“Would you care for some breakfast, William?” Mr. Dorian asks.
Breakfast. He looks at his watch. Just past six o’clock. From somewhere comes the smell of bacon, and his stomach gives a long noisy gulp.
“I heard that,” says Maren. “I’ll take you to the dining tent.”
“Tent?”
“We call it the tent even though we’re on the train. Habit.”
“I’ll join you shortly,” says Mr. Dorian.
Will follows Maren through several cars. There are humbler berths here, and long communal washbasins where men shave in their suspenders, or splash water on their faces. The air is muggy with colognes and perfumes. People are hoisting up trousers, fastening belts, combing hair, pulling on stockings, squeezing past one another in the narrow corridor, too early yet to grunt more than a hello. A whole village of people getting ready for their day.
“It’s very . . . cozy,” he says.
She nods. “Home away from home.”
The first thing Will sees passing into the next car is a man and a woman on what looks like a giant tandem bicycle, pedaling hard. The bicycle isn’t going anywhere because the whirling wheels don’t touch the floor. Thick cables sprout from them and disappear into the ceiling.
“What are they doing?” Will whispers as he and Maren walk by.
“Making electricity for the cars,” she replies. “Everyone does twenty-minute shifts during the day.”
“That’s incredible!” he says.
“And you thought only first class had electrics!”
She opens a door, and Will is nearly bowled over with the sound of hundreds of people talking, laughing, bawling out to pass the eggs or fetch the coffee. Long trestle tables run the length of the car, leaving narrow aisles that are crammed with people carrying platters heaving with pancakes and roasted potatoes and rashers of bacon and cornmeal muffins and baked beans and pitchers of milk. Will isn’t sure he’s ever seen so many people seated in one space. As soon as one person leaves, another slips into his seat, and the eating begins again.
Will tries not to stare. But he can’t help noticing all sorts of people, the likes of which he’s never seen. Mr. Beauprey, of course, is impossible to miss, given his immense size. (“I wanted to throw him off the train,” Will overhears him saying to the fellow next to him, “but they said no!”) Across from the giant is a pair of slim Asian gentlemen who appear to be joined together at the hip. A large woman mops her beard daintily with a napkin. And then Will absolutely does stare, because running across the top of a table, carrying a small stack of dirty dishes, is a gray monkey. White fur grows around his face, making him look like a solemn waiter with muttonchop sideburns. And he’s not the only one. Across all the tables now Will sees more monkeys hustling about, bringing people cups and pots of tea.
Dazed, he says to Maren, “There are monkeys.”
“Japanese macaques. They’re very helpful.”
She takes his hand matter-of-factly and leads him through the crush to a smaller table with a linen tablecloth and a small vase of flowers in the center. When she releases his hand, he looks at it, like it might be transformed. A girl has never taken his hand before.
“Help yourself,” she says, nodding at the platters of food.
Will takes a clean plate and piles it until there is no room left. He’s never been so hungry. Where to start? In the end he pours maple syrup over his stack of pancakes and carves himself an enormous wedge. But before he can cram it into his mouth, a monkey taps him on the arm.
Will looks down and sees a macaque expectantly holding out a steaming towel.
“To wash your hands,” Maren says with a grin.
“Oh,” says Will, taking it. “Thank you.”
He washes his hands and then digs in. Fifteen minutes later he’s finishing off the last strips of bacon and bits of fried potatoes. As if from nowhere Mr. Dorian sits down opposite him.
“Well, William Everett, it seems as if you’ve replenished yourself. Are you in a talkative mood?”
A monkey comes and takes Will’s plate and cutlery away. Will holds on to his glass of milk. He takes a drink and then launches into his story. He can’t explain it, but he trusts Mr. Dorian, and he leaves nothing out. It is a long story, and Will isn’t sure he’s ever talked so much all at once. But it passes quickly, and he realizes he rather likes telling it. He likes seeing how they listen—more than that, how they sometimes seem captivated—and he wonders now if he isn’t as bad at talking to people as he thought.
