Michael the Magician — Versailles

Michael was a failure.

A magician who was the product of a lack of imaginative names and an audience that only needed the magic of their smartphones. But when he stumbled upon a time-traveling tree stump in the woods, he didn’t need a translator or period-appropriate clothing. All he needed were his best tricks.

What failed in the modern day became magic in history.

This is a story of Michael the Magician.

—

Versailles – Let them eat cake!

Michael had only ever seen Versailles in Olivia Rodrigo’s “Drop Dead” music video, so that was what he expected. 

But when he arrived at the gilded gates of the palace, the guards swiftly escorted him past the gardens to the “much smaller” estate beyond them: the Grand Trianon. A.k.a., the king’s summer palace. The cozier home. The place le roi threw the parties he only wanted his favorite friends to attend. This was music to Michael’s ears. Almost literally, considering the harpist’s tune drifting across the cool air as the guards led him through the immaculately manicured grounds. His stomach twisted the way it always did before a performance, and his tongue felt a little dry, as if the hair from the rabbit he kept for pulling out of his hat had coated it. But any good performer swallowed his nerves, so Michael did exactly that.

He straightened the strange suit he imagined a founding father would wear, made a mental note to add Independence Hall to his list of potential audiences, and took a deep breath as the guards pointed him through an open-air hall with checkerboard marble floors. Just beyond it, voices spilled from a room bright with candlelight, perfume, and the soft clatter of people who had never once wondered how much anything cost. But that was none of Michael’s business.

Michael nodded his thanks, gave the guards a perfect “merci,” and strode through the doors with the theatrical gait he reserved for grand entrances.

“Les gens of Versailles!” he bellowed, throwing his arms wide.

The harpist stopped. Hundreds of eyes swung toward him. From the noblemen gathered in frilled clusters to the women in gowns that looked like pastries (he finally understood what Taylor meant now that he had seen these), all it took was one sing-song declaration to capture their attention.

Michael gave them a toothy, over-the-top smile. “My name is Michael the Magician!” he announced, stepping between brass plates piled high with meats and trying very hard to ignore the flies buzzing around them (close the windows, for God’s sake). “And I am here for one night only to enchant the most beautiful woman in France for her birthday.”

He paused, drumming his fingers in a shy little wave at the women whose cheeks had turned pinker than the rouge painted over them. He had assumed he would be able to pick her out of the crowd—her likeness was everywhere in the modern world. But once he realized none of the ladies looked quite enough like Kirsten Dunst to be helpful, he cleared his throat and continued.

“La reine,” he said, “could you please step forward?”

An excited hush fell over the crowd as eyes flashed green and fingers tightened around goblets. Then a woman in a layered powder-blue gown stepped forward.

“I am she,” the woman said in a voice that was soft, but not uncertain. Her face gave little away, though her eyes shone with curious interest. She held Michael’s gaze, except when she glanced toward a man Michael easily placed as her husband, who merely shrugged.

Michael smiled and tapped the mechanism hidden at his wrist. He, like anyone with TikTok, knew it was a simple contraption designed to summon a single edelweiss from up his sleeve. But when he swung his arm forward and the flower appeared from the hem, the “oohs” and “ahhs” that followed meant he had achieved the first thing any magician needed. 

Attention. And not the kind given by a parent with a camcorder or a child waiting for a lady to be sawed in half. 

“For you, madame,” he said, offering Marie the flower. “A reminder of your homeland.”

All eyes followed as her lips parted. She took the flower with a small nod. 

Michael’s pulse leapt. No one had looked at him like this in years. 

Now for the main event.

“For my next trick,” he continued, spinning as he spoke so the entire crowd could see him, “I wish to present la reine with a cake for her birthday.”

The crowd murmured. Le roi nodded along eagerly, as if his head had gone a little loose on his neck.

Michael smoothed one hand over his slicked-back black hair, not a single strand out of place. Professionalism was important for magicians.

“What I have here…” He reached into his pocket and produced a small box. A gimmick box, to be abundantly clear. But to his audience, it was simply a box.

“Is a box.”

The crowd gasped. A flutter worked its way through Michael’s stomach, his veins buzzing. He had them in his palm as surely as he had the box. Marie studied it, her gaze lingering on the satin red ribbon tied around the tiny gold square.

Michael held it toward her. “La reine, could you please open the box and tell everyone what is inside?”

Her eyebrows knitted as she delicately untied the ribbon and tugged open the lid. Sweet air curled through the open floor-to-ceiling windows, carrying the scent of the gardens preparing for their first freeze. Michael breathed it in, noting the faint scent of ash lingering at the end. Gunpowder and gelatine. Sugar and swords.

“There is nothing,” she said after examining it thoroughly, though not thoroughly enough to uncover the trap component. “The box is empty.”

The crowd nodded along, every eye fixed on Michael. “It is indeed,” he agreed. “But!” Michael drew the box toward him, holding it in one palm while waving his other hand around it with his finest jazz fingers. “It is your birthday, is it not?”

Marie gave a small nod. “Oui.”

“Well then,” Michael said, throwing out his arms, “we must celebrate!”

As he turned, he noticed the frill along the hem of his suit. Maybe he would incorporate that into more outfits. It did fit the brand.

“I have made a cake for la reine,” he shouted, getting carried away by the growing excitement of the trick. “But I need your help to find it.” He swept his gaze across the crowd, using their attention to conduct the electricity buzzing through him. “All it takes is for you to say the magic words on the count of trois.”

He paused. The air carried a manufactured magic that would never survive the modern world, but seemed abundant in yesterday.

“Can I count on you to do that?”

A scattered chorus of entranced “ouis” rose from the crowd.

Michael lifted a hand to his ear while pulling the folded wand from his other sleeve. “Sorry, what was that?” He snapped the wand into its full length. “I couldn’t hear you over the magic wand in my ear.”

A low applause sounded, followed by more enthusiastic shouts of agreement.

“Excellent.” Michael turned back to Marie. “On the count of trois, I need you all to shout, joyeux anniversaire.” He held the box close, preparing to finish the Vanishing Cake Box trick.

“Une…” he said, waving his hand.

“Deux…” he continued, looking around the crowd, his mouth almost dripping with excitement.

“Trois!”

On the count, the entirety of Versailles shouted.

“JOYEUX ANNIVERSAIRE!”

Michael snapped the mechanism. The box disappeared. And in the palm of his hand sat a single Linzer torte, its lattice crust glistening over a dark red heart of jam.

He offered it to Marie, whose eyes had widened until they shone like two blue marbles. “What shall we do next?” Michael asked, waiting for her reaction.

For a long moment, she only looked at the cake. Then a slow smirk spread across her face.

This, he thought, was how legends were made.

“Let them eat cake.”