Ailuromancy CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 1902

Leaving the fortune-teller’s tent and heading right, as she had suggested, Bailey almost immediately encounters a small crowd watching a performance. He cannot tell what it is at first, there is no raised platform involved. Peering through the space between spectators, he can see a hoop, larger than the one the contortionist used, held in the air. As he moves closer, he glimpses a black kitten leaping through it, landing somewhere out of sight.

A woman in front of him with a large hat turns and then he can see a young man about his own age, but a bit shorter, dressed in a black suit made of all manner of fabrics, and a matching black hat. On his shoulders sits a pair of stark-white kittens. As he lifts his black-gloved hand, palm open, one of the kittens jumps into it and bounces off his palm, leaping through the hoop, executing a rather impressive somersault at the pinnacle of its leap. Several members of the small audience laugh, and a few, including Bailey, applaud. The woman in the large hat steps aside completely, clearing Bailey’s line of sight. His hands freeze in mid-clap when he sees the young lady who has just caught the white kitten and is now lifting it to her shoulder where it sits along with the black kitten.

She is older, as he expected, and her red hair is somehow concealed within a white cap. But her costume is similar to the one she had been wearing when he last saw her: a patchwork dress of every fabric imaginable, each in tones of snowy white, a white jacket with lots of buttons, and a pair of bright-white gloves.

She turns her head, Bailey catches her eye, and she smiles at him. Not in the way that one smiles at a random member of the audience when one is in the middle of performing circus tricks with unusually talented kittens but in the way that one smiles when one recognizes someone they have not seen in some time. Bailey can tell the difference, and the fact that she remembers who he is makes him inexplicably and utterly pleased. He feels his ears getting rather hot despite the cold of the night air.

He watches the rest of the act with rapt attention, paying a fair deal more attention to the girl than the kittens, though the kittens are too impressive to ignore, and they steal his attention back periodically. When the act is finished, the girl and boy (and kittens) take a short bow, and the crowd claps and hoots.

Bailey is wondering what he should say, if he should say anything, as the crowd begins to disperse. A man pushes in front of him, another woman blocks his way to the side, and he loses sight of the girl completely. He pushes through the throng of people, and when he is free of them, the girl and the boy and the kittens are nowhere to be seen.

The crowd around him quickly dwindles to only a few people wandering up and down the pathway. There are no other directions to go, as far as he can tell. Only tall striped walls of tents line the area, and he turns around slowly, looking for any possible place they might have disappeared to, some corner or door. He is kicking himself for coming so close only to fail, when there is a tap on his shoulder.

“Hello, Bailey,” the girl says. She is standing right behind him. She has taken off her hat, her red hair falling in waves around her shoulders, and she has replaced her white jacket with a heavy black coat and a knit scarf in a vibrant violet. Only the ruffled hem of her dress and her white boots give any indication that she is the same girl who was performing in the same spot moments ago. Otherwise, she looks like any other patron at the circus.

“Hello,” Bailey says. “I don’t know your name.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I forgot that we were never properly introduced.” She holds out her white-gloved hand, and Bailey notices that it is larger than the glove he was given as proof of a long-ago dare. “I’m Penelope, but no one ever calls me that and I don’t really like it anyway, so for all intents and purposes my name is Poppet.”

Bailey takes her hand and shakes it. It is warmer than he expected, even through two layers of glove.

“Poppet,” Bailey repeats. “The fortune-teller told me that, but I didn’t realize it was your name.”

The girl smiles at him.

“You saw Isobel?” she asks. Bailey nods. “Isn’t she lovely?” Bailey continues to nod, though he’s not sure nodding is an appropriate response. “Did she tell you anything good about your future?” Poppet asks, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper.

“She told me a lot of things I didn’t understand,” Bailey confesses.

Poppet nods knowingly.

“She does that,” Poppet says. “But she means well.”

“Are you allowed to be out here like this?” Bailey asks, indicating the steady stream of circus patrons that continues to wander by, completely ignoring them.

“Oh yes,” Poppet says, “as long as we’re incognito.” She indicates her coat. “No one really gives us a second glance. Right, Widget?” She turns to a young man standing nearby, who Bailey had not even recognized as Poppet’s performance partner. He has switched his black jacket for a tweedy brown one, and his hair under his matching cap is just as shockingly red as Poppet’s.

“People don’t pay much attention to anything unless you give them reason to,” he says. “Though the hair helps, too, for looking like we don’t belong in a black-and-white circus.”

