He loses his balance immediately and jumps clumsily to the floor.
“That’s okay,” she says. “Everyone’s like that at first. Again.”
He tries again, and again—and again. He feels like an idiot, windmilling his arms around, bucking back and forth.
“I don’t think I have the knack,” he says.
She doesn’t disagree with him. “Maybe I can help. Come back up.”
Once more he steps onto the wire, and this time she’s right behind him. She puts her hands firmly on his waist. His breath catches, and for a second all he thinks about is the pressure of her fingers against him.
“You’re doing it!” she says.
Immediately he’s thinking about his balance again, and starts wavering. His arms tilt wildly, but Maren’s hands nudge him from side to side, guiding him. He stays on the wire.
“I don’t like your doing it for me,” he says.
“I’m just helping you.”
“Let me try it alone.”
She nudges him to one side. “You’re not ready yet. Focus now!”
He tries to take a step away from her, and immediately topples off.
“Suit yourself,” she says, exasperated. “Go try something else if you want.”
She goes back to her practicing. He wonders if he’s hurt her feelings. He didn’t mean to be rude. He just felt ridiculous, flapping around like a baby bird. He doesn’t want people doing things for him, especially not her.
He looks around the gymnasium. What can he do? He sees a short pair of practice stilts leaning against the wall. Even though they put him only inches off the floor, it takes him a long time just to stand upright for two seconds. He takes one step and then topples onto the sawdust floor. He picks himself up and tries again, and this time manages three careening steps before sprawling flat again. It’s easier than tightrope walking, but just.
Across the rehearsal car a clown is watching him. White face, huge painted mouth, eyeliner, a curly wig, a red ball for a nose. He’s just standing there dejectedly, arms hanging long by his sides. Then, as if every bone has suddenly dissolved, he collapses onto the floor and is nothing but a large puddle of puffy clothing. When he springs back up, fully formed again, Will smiles.
The clown crooks a finger at him. Will puts down the stilts and walks over. The clown’s mouth widens in silent glee. They regard each other. The clown pats Will’s cheeks gently with both hands. Will chuckles a little awkwardly. The clown pulls a pickle out of Will’s ear, then puts both hands on his hips and tilts his head back in silent, raucous laughter.
“It’s not that funny,” Will says.
The clown stops and assumes such a tragic expression that Will can’t help but laugh.
“All right. You’re funny!”
Eyes wide, his grin wider, the clown takes Will by the shoulders and guides him back against a wall. He pats Will’s head and motions for him to stay put.
“Okay,” Will says.
The clown walks away, stopping every few steps to look back over his shoulder and make sure Will’s still there. Will has to laugh. When he’s a good twenty paces away, the clown stops, turns, and gives a big smile. Then he pats his hands in the air.
“You want me to stay here?” Will asks.
The clown clenches his fists and makes his body rigid.
“You want me to stay very still.”
The clown gives a hop of joy.
“Okay,” says Will.
The clown turns his back on him. In one swift movement he ties a scarf over his eyes. He bends down and opens a slim case. He draws out three knives. He hurls one back over his shoulder. Before Will can say a word, a knife impales itself in the wood next to his neck.
Will dares not swallow; he dares not even blink. The clown proceeds to hurl another knife backward at Will. The blade streaks toward him and thunks into the wood over his head. Before he can breathe, a third knife buries its tip on the other side of his neck, so close, he can feel the cold steel.
The clown turns around with the biggest smile of all and jumps up and down with jubilation.
Everyone has stopped what they are doing and now gives a rousing round of applause, except Maren, who strides over to the clown and smacks him on the shoulder.
“Roald!” she cries. “That was cruel!”
Will gingerly steps away from the wall, afraid of leaving some part of himself behind.
“I rarely miss!” the clown insists, speaking for the first time. He has a slight accent.
“You terrified him!”
“I’m fine,” says Will, and strangely he is. He feels oddly immortal. He’s survived a murderer and a sasquatch. Nothing can touch him. “You’re a clown and a knife thrower.”
“And my brother, sadly,” says Maren.
“How’s the little baby girl?” Roald asks, grasping her tightly by the shoulders. She expertly twists to escape his grip.
“Oh ho! Very good.” His gaze turns on Will. “Is this the criminal?”
“My name’s Will. I’m not a criminal.”
“I heard you were a murderer.”
“No.”
“I’d deny it too. Well, criminal or no, I’m happy to meet you.” He extends his hand, and when Will grips, it collapses like a rotten peach. With a gasp Will looks down to see the fake hand that Roald holds from inside his sleeve.
“That is so childish,” Maren tells her brother.
“Many children come to the circus,” he retorts. He peels off his wig and red nose. He has hair the same color as his sister’s.
“How did you do the knife trick?” Will asks.
“With a great deal of practice,” Roald says.
“And the help of a mirror,” Maren adds, pointing. “Look.”
For the first time Will notices the small mirror attached to the wall in front of where Roald stands.
“Still,” Will says, “you did it all backward!”
“Yes. I confess I am a bit out of practice. But it went well.”
Will decides not to think about this.