“That is quite a tale,” Mr. Dorian says. “You’re a man of hidden talents.”
Will feels his face warm, and knows he’s blushing.
“Jumping those trains at night is no mean feat.”
“I think he would’ve killed me otherwise,” Will replies.
“Quite likely,” Mr. Dorian says. “You’re the only witness to a murder. If he’s killed one man, he can kill two.”
Will’s breakfast suddenly feels unpleasantly heavy in his stomach.
“He wants the key,” says Will, remembering how Brogan’s eyes locked onto it, how he offered to spare his life if only Will gave up the key.
Maren nods. Will keeps looking over at her, even though she’s not talking much. He likes looking at her.
“May I see it?” Mr. Dorian asks.
Will takes it from his pocket and hands it to the ringmaster, who peers at it carefully, both sides, before returning it.
“The last spike’s in there,” Will whispers. “The one made of gold.”
“Is it?”
Will wonders if he’s made a mistake. But he wants to impress Maren. And he’d like someone to tell him what to do now.
“We may be getting another visit from Mr. Brogan,” says Mr. Dorian, “and he probably won’t be alone this time.”
“There’s Mackie,” Will says. “He’s in on it.”
“And possibly more. Right at this moment there are brakemen sauntering about overhead, watching the couplings between our carriages.”
“There are?” Will says.
“They suspect you’re here, and they expect you to bolt.”
“There’s a Mountie on the train,” Will says. “Samuel Steele.”
“Alas, we’re a little island unto ourselves back here,” says Mr. Dorian. “There are miles of freight cars between us and colonist class. And we’re not scheduled to stop until late afternoon.”
“How about the pigeons?” Maren asks. “We could send a message forward.”
“They’re swift but not swift enough to outpace the Boundless at forty miles an hour.”
“Can I stay here until the next stop?” Will asks.
“Of course,” says Mr. Dorian with a kind smile, “but I don’t think your problems will end there. They’ll be watching for you. If Brogan’s as intent on this key as we think, I don’t think you’d make it very far without being caught.”
“He could if he joins the circus,” Maren says.
Will thinks she’s joking, until he sees Mr. Dorian nod.
“I see exactly what you mean,” the ringmaster says, turning to Will. “We have an agreement with the Boundless to give a number of performances during the journey. You saw the first the other night. When the train stops this afternoon, we’re to walk up to colonist class for our second show. Then we’re to remain on the passenger cars and make a performance in every class. The finale is in first class on our last night of the journey.”
“You can be part of our show,” Maren says.
Will frowns. “But if Brogan’s watching, he’ll recognize me!”
“You’ll be disguised,” Maren says. “Obviously.”
“Completely unrecognizable,” adds Mr. Dorian. “Madame Lamoine is one of the finest makeup artists in the world.”
Will’s eyes have fallen to the tablec
loth, his fingers tracing part of the pattern in the embroidery. “But I can’t do anything.”
Mr. Dorian waves his hand. “Nonsense. Everyone can do something.”
“Not that Winston lad,” Maren remarks.
Mr. Dorian purses his lips. “Well, no, he was completely hopeless—but we still worked him into the show.”
“What did he do?” Will asks.
“We cut him in half every night.”
“Twice on Sundays,” adds Maren.
“Until the accident,” says Mr. Dorian, wincing.
Will stops breathing. “You didn’t really . . .”
“Heavens, no,” says Mr. Dorian with a rare chuckle. He looks at Maren. “He thought we actually sawed him in half! No, no. He was trampled by the camels.”
“It’s true,” Maren says soberly.
Mr. Dorian takes a drink of his coffee. “I can already tell that you, Mr. Everett, have many talents. What do you say? I think it’s the safest way to get you up to the passenger cars.”
“And you’ll both be going?” Will wants to make sure.
