risking death for fleeting applause. Perhaps he’d prefer an editorial column—it’s less hazardous but equally thankless. He pauses before a contortionist twisting herself into geometry that defies muscle or grace. Oscar clutches his cane like a judge’s gavel. OSCAR Astonishing. She’s bent herself so far backward, I dare say she’s glimpsed her own credibility. Yet beneath the sarcasm, his eyes linger on the artistry. Each act is gaudy, yes, but deliberate. Crafted. The illusions are paper-thin, but the craft—oh, the craft is undeniable. OSCAR This magician appears to have vanished not his rabbit, but the concept of rehearsal. A barker shouts over the din, directing the crowd toward The Man Who Walks on Air, and Wilde follows the swell of people until the crowd gives way to a performer suspended by wires so fine they vanish in the lanternlight. The man twists midair, unnatural, and for a moment—just a moment—even Wilde’s tongue stills before whispering to himself. OSCAR Beautiful fakery is still quite beautiful. And yet, for all his biting wit, there is admiration beneath the mockery. He watches the fire-dancer’s ritual with genuine awe as flame illuminates sweat-slicked skin and smoke draws fleeting halos above her head. He pauses at a marionette performance staged by a trio of masked children, catching the aching beauty in a puppet’s bowed head. And when a blindfolded swordsman walked barefoot across broken glass to the tune of a violin, Wilde found himself clapping—softly, sincerely. He wanders on. Somewhere, a calliope churns out a cheerful dirge. Painted jesters cavort on stilts. A juggler tosses flaming clubs into the evening sky and catches them with perilous ease. The chaos consumes itself as the night steadies in a state of wonder and excitement. Wilde, unhurried, strolls deeper still, into the heart of the spectacle—not for the performances, not even for the marvels—but for the feeling creeping in like twilight behind the eyes: that something—someone—was waiting. And Oscar, naturally, intends to arrive fashionably early. Scene 3 – A Showman’s Delight The tent that houses the elephant is quieter than the others, its canvas walls muffling the distant clamor of drums and laughter. Inside, the space was dim—lanterns hang low, as though uncertain whether to illuminate majesty or menace. The air is heavy with the musky scent of hay, incense and expectation. Oscar Wilde steps through the flap and pauses. There, in the golden half-light, stands the elephant. Massive, poised, and eerily still—his eyes dark and unreadable, one ear twitching slightly, yet calm. He bears a saddle adorned with sapphires and gold thread, too ornate even for royalty, and he regards Wilde with the inscrutable patience of a spirit trapped in flesh. Oscar has never seen a creature so entirely enormous and for a moment, even his massive sense of self-importance is humbled by the creature’s magnificent, yet peaceful presence. BARNUM Oscar! His own name booms like a drumroll before the act. P.T. Barnum emerges from the shadows, arms flung wide, his coat a chaos of brocade, tassels, and tailored bravado. His grin is a crescent moon carved from showbiz varnish. BARNUM By Jupiter’s juggling ghost, you do know how to make an entrance—even when it’s me expecting you! Wilde allows himself a smile—small, but sharpened at the edges. OSCAR And you, dear Barnum, have once again managed to turn a simple menagerie into a cathedral of delusion. Barnum laughs—a sound that rattles the lantern hooks. He sweeps beside Oscar, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. BARNUM [laughing] My boy! Delusion is just another word for undiscovered truth! And vaudeville? Vaudeville is not deception. It’s a matter of arrangement! A mastery of sightlines. When you control the frame, you control the eyes. And when you control the eyes— He tapped Wilde’s temple twice, not gently. BARNUM You OWN the MIND! Barnum stands framed by velvet drapes, every inch the showman even in stillness. His ringmaster’s coat is a riot of crimson and gold—broad shoulders padded for presence, tails sweeping behind him like a curtain call. The embroidery along the lapels glints in the low light, intricate as filigree, worn smooth in places by years of use. Beneath it, a black satin waistcoat hugs his barrel chest, the buttons straining slightly with each breath. His cravat is tied with theatrical precision, a deep wine-red knot nestled against a starched white collar. He’s a man of compact stature, but he carries himself with the gravity of someone used to bending rooms around his will. His face is round and weathered, cheeks flushed with exertion or drink, the skin creased from decades of smiling for strangers. A neatly trimmed mustache rides his upper lip, and his sideburns—thick and silvered—frame a pair of shrewd, pale blue eyes that miss nothing. His hair, once dark, is now a swept-back silver mane, lacquered into place with pomade and pride. His boots are polished to a mirror shine, heels slightly raised, giving him just enough lift to meet Wilde’s gaze without tipping the balance of power. One gloved hand rests on a cane topped with a brass lion’s head; the other is extended in greeting, fingers