“Bailey, this is my brother, Winston,” Poppet says.

“Widget,” he corrects.

“I was getting to that,” Poppet says, sounding a bit cross. “And Widge, this is Bailey.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Bailey says, offering his hand.

“Likewise,” Widget responds in turn. “We were off for a walk, if you’d like to join us.”

“Do come, please,” Poppet adds. “We hardly ever have company.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” Bailey says. He cannot think of a single reason to refuse, and is pleased that they both seem remarkably easy to talk to. “Do you not have to do any more, uh, circus things?”

“Not for a few hours, at least,” Widget says, as they start off down another pathway through the circus. “The kittens need to nap. Performing makes them sleepy.”

“They’re very good, how do you make them do all those tricks? I’ve never seen a cat do a somersault in midair,” Bailey says. He notices that all three of them are walking at the same pace, staying easily together as a group. He is much more used to following a few steps behind.

“Most cats will do anything if you ask them nicely,” Poppet says. “But it helps to train them early.”

“And to give them lots of treats,” Widget adds. “Treats always help.”

“Have you seen the big cats?” Poppet asks. Bailey shakes his head. “Oh, you should. Our parents do the big-cat show; their tent is down that way.” She points in a direction vaguely to the right.

“It’s like our performance, only with bigger cats,” Widget says.

“Much bigger cats,” Poppet elaborates. “Panthers and beautiful spotted snow leopards. They’re sweet, really.”

“And they have a tent,” Widget adds.

“Why don’t you have a tent?” Bailey asks.

“We don’t really need one,” Poppet says. “We can only do a few shows a night, and all we need are the kittens and hoops and strings and things. Anyone who doesn’t really need a tent performs wherever there’s room.”

“It adds to the ambience,” Widget says. “So you can see bits of the circus without having to pick a tent to go into, just wandering around.”

“That’s probably very good for indecisive people,” Bailey says, smiling when Poppet and Widget both laugh. “It is hard to choose a tent, you know, when there are so many.”

“That’s true,” Poppet says. They’ve reached the bonfire courtyard. It is quite crowded and Bailey is still surprised that no one pays them much attention, assuming that they are just the same as any group of young circus patrons visiting for the evening.

“I’m hungry,” Widget says.

“You’re always hungry,” Poppet retorts. “Shall we get something to eat?”

“Yes,” Widget says.

Poppet sticks her tongue out at him.

“I was asking Bailey,” she says. “Shall we get something to eat, Bailey?”

“Sure,” Bailey says. Poppet and Widget seem to get along much better than he and Caroline ever have, and he assumes it is because they are closer to the same age. He wonders if they are twins; they certainly look enough alike to be twins, and he thinks it might be rude to ask.

“Have you tried the cinnamon things?” Poppet asks. “They’re rather new. What are they called, Widge?”

“Fantastically delicious cinnamon things?” Widget says, shrugging. “I don’t think all of the new things have names yet.”

“I haven’t, but they sound good,” Bailey says.

“They are good,” Widget says. “Layers of pastry and cinnamon and sugar all rolled into a twist and covered in icing.”

“Wow,” Bailey says.

“Exactly,” Widget replies. “And we should get some cocoa and some chocolate mice.”

“I have chocolate mice,” Bailey says, pulling the bag out of his pocket. “I bought them earlier.”

“Ah, you think ahead. Very good to be prepared,” Widget says. “You were right about him, Poppet.”

Bailey looks at Poppet quizzically, but she only smiles at him.

“Shall Bailey and I get cocoa while you get the cinnamon whatnots?” she asks, and Widget nods his approval of this plan.

“Certainly. Meet you at the bonfire?” he asks. Poppet nods, and Widget tips his hat to them both and goes off into the crowd.

Bailey and Poppet continue to walk around the bonfire courtyard. After a few moments of amicable silence, Bailey works up the nerve to ask a question, one he’s not sure he’ll be comfortable asking once they meet back up with Widget.

“Can I ask you something?” Bailey asks.

“Of course,” Poppet says. There is a bit of a line for cocoa, but the vendor notices Poppet who flashes three fingers at him, and he smiles and nods in return.

“When  …  um, when the circus was here last time and I, well  … ” Bailey struggles for words, annoyed that the question seems simpler in his head.

“Yes?” Poppet says.

“How did you know my name?” Bailey asks. “And how did you know I was there?”

