And then he tells her stories. Myths he learned from his instructor. Fantasies he created himself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines. Circus concepts that would not fit in tents.
She responds with tales from her childhood spent in back rooms of theaters. Adventures in far-flung cities the circus has visited. She recounts events from her spiritualist days, delighted when he finds the endeavor as absurd as she had at the time.
They sit and talk until just before dawn, and he leaves her only when the circus is about to close.
Marco holds Celia to his chest for a moment before he stands, pulling her up with him.
He takes a card from his pocket that contains only the letter M and an address.
“I have been spending less time at Chandresh’s residence,” he says, handing her the card. “When I am not there, this is where you’ll find me. You are welcome any time, day or night. Should you ever be in the mood for a distraction.”
“Thank you,” Celia says. She turns the card over in her fingers and it vanishes.
“When all of this is over, no matter which one of us wins, I will not let you go so easily. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Marco takes her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the silver ring that conceals her scar.
Celia traces the line of his jaw with her fingertips. Then she turns, disappearing before he can reach out to pull her back.
An Entreaty
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 30, 1902
The sheep are in a terrible mood today as Bailey attempts to usher them from one field to another. They have resisted prodding, swearing, and pushing, insisting that the grass in their current field is much nicer than the grass just on the other side of the gate in the low stone wall, no matter how much Bailey tries to persuade them otherwise.
And then there is a voice behind him.
“Hello, Bailey.”
Poppet looks wrong, somehow, standing there on the opposite side of the wall. The daylight is too bright, the surroundings too mundane and green. Her clothes, even though they are her incognito-wear and not her circus costume, seem too fancy. Her skirt too ruffled for everyday wear; her boots, though dusty, too dainty and impractical for walking across a farm. She wears no hat, her red hair loose, whipping around her head in the wind.
“Hello, Poppet,” he says once he recovers from his surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to talk to you about something,” she says. “Ask you something, I mean.”
“It couldn’t wait until tonight?” Bailey asks. Meeting up with Poppet and Widget almost as soon as the circus opens each evening has become a nightly routine.
Poppet shakes her head.
“I thought it would be better to give you time to think about it,” she says.
“Think about what?”
“Think about coming with us.”
Bailey blinks at her. “What?” he manages to ask.
“Tonight is our last night here,” she says. “And I want you to come with us when we leave.”
“You’re joking,” Bailey says.
Poppet shakes her head.
“I’m not, I swear I’m not. I wanted to wait until I was sure it was the right thing to ask, the right thing to do, and I’m sure now. It’s important.”
“What do you mean? Important how?” Bailey asks.
Poppet sighs. She looks up, peering as though she is searching for the stars hidden behind the blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds.
“I know you’re supposed to come with us,” she says. “I know that part for certain.”
“But why? Why me? What would I do, just tag along? I’m not like you and Widget, I can’t do anything special. I don’t belong in the circus.”
“You do! I’m certain that you do. I don’t know why yet, but I’m sure you belong with me. With us, I mean.” A scarlet blush creeps into her cheeks.
“I’d like to, I would. I just … ” Bailey looks around at the sheep, at the house and the barn up on the hill lined with apple trees. It would either solve the argument of Harvard versus farm or make it much, much worse. “I can’t just leave,” he says, though it is not, he thinks, exactly what he means.
“I know,” Poppet says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask you to. But I think … No, I don’t think, I know. I know that if you don’t come with us we won’t be back.”
“Won’t be back here? Why?”
“Won’t be back anywhere,” Poppet says. She raises her eyes to the sky again, scowling at it before she turns back to Bailey. “If you don’t come with us, there won’t be any more circus. And don’t ask me why, they don’t tell me why.” She gestures at the sky, at the stars beyond the clouds. “They just say that in order for there to be a circus in the future, you need to be there. You, Bailey. You and me and Widge. I don’t know why it’s important that it’s all three of us, but it is. If not, it will just crumble. It’s already starting.”
“What do you mean? The circus is fine.”
“I’m not sure it’s anything that’s really noticeable from the outside. It’s … If one of your sheep was sick, would I notice?”
“Probably not,” Bailey says.
“But you would?” Poppet asks.
Bailey nods.
“That’s how it is with the circus. I know how it’s supposed to feel and it doesn’t feel like that right now and it hasn’t for a while. I can tell something’s wrong and I can feel it crumbling like cake that doesn’t have enough icing to hold it together but I don’t know what it is. Does that make any sense?”
Bailey only stares at her, and she sighs before she continues.
“Remember the night we were in the Labyrinth? When we got stuck in the birdcage room?”
Bailey nods.
“I’ve never been stuck anywhere in the Labyrinth before. Never. If we can’t find our way out of a room or a hall I can focus and I can feel where the doors are. I can tell what’s behind them. I try not to do it because it’s not any fun that way, but that night I did when we couldn’t figure it out and it didn’t work. It’s starting to feel unfamiliar and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“But how can I do anything to help?” Bailey asks.