curled like he’s offering a deal rather than a handshake. He gestures broadly to the elephant. BARNUM He is not a trick. He is belief in motion. And that’s more powerful than any sermon or science. Wilde arches an eyebrow, still watching the animal as it shifts its weight back and fourth paying very little attention to the two men. OSCAR You make it sound rather ecclesiastical. Should I genuflect, or simply tip the handler? Barnum chuckles and leans in, voice lower. BARNUM [lowers voice] He was brought from Madras by a man who claimed he dreams in languages no one speaks anymore. You wouldn’t believe the trouble he caused them. He had a stubborn reputation and refused to be tamed by even the most talented handlers. But me—he took one look at me and I swear Oscar, he knelt. I like to think he recognized a fellow wonder. His name is Jumbo. He turns his grin back on Wilde, and in the flicker of firelight, the showman’s bravado almost—almost—flickers. BARNUM Besides, I didn’t summon you here just to admire the pachyderm. There’s someone I need you to meet. He’s... particular. Curious. I’d say troubled, but I believe you thrive on that sort of nuance. Oscar keeps his gaze on the elephant a moment longer. Jumbo blinks—slowly, deliberately. OSCAR Well lead on, Oh ringmaster of reality. Let us discover what fresh marvel awaits. BARNUM Not now, my boy—he’s preparing for the big finale. Timing, as they say, is everything. With a knowing grin and a half-bow, he sweeps the tent flap closed behind him. BARNUM Enjoy a bit more of the midway. Let its wonders rattle your sense of certainty a while longer. I’ll meet you backstage once the curtain falls. Wilde is left once more in the quiet company of the elephant, who shifts his weight with a sound like distant thunder. His eyes, slow and deliberate, follow Oscar as he turns to leave. Wilde continues talking to himself as he steps back out into the spectacle of the midway. OSCAR Poor brute. Stolen from the vastness of Africa, paraded in London, sold for thunderous applause. A monarch in chains, traded for tickets and grins. Scene 4 – An Unfortunate Fortune The circus has dulled into something quieter by the time Wilde approaches the fortune teller’s tent. The air hangs weighty with candle smoke and charred sugar, and the laughter that once echoed so confidently through the grounds now seems to fray at the edges. A crooked sign swung above the tent’s entrance, etched with a single word in fading gold: Truths. He sweeps inside with the lazy arrogance of a man expecting to be entertained. The interior is dim but not theatrical—no curtains dripping with faux mysticism, no shelves of cheap crystal or clattering bones. Just a circular table, and behind it, a woman unlike the rest of the carnival’s costumed cast. No veil. No bangles. No painted crescents on her brow. She sits as still as dusk itself, the flame of a single oil lamp trembling in her dark eyes as if it had just realized it was alone. She does not ask his name. Oscar opens his mouth with a witticism already half-formed—something about destiny and discount pricing—but he doesn’t speak it. She is watching him too closely. Not as the others had. Not like an admirer, a skeptic, or even a performer recognizing another. She watches him like one watches something that might break. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. Then, in a voice that lands like velvet soaked in ink. FORTUNE TELLER The great escape is coming. Not only for him. For both of you. No embellishment. No reading of palms or cards. Just the blunt ambiguity of a few phrases. Wilde blinks, a flicker of stillness breaking across his face like a skipped heartbeat. Then, almost reflexively, the wit returns. OSCAR How delightfully vague. If I happen to vanish before intermission, do send a refund to my estate. FORTUNE TELLER You pretend to mock the trap of destiny only after you’ve stepped in it. OSCAR And you pretend not to know my name—yet you speak as though you’ve seen inside my diary. FORTUNE TELLER I do not need your name. I’ve seen the stain on your shadow, Mr. Wilde. It's not what follows you. It's when. Oscar’s fingers tap once against his cane—too precise to be idle. OSCAR And what shall I do with such a charming premonition? Alter my fate by refusing an encore? FORTUNE TELLER Fate does not knock, Mr. Wilde—it lingers. And you, with all your clever turns and theatrical bluster, have already opened the door. What stands beyond it now is not choice, but unfolding. You’ve long spun tales for others—glittering, scandalous, profound. But your own? It stirs now, ink barely dry. The world may applaud the playwright with roses and reviews... yet the shadows—they are writing a different name. They lock eyes for a heartbeat too long. OSCAR Well. Thank you for your hospitality—and the riddle dressed as doom. Do let me know if I reappear in your next vision, especially if it’s under better lighting. Oscar stands and makes his way to the tent flap. FORTUNE TELLER [quietly] You’ll know it when the lights go out. Wilde hesitates—just for a second—then vanishes through the curtain, his silhouette slipping back into the noise and revelry like ink into water. Outside, the calliope