“Absolutely. It will be the three of us.”
He likes the idea, as much as it makes him nervous. Mr. Dorian seems to have more faith in his abilities than he does. He hopes he doesn’t disappoint him—or Maren.
“Yes,” he says. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent. Maren, why don’t you take Will to the rehearsal hall and see what grabs his fancy. Take care crossing between cars. Make sure there’re no brakemen lurking about. I’ll go find Madame Lamoine and let her know what we have in mind.”
“I never thought I’d run away to the circus,” Will says.
“Isn’t it every boy’s dream?” Maren asks.
Mr. Dorian gets up to leave, and then as an afterthought leans closer to Will. “I’d not tell anyone about the key you carry. For your own safety, you understand.”
* * *
“This ain’t the way it was supposed to go,” Mackie says nervously.
“No point whining about it,” Brogan snaps, and takes a snort of whiskey. He’s battered his share of men, but this is the first he’s killed, and he wants to burn away the memory of the guard’s face. “Damn fool got all high and mighty. Started hollering.” He shakes his head bitterly. “Could’ve had a share.”
The brakeman’s cabin shudders over a rough patch of track. There isn’t much by way of suspension. Spaced every forty freight cars, they are tiny shacks on wheels, meant to sleep two men. The place smells like creosote, food that was best eaten a week ago, and man stink. A couple of hammocks crisscross the room. There’s a small stove, a table, a hole in the planks for doing your business, and so many pegs and hooks jutting from the walls that it’s a danger to lean anywhere. It makes the caboose look like first class.
Right now Brogan’s cabin is crammed with the eight other brakemen he chose for his job. At some time or another he’s worked with all of them. He might not exactly trust them, but he’s got dirt on each and every one—and that wins a man’s loyalty. Anyway, he’s relying on their greed to keep them in line. And on this job there’s a lot to be greedy about.
“What do we do now?” Chisholm asks. He’s got buggy eyes that make Brogan think of boiled eggs.
Brogan looks around at the weathered faces of his other men—Peck, Richter, Strachan, Delaware, Talbot, Welch—and knows they’re all tense and waiting for him to lead.
“Nothing happens without that key,” he says, laying it out. “The boy has the key, and the boy’s in those circus cars. That half-breed ringmaster’s hiding him. We get the key, we’re back in business.”
“You sure he didn’t just fall off?” Mackie asks. “Hard to believe a kid could make it across all those cars at night.”
“His father was a brakeman,” Brogan says, “and a damn fine one. I saw that boy up in the mountains. Survived an avalanche. He’s got grit. If the kid fell, it was into the elephant cage.”
“If he’s alive, he’s blabbed by now,” says Welch.
“Don’t matter if he has,” says Brogan. “Who’s he gonna tell? You think anyone’s gonna take the word of some circus freak? Anyway, if he’s in those cars, he ain’t leaving them alive.”
There is a brief, heavy silence.
“You sure you want to be killing the son of the general manager?” Chisholm asks, looking around at the other men anxiously.
“Can you think of a better way to keep someone quiet?” Brogan demands fiercely. “You boys can step off at any time. When the stakes are this high, you’re gonna have to dirty your hands some. This job is once in a lifetime—and you’ll have more money than you can spend during it. Or would you all rather keep working the rails? Peck, you lose any more fingers, you’re no good for even the mail car. And, Richter, remember what happened to your buddy McGovern? Who’s gonna take care of your family if your legs gets sliced off during a flying switch? No one’ll sell us insurance, boys. We got nothing. We’re slaves. This is our chance to bust free.”
He watches his men and knows he has them.
“We’re going back to the circus, all of us this time,” he says. “And we’re going to take that boy.”
JOINING THE CIRCUS
* * *
Zirkus Dante’s practice room is a long, narrow gymnasium, filling an entire double-decker train carriage. Light pours in from the windows and skylights, all of which have been covered with rice paper to keep spectators from gawking inside when the train is at rest. Colorful handbills plaster the walls, advertising wild animals, death-defying feats, and miraculous marvels.