“You’re the one who finally found the key, remember?” Poppet says. “I keep looking for answers, for the right thing to do, and nothing’s been clear except for you. I know it’s too much to ask to have you leave your home and your family, but the circus is my home and my family and I can’t lose them. Not if there’s something I can do to prevent it. I’m sorry.”
She sits on the rock wall, facing away from him. Bailey sits next to her, still facing the field and the incorrigible sheep. They sit in silence for a while. The sheep wander in lazy circles, nibbling on the grass.
“Do you like it here, Bailey?” Poppet asks, looking out over the farm.
“Not particularly,” Bailey says.
“Have you ever wished for someone to come and take you away?”
“Did Widge tell you that?” Bailey asks, wondering if the thought is so strong that it sits on him, evident and readable.
“No,” Poppet says. “It was a guess. But Widge did ask me to give you this.” She pulls a tiny glass bottle from her pocket and hands it to him.
Bailey knows that though the bottle appears empty it is likely not, and he is too curious not to open it immediately. He pulls out the minuscule stopper, relieved that it remains attached to the bottle with a curl of wire.
The sensation inside is so familiar, so comforting and recognizable and real that Bailey can feel the roughness of the bark, the smell of the acorns, even the chattering of the squirrels.
“He wanted you to be able to keep your tree with you,” Poppet says. “If you decide to come with us.”
Bailey replaces the stopper in the bottle. Neither of them speaks for some time. The breeze tugs at Poppet’s hair.
“How long do I have to think about it?” B
ailey asks quietly.
“We’re leaving when the circus closes tonight,” Poppet says. “The train will be ready before dawn, though it would be better if you could come earlier than that. Leaving can get a bit … complicated.”
“I’ll think about it,” Bailey says. “But I can’t promise anything.”
“Thank you, Bailey,” Poppet says. “Can you do me one favor, though? If you’re not going to come with us, could you just not come to the circus tonight at all? And let this be goodbye? I think it would be easier.”
Bailey stares at her blankly for a moment, her words not quite sinking in. This is even more horrible than the choice to leave. But he nods because it feels like the proper thing to do.
“All right,” he says. “I won’t come unless I’m going with you. I promise.”
“Thank you, Bailey,” Poppet says. She smiles, though he cannot tell if the smile is a happy one or not.
And before he can tell her to tell Widget goodbye for him if need be, she leans forward and kisses him, not on the cheek, as she has a handful of times before, but on the lips, and Bailey knows in that moment that he will follow her anywhere.
Poppet turns without a word and walks away. Bailey watches until he can no longer see her hair against the sky and then continues to stare after her, the tiny bottle clutched in his hand, still uncertain of how to feel or what to do and left with only hours to decide.
Behind him, the sheep, left to their own devices, decide to wander through the open gate into the field beyond.
Invitation
LONDON, OCTOBER 30, 1901
When the circus arrives in London, though Celia Bowen is tempted to go immediately to the address of Marco’s flat, which is printed on the card she keeps on her person at all times, she goes instead to the Midland Grand Hotel.
She does not make any inquiries at the desk.
She does not speak to anyone.
She stands in the middle of the lobby, going unnoticed by the staff and guests that pass her on their way to other locations, other appointments, and other temporary places.
After she has stood for more than an hour, as still as one of the circus statues, a man in a grey suit approaches her.
He listens without reaction as she speaks, and when she is finished, he only nods.
She executes a perfect curtsey, and then she turns and leaves.
The man in the grey suit stands alone, unnoticed, in the lobby for some time.
Intersections I: The Drop of a Hat
LONDON, OCTOBER 31–NOVEMBER 1, 1901
The circus is always particularly festive on All Hallows’ Eve. Round paper lanterns hang in the courtyard, the shadows dancing over their white surfaces like silently howling faces. Leather masks in white and black and silver with ribbon ties are set in baskets by the gates and around the circus for patrons to wear, should they wish. It is sometimes difficult to discern performer from patron.
It is an altogether different experience to wander through the circus anonymously. To blend in with the environment, becoming a part of the ambiance. Many patrons enjoy the experience immensely, while others find it disconcerting and prefer to wear their own faces.
Now the crowd has thinned considerably in these hours past midnight as the clock ticks its way into All Hallows’ proper.
The remaining masked patrons wander like ghosts.
The line for the fortune-teller has dwindled down to nothing in these hours. Most people seek their fortunes early in the evening. The late of the night is suited for less cerebral pursuits. Earlier the querents filed in almost nonstop, but as October fades into November there is no one waiting in the vestibule, no one waiting behind the beaded curtain to hear what secrets the cards have to tell.
And then the beaded curtain parts, though she heard no one approach.
What Marco comes to tell her should not be a shock. The cards have been telling her as much for years but she refused to listen, choosing to see only the other possibilities, the alternate paths to be taken.