“So we are harboring a murderer,” Roald says, swiping off his face paint with a rag.
“He’s not a murderer! And he’s coming with me and Mr. Dorian to perform on the train. We need to work him into the show.”
Roald chews his lip. “I’m not sure he’s very coordinated.”
“He’s not.”
“Hey!” objects Will.
“Can you teach him some tricks?” Maren asks her brother.
“How long do I have?”
“Six hours.”
“I don’t think so. Do you have any skills, Will?”
“Not really,” he says.
“Yes, you do!” Maren says, as if remembering suddenly. “You can draw! Show him!”
Reluctantly he pulls the sketchbook from his pocket. She takes it from his hands, in the same familiar way as she did three years ago. It bothered him then; now he likes it; it’s as if they’re old friends. “Look at these!”
“This one’s of you,” Roald tells her with a grin.
Will’s face heats up.
“Just look how good they all are,” Maren says quickly, flipping pages. Will sees the color rise in her cheeks too.
“Yes,” says Roald with a shrug. “This is very pleasant, but . . . Well, can you do one of me?”
“I’ll try,” says Will.
Roald picks up a knife and holds it back over his head, ready to throw. “Like this!”
Will locks onto him with his eyes and does a quick gesture drawing. It makes him nervous with Maren watching him.
“Roald, come see!” she says when Will is done.
“Is that me?” he asks.
“Of course it’s you,” says Maren impatiently.
Roald looks at Will fo
r corroboration. Will nods.
“But my hair doesn’t look like that.”
“It’s a sketch,” Will says. “Just to capture your movement.”
A smile spreads across Roald’s handsome face. “I look massive. Like a giant about to throw a boulder. I would like this picture. May I?”
Without waiting for an answer, he rips the page out.
“Roald!” says Maren. “You can’t just rip a page out of an artist’s sketchbook!”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, you should have it,” says Will.
“Look at this!” Roald says to the other performers, holding the drawing up in the air, grinning.
Before Will knows it, a small crowd has gathered around him.
“Could you do one of me?” asks the prettiest of the ballerinas, batting her eyelashes.
“I would like one as well,” says Meng from his stilts.
“I’m the eldest. I should be first,” Li says.
“You’re practically blind,” Meng replies. “It would give you no enjoyment.”
“I will bite you, Little Brother.”
“I’d love to do all of you,” Will says hurriedly to the crowd.
“I want a proper portrait,” demands a portly woman in a riding outfit, pushing to the front. “Not these little scribbles. Can you do that for me?”
“I’m not sure, ma’am.”
“You call me Duchess Sabourin,” she says. “My family is royalty in Luxembourg. You must do a portrait in oils, in the finest style of the old masters. For this I will pay you a hundred dollars. You will start after lunch.”
With this the duchess walks off to the muffled laughter of the other performers.
“She doesn’t have a hundred dollars,” Maren tells him.
“Do I still have to do it?” He’s fine with drawings but has never been happy with proper portraits. The people always come out wrong.
Maren shakes her head. “She once offered someone a thousand dollars for their hair. Don’t worry. She’ll have forgotten the whole thing before lunch. Still, you could turn a good business with this. Maybe Mr. Dorian would let you have a sideshow. We could dress you up and . . . That’s it!”
“What?” asks Will.
“Your act,” says Mr. Dorian.
In surprise Will turns to see the ringmaster standing behind him.
“People love having their portraits done,” Maren says.
“These aren’t proper portraits . . . ,” Will says, alarmed.
“And it’s not a circus act,” Roald says.
“It is if he does them blindfolded,” Maren says, taking the scarf from around her brother’s neck.
Mr. Dorian nods. “Intriguing.”
“Blindfolded?” says Will with mounting panic.
She ties the scarf tightly around his face, and to Will’s amazement he can see right through it, almost as if nothing obscures his eyes.
“How does it work?” he asks, unwinding it and peering at it up close.
“Tie it one way, and you can see through. The other way . . .” She holds it against his face, and it’s as if the room has been blacked out. “If someone in the audience is suspicious, we tie it on them this way, and then we wrap it on you the other way. But you’ll also have your back to them. You’ll never set eyes on them.”
“I can’t do that!” he protests.
“Of course you can. Because I’ll be standing in front of you, with a small mirror attached to my dress. You’ll see the person. You’ll draw them. They’ll walk away with a lovely picture, and everyone’s happy.”
Mr. Dorian grins at her. “You’ll be ringmistress of your own show one day. And here’s Madame Lamoine to help us with your disguise.”
A short, tent-shaped woman walks dolefully across the room.
“We need to transform William . . . into an Indian lad, I think,” Mr. Dorian tells her.
Madame Lamoine glances at Will, lifts her fleshy hands, and sighs.
“Excellent,” says Mr. Dorian.
Madame Lamoine shrugs and walks away.
“What just happened?” Will asks Maren.
“We’re supposed to go with her. She’s not a big talker, Madame Lamoine.”
Will and Maren follow her to the next car and into a room cluttered with wigs and colorful jars and brushes and mustaches and noses and other little bits of people. Stools are set up in front of a long mirror. Madame Lamoine motions Will to a chair before a stained metal sink.