“Hmmmm  … ” Poppet says, as though she is having difficulty finding the proper words to respond with. “It’s not easy to explain,” she starts. “I see things before they happen. I saw you coming, not long before you got there. And I don’t always see details well, but when I saw you I knew what your name was, like knowing that your scarf is blue.”

They reach the front of the line and the vendor has three cups of cocoa in striped cups waiting for them already, with clouds of extra whipped cream on top. Poppet hands one to Bailey and takes the other two herself, and Bailey notices that the vendor waves them off with no money having changed hands. He assumes that free cocoa is a benefit of being a member of the circus.

“So you see everything before it happens?” Bailey asks. He is not sure Poppet’s answer is entirely what he expected, if he expected anything at all.

Poppet shakes her head.

“No, not everything. Sometimes just bits of things like words and pictures in a book, but the book has lots of pages missing and it’s been dropped in a pond and some parts are blurry but other parts aren’t. Does that make sense?” she asks.

“Not really,” Bailey answers.

Poppet laughs. “I know it’s strange,” she says.

“No, it’s not,” Bailey says. Poppet turns to look at him, the skepticism at the statement evident on her face. “Well, yes, it is kind of strange. But just odd strange, not bad strange.”

“Thank you, Bailey,” Poppet says. They circle the courtyard, heading back to the bonfire. Widget is waiting for them, holding a black paper bag and watching the vibrant white flames.

“What took you so long?” Widget asks.

“We had a line,” Poppet says, handing him his cocoa. “Didn’t you?”

“No. I don’t think people have figured out how good these things are yet,” Widget says, shaking the bag. “Are we set, then?”

“I think so,” Poppet says.

“Where are we going?” Bailey asks.

Poppet and Widget exchange a glance before Poppet answers.

“We’re doing rounds,” she says. “Circles of the circus. To  …  to keep an eye on things. You do want to come with us, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Bailey says, relieved that he is not an imposition.

They walk in loops around the circus, sipping their cocoa and munching on chocolate mice and the sugary cinnamon pastry things, which are just as good as promised. Poppet and Widget tell him stories of the circus, pointing out tents as they pass by, and Bailey answers their questions about his town, finding it strange that they seem interested in what he considers very mundane things. They speak with the ease of people who have known each other for years, and the excitement of new friends with new stories.

If Poppet and Widget are keeping an eye on anything beyond their cocoa and himself, Bailey cannot tell what it might be.

“What’s the Stargazer?” he asks, catching sight of a sign he has not seen before, as they discard their empty cups and bags.

“Up for gazing, Poppet?” Widget asks his sister. She pauses before she nods. “Poppet reads the stars,” he explains to Bailey. “It’s the easiest place to see the future.”

“It hasn’t been all that easy lately,” Poppet says quietly. “But we can ride. It’s only open on clear nights, so who knows if we’ll get another chance while we’re here.”

They step inside, joining a line that ascends a curving stairway around the perimeter, separated from the interior of the tent by a heavy black curtain. The walls are covered in diagrams, white spots and lines on black paper, framed maps of constellations.

“Is it like the way the fortune-teller reads those cards with pictures on them?” Bailey asks, still trying to wrap his mind around the idea of seeing the future.

“Sort of like that, but different,” Poppet says. “I can’t read tarot cards at all, but Widget can.”

“They’re stories on paper,” Widget says, shrugging. “You see how the stories in each card go together; it’s not really that hard. But with those you have all different possibilities and things, different paths to take. Poppet sees things that actually happen.”

“But they’re not as clear,” Poppet explains. “There isn’t context, and most of the time I don’t know what things mean until later. Sometimes not until it’s too late.”

“Disclaimers accepted, ‘Pet,” Widget says, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “It can just be a ride if you want.”

At the top of the stairs they reach a black platform, where everything is endlessly dark save for a circus worker in a white suit who is guiding patrons inside. He smiles at Poppet and Widget, with a curious glance at Bailey, as he escorts them through the darkness into something like a sleigh or a carriage.

They slide onto a cushioned bench with a high back and sides, the door on one side clicking closed as Poppet settles in between Bailey and Widget. It glides forward slowly, and Bailey can see nothing but darkness.

Then something around them clicks softly and the carriage falls just a bit, and at the same time it tilts backward so they are looking up instead of forward.

The tent has no top, Bailey realizes. The upper portion of it is open, with the night sky fully visible.

It is a different sensation than watching the stars while lying in a field, something Bailey has done many times. There are no trees creeping into the edges, and the gentle swaying of the carriage makes him feel almost weightless.