Hearing it from his own lips is another thing entirely. As soon as he speaks the words, a forgotten memory finds its way to the front of her mind. Two green-clad figures in the center of a vibrant ballroom, so undeniably in love that the entire room flushes with heat.
She asks him to draw a single card. The fact that he consents surprises her.
That the card he draws is La Papessa does not.
When he leaves, Isobel removes her sign for the evening.
She sometimes removes her sign early, or for periods of time when she is tired from reading or in need of a respite. Often she spends this time with Tsukiko, but instead of seeking out the contortionist this particular evening, she sits alone at her table, shuffling her tarot deck compulsively.
She flips one card faceup, then another and another.
There are only swords. Lines of them in pointed rows. Four. Nine. Ten. The single sharp ace.
She pushes them back into a pile.
She abandons the cards and turns to something else instead.
She keeps the hatbox under her table. It is the safest place she could think of, the easiest for her to access. Often she forgets it is even there, concealed beneath the cascading velvet. Always suspended between her and her querents. A constant unseen presence.
Now she reaches beneath the table and draws it out from velvet shadows into the flickering candlelight.
The hatbox is plain and round, covered in black silk. It has no latch or hinge, its lid kept in place by two ribbons, one black and one white, that are tied in careful knots.
Isobel places the box upon the table and brushes a thick layer of dust off the top, though much of it still sticks to the knotted ribbons. She hesitates, and thinks for a moment that it would be better to leave it alone, to return it to its resting place. But it does not seem to matter any longer.
She unties the ribbons slowly, working the knots out with her fingernails. When they are loosened enough for her to remove the lid, she pulls it off gingerly, as though she fears what she might find inside.
Inside the box is a hat.
It is just as she left it. An old black bowler hat, showing some wear around the brim. It is tied with more black and white ribbons, wrapped like a present in light and dark bows. Beneath the knots of the ribbon there is a single tarot card. Between the hat and the card there is a folded white lace handkerchief, its edges embroidered with looping black vines.
They were such simple things. Knots and intent.
She had laughed through her lessons, much preferring her cards. They seemed so straightforward in comparison, despite their myriad meanings.
It was only a precaution. Precautions are wise in such unpredictable circumstances. No stranger than bringing along an umbrella for a walk on a day that feels like rain, even if the sun is shining brightly.
Though she cannot be certain it is doing much more than gathering dust, not really. She has no way to be sure, no barometer on which to measure such insubstantial things. No thermometer for chaos. At the moment, it feels like she is pushing against an empty void.
Isobel lifts the hat carefully from the box, the long ends of the ribbons spilling in a waterfall around it. It is oddly pretty, for being an old hat and a handkerchief and a card tied up in fraying ribbon. Almost festive.
“The smallest charms can be the most effective,” Isobel says, taken aback when her voice catches, almost on the brink of tears.
The hat does not reply.
“I don’t think you’re having any effect at all,” Isobel says.
Again, the hat has no reply.
She had only wanted to keep the circus balanced. To prevent two conflicting sides from causing damage to each other or their surroundings.
To keep the scales from breaking.
Over and over in her mind, she sees them together in the ballroom.
She remembers snatches of an overheard argument. Marco saying he had done everything for her, a statement she had not understood at the
time and forgotten soon after.
But now it is clear.
All the emotion in the cards when she would try to read about him, it was all for Celia.
The circus itself, all for her. For every beautiful tent he creates, she builds one in return.
And Isobel herself has been helping to keep it balanced. Helping him. Helping them both.
She looks down at the hat in her hands.
White lace caressing black wool, ribbons intertwined. Inseparable.
Isobel tears at the ribbons with her fingers, pulling at the bows in a sudden fury.
The handkerchief floats down like a ghost, the initials C.N.B. legible amongst the embroidered vines.
The tarot card falls to the ground, landing faceup. The image of an angel is emblazoned on it, the word Tempérance is lettered beneath.
Isobel stops, holding her breath. Expecting some repercussion, some result from the action. But everything is quiet. The candles flicker around her. The beaded curtain hangs still and calm. She suddenly feels silly and stupid, alone in her tent with a pile of tangled ribbon and an old hat. She thinks herself a fool for believing she could have any impact on such things. That anything she ever did mattered at all.
She reaches down to retrieve the fallen card, but her hand freezes just above it when she hears something. For a split second it sounds like the squealing brakes of a train.
It takes a moment for Isobel to realize that the noise coming from outside the tent is actually the sound of Poppet Murray screaming.
Darkest Before the Dawn
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 31, 1902
Poppet and Widget stand by the circus gates, just out of the way of the ticket booth, though the line for tickets has waned in the late hour. The star-filled tunnel has already been removed, replaced by a single striped curtain. The Wunschtraum clock strikes three times behind them. Widget munches on a bag of chocolate-covered popcorn.
“Wufju fay foo im?” he asks, with his mouth mostly full.