The Prestige
Christopher Priest
Flyleaf:
After ten years of quietude, author Christopher Priest (nominated one of the Best of Young British Novelists in 1983) returns with a triumphant tale of dueling prestidigitators and impossible acts.
In 1878, two young stage magicians clash in a darkened salon during the course of a fraudulent sйance. From this moment, their lives spin webs of deceit and exposure as they feud to outwit each other. Their rivalry takes them both to the peak of their careers, but with terrible consequences. It is not enough that blood will be spilt — their legacy is one that will pass on for generations.
The Prestige is a chimerical triumph of storytelling magic, a fiercely compelling tale of revenge and illusion. Awarded Britain's prestigious James Tait Black Memorial Prize and nominated also for the Arthur C. Clarke Award, The Prestige is a masterpiece of imaginative storytelling.
THE PRESTIGE
by Christopher Priest
For Elizabeth and Simon
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to acknowledge with thanks the help given by the Authors' Foundation
Also thanks to John Wade, David Langford, Leigh Kennedy… and the members of alt.magic
PART ONE
Andrew Westley
1
It began on a train, heading north through England, although I was soon to discover that the story had really begun more than a hundred years earlier.
I had no sense of any of this at the time: I was on company time, following up a report of an incident at a religious sect. On my lap lay the bulky envelope I had received from my father that morning, still unopened, because when Dad phoned to tell me about it my mind had been elsewhere. A bedroom door slamming, my girlfriend in the middle of walking out on me. "Yes, Dad," I had said, as Zelda stormed past with a boxful of my compact discs. "Drop it in the mail, and I'll have a look."
After I had read the morning's edition of the Chronicle , and bought a sandwich and a cup of instant coffee from the refreshment trolley, I opened Dad's envelope. A large-format paperback book slipped out, with a note loose inside and a used envelope folded in half.
The note said, "Dear Andy, Here is the book I told you about. I think it was sent by the same woman who rang me. She asked me if I knew where you were. I'm enclosing the envelope the book arrived in. The postmark is a bit blurred, but maybe you can make it out. Your mother would love to know when you are coming to stay with us again. How about next weekend? With love, Dad."
At last I remembered some of my father's phonecall. He told me the book had arrived, and that the woman who had sent it appeared to be some kind of distant relative, because she had been talking about my family. I should have paid more attention to him.
Here, though, was the book. It was called Secret Methods of Magic , and the author was one Alfred Borden. To all appearances it was one of those instructional books of card tricks, sleight of hand, illusions involving silk scarves, and so on. The only aspect of it that interested me at first glance was that although it was a recently published paperback, the text itself appeared to be a facsimile of a much older edition: the typography, the illustrations, the chapter headings and the laboured writing style all suggested this.