And it is incredibly quiet. As the carriage moves along in what seems to be a circular pattern, Bailey can hear nothing but a soft creak and the sound of Poppet breathing next to him. It is as though the entire circus has faded away into the darkness.

He glances over at Poppet, who is looking at him instead of the sky. She gives him a grin and then turns away.

Bailey wonders if he should ask if she sees anything in the stars.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Widget says, anticipating the question.

Poppet turns to make a face at him but then focuses her gaze upward, looking into the clear night sky. Bailey watches her carefully. She looks as though she is contemplating a painting or reading a sign from far away, squinting just a little.

She stops suddenly, putting her hands to her face, pressing her white-gloved fingers over her eyes. Widget puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Bailey asks.

Poppet takes a deep breath before she nods, keeping her hands over her face.

“I’m fine,” she says with a muffled voice. “It was very  …  bright. It made my head hurt.”

She takes her hands from her face and shakes her head; whatever distress she had been in has apparently passed.

For the remainder of the ride none of them look up at the star-speckled sky.

“I’m sorry,” Bailey says quietly as they walk down another curving stairway in order to exit.

“It’s not your fault,” Poppet says. “I should have known better, the stars have been doing that lately, making no sense and giving me headaches. I should probably stop trying for a while.”

“You need some cheering,” Widget says as they return to the din of the circus. “Cloud Maze?”

Poppet nods, her shoulders relaxing a bit.

“What’s the Cloud Maze?” Bailey asks.

“You haven’t found any of the best tents yet, have you?” Widget says, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to come back, we can’t do all of them in one night. Maybe that’s why ‘Pet got a headache, she saw us having to drag you through every single tent to see what you’ve been missing.”

“Widge can see the past,” Poppet says suddenly, diverting the conversation. “It’s one of the reasons his stories are always so good.”

“The past is easier,” Widget says. “It’s already there.”

“In the stars?” Bailey asks.

“No,” Widget says. “On people. The past stays on you the way powdered sugar stays on your fingers. Some people can get rid of it but it’s still there, the events and things that pushed you to where you are now. I can  …  well, read isn’t the right word, but it’s not the right word for what Poppet does with the stars, either.”

“So you can see my past on me?” Bailey asks.

“I could,” Widget says. “I try not to do it without permission if there’s nothing that jumps out automatically. Do you mind?”

Bailey shakes his head. “Not at all.”

Widget stares at him for a moment, not quite long enough for Bailey to become uncomfortable under the weight of his eyes, but almost.

“There’s a tree,” Widget says. “This massive old oak tree that’s more home to you than your house but not as much as this is.” He gestures around at the tents and the lights. “Feeling like you’re alone even when you’re with other people. Apples. And your sister seems like a real gem,” he adds sarcastically.

“That sounds about right,” Bailey says with a laugh.

“What are the apples?” Poppet asks.

“My family has a farm with an orchard,” Bailey explains.

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Poppet says. Bailey has never considered the rows of short, twisted trees lovely.

“Here we are,” Widget says as they round a turn.

Despite his limited experience with the circus, Bailey is amazed that he has never seen this tent before. It is tall, almost as tall as the acrobat tent but narrower. He stops to read the sign over the door.

The Cloud Maze

An Excursion in Dimension A Climb Though the Firmament There Is No Beginning There Is No End Enter Where You Please Leave When You Wish Have No Fear of Falling

Inside, the tent is dark-walled with an immense, iridescent white structure in the center. Bailey can think of nothing else to call it. It takes up the entirety of the tent save for a raised path along the perimeter, a winding loop that begins at the tent entrance and circles around. The floor beyond the path is covered with white spheres, thousands of them piled like soap bubbles.

The tower itself is a series of platforms swooping in odd, diaphanous shapes, quite similar to clouds. They are layered, like a cake. From what Bailey can see, the space between layers varies from room enough to walk straight through to barely enough to crawl. Here and there parts of it almost float away from the central tower, drifting off into space.

And everywhere, there are people climbing. Hanging on edges, walking through paths, climbing higher or lower. Some platforms move with the weight; others seem strong and sturdy. The whole of it moves constantly, a light movement like breathing.

“Why is it called a maze?” Bailey asks.

“You’ll see,” Widget says.

They walk along the path and it sways gently, like a dock on water. Bailey struggles to keep his balance while he looks up.

Some platforms are suspended from ropes or chains from above. On lower levels, there are large poles driven through multiple platforms, though Bailey cannot tell if they reach all the way to the top. In some places there are swoops of netting, in others ropes hang like ribbons.