resumed its brittle tune. Wilde steps back into the light and bustle of the midway, but the air seems changed—just a fraction colder, as though the future has brushed past him on its way to the stage. And the ominous fortune of escapes and darkness and unavoidable fate clings to his spine like breath on a mirror. Scene 5: The Chamber Below He had not appeared in the posters. No billboards bearing his name, no barkers shouting of impossible escapes. And yet, as the orchestra dips into silence and the lanterns dim to a reverent hush, the name passes through the crowd like an exhale: Houdini. Wilde, seated in a shadowed corner of the private box, narrows his eyes—not in recognition, but in interest. The crowd, once raucous, stills. Their attention turns toward the stage with the reverence usually reserved for execution or epiphany. At the center stands a tall glass chamber—its water already filled, still and waiting. Then Houdini emerges. Barefoot. Bare-chested. Shackled at the wrists and ankles. His frame is compact but sinewy, muscles taut like coiled wire beneath pale, freckled skin. His dark hair clings damply to his forehead, and his eyes—sharp, deep-set, almost feral—scan the crowd with a flicker of something unreadable. His movements are unhurried, ritualistic. He nods once to the crowd, then turns his gaze inward, toward the water. Wilde leans forward, arms folded, expression unreadable. OSCAR No flourish? How terribly sincere. Houdini climbs the small platform, exhales once, and submerges himself. The chamber seals with a metallic groan. Locks slide into place. For a time, there is only stillness. Then tension—slow, creeping—coils around the silence. Minutes pass like hours. The water clouds faintly, not with ink or trickery, but shadow. A bloom from within. A drift. A distortion. Wilde’s brow furrows. The tank gleams center-stage, tall and cruel. Houdini hangs suspended in silent defiance of time, arms bound, chains glinting like jewelry for the condemned. Then something goes wrong. A soft spark snaps from the spotlight rig—barely noticed. But Wilde hears it. He watches it tumble to the stage like a dying firefly and explode into sparks as it hits the stage. Lights dim and then a loud crack. A support beam above the tank shudders—dust raining down like ash. The crowd gasps. The announcer stammers from the wings. He shouts, “That’s not supposed to happen—get up there, now!" Backstage figures scramble into view. Wilde rises from his seat slowly, heartbeat ticking like a bad poem. The water in the tank—once still—is now churning, not with flair but with friction. Someone rushes with a crowbar. Another climbs the ladder, fiddling with the rig. How long has it been? Another shout from backstage. "He’s not signaling. He’s supposed to signal!" Inside the tank, Houdini is nowhere to be seen. The water is too murky now—some dye or prop trick gone awry, perhaps. But Wilde doesn’t believe in simple accidents. Not anymore. The crowd begins murmuring with a low rumble that builds with creeping panic. No human could possibly hold his breath this long. Shouts from the audience now. Anger and hysterics. A woman shrieks in terror. Somewhere a child sobs. A loud click. Then another. Then it happens. The chains burst apart with a metallic shriek. The water erupts in a geyser of pressure and steam. The tank rocks violently—but does not break. And Houdini—Houdini launches free, bare-chested and gleaming under flame-glow, chains clattering like applause. He lands on one knee, breathless, soaked, shaking—but alive. The stage hands stare as if witnessing a resurrection. The crowd doesn’t clap immediately. They’re stunned. Then, one by one, a roar rises. Thunderous. Relieved. Triumphant. The crowd is still roaring as Houdini stands soaked and trembling, chains like serpents at his feet. Stage hands retreat. Wilde remains seated, eyes narrowed—not at the magician, but at the curtain behind him. The one that begins to rustle. A trumpet blares from somewhere unseen. Then a booming, unmistakably American voice BARNUM Ladies, gentlemen, lovers of peril and spectacle... tonight you have not witnessed an act! You have witnessed a threshold! Wilde remains still. One hand to his chest. Watching Barnum step forward, arms raised to embrace the room. BARNUM And with that, dear friends, the curtain draws close—not on wonder, but on tonight. You've been bold, you've been brimming with belief, and for that, we tip our hats. Remember: the extraordinary is never far, if only you're willing to look twice. Barnum bows deeply, then with a grin wide enough to sell stars to the sky... BARNUM Goodnight, London. Dream well—and dream big! OSCAR ‘Goodnight, London’—how quaint. As if dreams come when summoned, and not creeping uninvited beneath one’s door. But no matter… even showmen must sleep, though they dine first on applause. He folds his gloves slowly, gaze lingering on Houdini—still dripping, still trembling. Wilde exhales, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lip. OSCAR And if illusion is the currency tonight… I daresay someone just broke the bank. Scene 6 – Smoke, Mirrors, and Men of Iron Backstage is quieter now—tents breathing in their final