“Hair first,” she says, sounding incredibly depressed.
She wraps a ratty piece of burlap around his shoulders and pushes his head back. She soaks his short hair, then slides on gloves. She opens a jar containing some foul-smelling black goo.
“What’s in it?” Will asks, recoiling.
“Never you mind.”
Without further ado she starts slapping it on. She’s none too gentle. Her meaty fingers poke and shove at his face. He looks at Maren, who smiles encouragingly.
“Eyebrows, too,” says Madame Lamoine, handing Maren the jar.
“Close your eyes,” Maren tells Will.
She is much gentler. He concentrates on her fingertips stroking his eyebrows. It feels a bit tickly, but surprisingly nice—especially now that Madame Lamoine has stopped smacking his head around. When Maren’s done, she daubs carefully around his eyebrows with a moist cloth to clean away the dye.
“You can open your eyes now,” she tells him.
Sitting up, he asks, “How long do I have to leave it in for?”
“An hour.”
When Will first glimpses himself in the mirror, he gasps. His eyebrows and slick hair are startlingly black against his pale face.
“It doesn’t look right,” he murmurs.
“Wait until the face,” says Madame Lamoine. “Don’t touch! Go and come back. I prepare paint now.”
Maren leads him out of the compartment.
“I feel like a freak,” he says.
“That’s not a word we use around here,” she tells him.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“We call them marvels. That’s nicer, don’t you think?”
Will nods. “Much nicer.”
“Speaking of marvels . . .” She trails off, as if reconsidering. “Outsiders aren’t supposed to go in there, but you’re practically one of us now.”
Will smiles to himself. What would it really be like to be part of Zirkus Dante? What a huge and very odd family it is.
“You’ll like this, I bet,” she says. “Come on.”
Will follows her, swept up by her enthusiasm. Across another set of couplings to the next car, she opens the door and ushers him inside. Black blinds cover the windows. From the ceiling hangs a single pale oil lamp. The room is like a shadowy museum, all the tables and display cases shrouded with curtains and cloths. Cabinets and steamer trunks are everywhere, some open and revealing lurid masks, or a collection of bones. Down the carriage a dozen life-size marionettes sway from hooks in the ceiling, jerking as the train rattles over a rough section of track.
Will hesitates at the sight of a narrow table with a body atop it, covered by a sheet. From the bottom protrudes a pair of large yellowed feet. A nearby workbench glints with sharp metal instruments. The body gives a sudden tortured gasp, its skeletal ribs pressing against the sheet.
“Who is that?” Will says, jerking back.
“Dying Zuoave,” Maren says, placing a cool hand on his arm. “It’s just a mechanical.”
She pulls back the sheet to reveal a frighteningly lifelike mannequin, its mouth agape, eyes rolling. “He’s supposed to be in his death throes.”
“How does it work?” Will whispers.
“It’s a windup toy.”
“Who’s been winding it up?”
?
??Well, that’s the thing. You need to wind it only every few weeks. It sort of keeps going. It’s unpredictable.”
Will swallows. “It’s awful.”
“I know. That’s why people pay a dime to see it!”
Will grimaces as the mechanical figure gives another choking gasp. Maren covers it and moves to another narrow table. She draws back the sheet to reveal a beautiful woman with long raven-black hair. Her eyes are shut, but she looks utterly alive. The faintest whisper of breath escapes her ruby lips; her chest rises and falls gently.
“We call this one Sleeping Beauty.”
Will doesn’t know which is eerier, the gurgling death gasp or the ghostly sigh of the eternal sleeper. Suddenly Sleeping Beauty gives a very loud hiccup. Will laughs.
“She’s not supposed to do that,” Maren tells him. “Mr. Dorian’s trying to fix her. He made a lot of the things in here.”
Maren takes his hand and draws him deeper into the shadows of the room. Something murmurs inside a sealed trunk, and Will pauses.
“What’s in there?”
“Indonesian night puppets. They’re quite active. Not even Mr. Dorian’s sure how they work. Don’t open the lid! It’s impossible to catch them once they start bouncing all over the place. Here, look at this.”
She parts a curtain to reveal a large tank filled with murky green water. Bobbing inside is a bizarre skeleton. Some scales still cling to the ragged remains of a tail. Atop an algae-coated rib cage and crooked spine is a terrible skull with its lips pulled back. Abundant hair undulates in the water. Withered eyeballs cling to their sockets. A sign on the case says: THE FEEJEE MERMAID.
“Is it real?” Will breathes.
“It’s pretty hard to know what’s real and what isn’t sometimes. Especially around here.”
In a cabinet’s open drawer Will spots a large meaty hand with a bloody stump of a wrist.
“What’s that?”
“Hm? Oh, that’s just to scare the kids. Touch it if you want.”
Will pokes at it, and the hand immediately flips over and grabs his wrist. With a yelp Will shakes it loose. The hand falls to the floor and scuttles about like a spider. Will’s about to stamp on it when Maren pulls him back, laughing.