Two stilt walkers waltz across the room—and Will realizes they’re the Siamese twins he saw earlier in the dining car. Both men are perched atop three stilts and work together so seamlessly that Will can only stare in wonder.
“Those are the Zhang brothers,” Maren tells him. “They’re one of our most popular acts.”
“They’re incredible!”
“It’s too bad they don’t get along better.”
“No?”
“They hate each other. Well, who wouldn’t, being attached to someone their whole life. Li actually tried to stab Meng once. Luckily, his sight’s terrible. He needs Meng to see.”
Farther down the room an acrobat flings himself from his trapeze, tumbles through the air, and lands on a seesaw that launches a second acrobat up to a high set of rings. Both men are lean and muscular. Their heads are bald except for a tuft of long hair at the back, which is gathered into three braids.
“Are they—” Will begins.
“Mohawks, yes,” says Maren. “The best acrobats I’ve ever seen. Heights mean nothing to them. They’re fearless.”
Across the carriage, against a mirrored stretch of wall, a trio of leggy milk-haired ballerinas is limbering up.
“Mr. Dorian thinks ballet lends the circus an air of distinction,” Maren says, catching Will looking at the dancers. “Don’t fall in love with them. They’re not quite as angelic as they look.”
“Really?” Will asks, intrigued.
“You should hear them cuss.”
Elsewhere a few performers are practicing a complicated three-way juggling routine. Will feels like he’s part of something rare and exciting, but all the activity in the room is a bit overwhelming, and he can’t imagine what he might be able to do.
“Look,” Maren says, “don’t worry. No one expects you to do anything like this. It would just be good if you had some little thing you could do during the show.”
“And if nothing works out, you can just saw me in half,” he says.
“Exactly. Maybe you can help me with my tightrope act.”
She leads him over to a long stretch of wire suspended a couple of feet off the floor. Even if he slips, he doesn’t have far to fall.
Maren disappears behind a curtain and comes out in a
leotard. She is very slim, but her legs look strong.
“Here,” she says, handing Will a small cloth sac. “There’s some things in there I’ll ask for later.”
After some stretches she takes up a long balancing pole and steps onto the wire. She walks across a few times effortlessly, then does a somersault. A small furrow appears in her forehead as she reclines on the wire. Her lips compress on one side and then the other. She lets go of the balancing pole and does a backward somersault. Then she lies flat again and uses her feet to push her headfirst along the narrow wire. Will can only marvel at her skill.
“All right,” she says, still balancing on her back. “Throw those four balls my way. Fast!”
Will takes them from the sac and fires them at her. One bounces off her knee; another sails beyond her reach.
“I meant throw them in the general direction of my hands,” she says, laughing.
He runs around, gathering up the balls and trying not to get crushed by the Zhang brothers on their stilts.
“Get out of our way, little bug!” Li shouts down at him.
When Will throws the balls a second time, Maren catches them all and instantly juggles them.
“That’s amazing!” Will cries.
After another few seconds she tosses back the balls and says, “Now the padlock!”
He finds it in the bag and tosses the heavy piece of metal to her.
After catching it in one hand, she cajoles some tools from her sleeve, inserts them into the lock, and teases until it springs open.
“I can’t believe it,” Will exclaims.
“It’s still taking too long,” she says. “Again, please.”
They run through the padlock bit once more, and she’s faster this time. Will chews his lip. “I don’t feel like I’m doing very much.”
“It would be great if you could get up on the wire with me,” she says, hopping down to push a stepladder closer. “Take off your shoes and give it a try.”
He strips his feet bare and climbs the ladder.
“Step on with just one foot,” she instructs him. “Make sure the wire’s centered—right between your big toe and second toe. . . . That’s it! Now arms out! Looking dead ahead. Keep your balance!”