sighs, applause still echoing faintly through the canvas like the memory of thunder. Wilde wanders through ropes and shadows until the scent of sawdust gives way to something colder—metal, steam and iron. And there stands Barnum, beaming like a man who’d just sold dreams to the dead. BARNUM Oscar! Tell me—did it not give you chills? And I don’t mean the tank. Oscar stands, arms folded with a dry expression. OSCAR Chills suggest surprise, Barnum. I assure you, I came fully insulated. BARNUM [Laughs] Then allow me to introduce the STORM itself. He steps aside. Houdini is there. Still damp, dressed now in black, as unassuming as a shadow chosen to linger. He says nothing, only nods once. BARNUM Mr. Wilde—Harry Houdini. The only man I’ve ever met who can bind impossibility, swallow it whole, and spit out theater. Wilde steps forward and bows his head slightly. OSCAR Mr. Houdini. I must commend you. Most men seek freedom as an abstraction. You make a habit of proving it with wrists chained and lungs held hostage. HOUDINI [speaks low] Freedom’s only meaningful when something wants to keep you. OSCAR Ah. A prisoner with flair. How terribly modern. BARNUM They say Wilde escapes through wit and Houdini through water—what a duet we might see, if either ever lost control. OSCAR I confess, I find your entire act rather thought-provoking. But not for the reasons you might hope. You escape beautifully, but what I wonder is—do you ever question what you’re escaping to? Harry shrugs slightly. HOUDINI Air. Always air. OSCAR [chuckles] Pragmatic. But then, water has no memory. You pass through it without a trace, and it lets you believe you’ve changed. Tell me—when you submerge, are you the one bound, or is it the water obeying you? HOUDINI If I drowned, would it make you feel clever? OSCAR If you drowned, I’d feel vindicated. And very annoyed not to have asked more questions. Barnum clapped his hands, delighted, as though he’d just launched a hot air balloon powered entirely by ego and subtext. BARNUM Gentlemen! If intellect were oil, I believe I’d just struck a well. Care to join me for dinner? OSCAR Only if Houdini promises not to vanish between courses. HOUDINI Only if Wilde promises not to talk through all of them. The three men laugh like old friends, their voices echoing with ease and mischief. For Wilde, the moment conjures memories of glittering parlors and aristocratic salons, where wit was currency and conversation a duel. Here, amid velvet shadows and theatrical bravado, he had found his element. At last, Oscar Wilde was truly at home. OSCAR A remarkable trick, of course. Though one wonders—was it only a trick? So I have to ask. Was the gasp I heard from the audience... genuine peril, or expertly brewed illusion? HOUDINI [dryly] A touch of both, I suppose. The rig misfired, the tank fogged too early and I lost fifteen seconds to a faulty clasp. Nothing fatal—just dramatic inconvenience. Barnum, still beaming with happiness. BARNUM And look what it bought you! Nothing sells suspense like the scent of failure. You dangled death, and they ate it up with silver spoons! OSCAR Or they gorged on catastrophe, mistaking it for courage. There’s a difference. One feeds the heart, the other feeds the box office. Houdini doesn’t respond immediately—just checks his wrists, examining faint red lines from the shackles. HOUDINI I never fake the danger. The chain was real. The water cold. The silence deafening. If I faltered, it wouldn’t have been applause that met me. It’d be a eulogy. BARNUM But you didn’t falter. You escaped. That, my dear Houdini, makes all the difference. And if the rafters groaned and sparks flew? Well... let London think the Devil fiddled with the fuse. All the better. We peddle wonder, Oscar. And the finest wonders always flirt with ruin. Wilde chuckles, walking toward the tank. OSCAR You know, Barnum just bought an elephant, put it in a cage to one day make it a legend. Tonight, Harry, you brought a cage of your own. HOUDINI Indeed. The cage is just part of the act though. I control the shackles with practice and rehearsal. I wonder, then… when the audience can no longer tell the difference—between real and showmanship—who are we saving? Them... or ourselves? A moment of silence. Then Wilde straightens his coat and smiles. OSCAR Gentlemen, if art imitates life, and life imitates madness... tonight may have been a masterpiece. Wilde turned on polished heels, the echoes of laughter fading behind him, replaced by the low hum of stagehands disassembling spectacle. The scent of lamp oil and wet velvet clung to the air—ghosts of triumph and danger mingled like perfume and pipe smoke in some decadent dream. He paused at the wings, gaze drifting to the stage, still damp with triumph. The tank looms, quiet now, glass slick with condensation. OSCAR And yet here—another creature, willfully shackled. Harry Houdini, the voluntary prisoner. Not for punishment, but performance. He climbs into the coffin and calls it art. Drowns, for a breathless encore. A pause. Wilde's gloved fingers tighten, pensive. OSCAR Is it nobler to escape one’s cage, or to build it yourself and paint it gold? [exhales] Either way, both leave footprints in the sawdust.