They stop on the far side, where the path swings close enough to jump onto one of the lower platforms.

Bailey picks up one of the white spheres. It is lighter than it looks, and kitten soft. Across the tent, people toss them at each other like snowballs, though instead of breaking they bounce off of their targets, floating gently down. Bailey tosses the one in his hand back and follows Poppet and Widget.

As soon as they have walked a few paces into the structure, Bailey can see why it is called a maze. He had expected walls and turns and dead ends, but this is different. Platforms hang at all levels: some low by his knees or his waist, others stretch high above his head, overlapping in irregular patterns. It is a maze that goes up and down as well as side to side.

“See you later,” Widget says, hopping onto a nearby platform and climbing onto the one above it.

“Widge always goes straight to the very top,” Poppet says. “He knows all the fastest routes to get there.”

Bailey and Poppet take a more leisurely route, choosing platforms to climb at random, crawling up bits of white netting and maneuvering carefully through narrow passages. Bailey cannot tell where the edges are, or how high they have climbed, but he is relieved that Poppet seems much less troubled than she had been on the Stargazer as she laughs, helping him through the more difficult turns.

“How do we get down?” Bailey asks eventually, wondering how they will ever find their way back.

“The easiest way is to jump,” Poppet says. She pulls him over to a hidden turn that reveals the edge of the platform.

They are much higher than Bailey had suspected, even though they have not reached the top.

“It’s okay,” Poppet says. “It’s safe.”

“This is impossible,” Bailey says, peering out over the ledge.

“Nothing’s impossible,” Poppet responds. She smiles at him and jumps, her red hair trailing out behind her as she falls.

She disappears into the sea of white spheres below, enveloped completely before popping back up, her hair a shock of red against the white as she waves at him.

Bailey only hesitates for a moment, and he resists the urge to close his eyes as he leaps. Instead he laughs as he tumbles through the air.

Reaching the pool of spheres below it is truly like falling into a cloud, soft and light and comforting.

When Bailey climbs out, Poppet and Widget are both waiting on the path nearby, Poppet sitting on the edge with her legs dangling over the side.

“We should be getting back,” Widget says, pulling a watch from his pocket. “We have to get the kittens ready for another show and it’s nearly midnight.”

“Is it really?” Bailey asks. “I didn’t know it was that late, I should have been home by now.”

“Let us walk you to the gates, Bailey, please?” Poppet asks. “There’s something I want to get for you.”

They walk together back along the winding paths, making their way across the courtyard toward the gates. Poppet takes Bailey’s hand to pull him through the curtained tunnel, navigating the dark turns effortlessly. The field visible beyond the gates when they reach the other side is not crowded at this late hour, though a few scattered patrons coming or going linger nearby.

“Wait here,” Poppet says. “I’ll be right back.” She runs off in the direction of the ticket booth while Bailey watches the clock tick closer to twelve. Within moments, Poppet is back, something silver in her hand.

“Oh, brilliant idea, ‘Pet,” Widget says when he sees it. Bailey looks back and forth at them, confused. It is a silver piece of paper, about the size of his ticket. Poppet hands it to him.

“It’s a special pass,” she explains. “For important guests, so you don’t have to pay every time you come to the circus. You show it at the booth and they’ll let you in.”

Bailey stares at it, wide-eyed.

This card entitles the holder to unlimited admission

is imprinted on one side in black ink, and on the reverse it reads:

Le Cirque des Rêves

and in smaller letters beneath that:

Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre, Proprietor

Bailey is dumbstruck, staring at the shiny silver card.

“I thought you might like it,” Poppet said, sounding unnerved by his lack of articulate response. “That is, if you want to come back while we’re here.”

“It’s wonderful,” Bailey says, looking up from the card. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” Poppet says, smiling. “And I told them to tell me and Widget when you arrive, so we’ll know when you’re here and we can come find you. If that’s all right with you.”

“That would be great,” Bailey says. “Really, thank you.”

“So we’ll see you soon, then,” Widget says, offering his hand.

“Definitely,” Bailey answers as he takes it. “I can come back tomorrow night.”

“That would be perfect,” Poppet says. As Bailey lets go of Widget’s hand, she leans forward and kisses him quickly on the cheek, and Bailey can feel his cheeks flush. “Have a good night,” she adds as she pulls away.

“Y-you too,” Bailey says. “Good night.” He waves at them before they slip back through the heavy curtain, and once they disappear he turns to walk home.

It seems a lifetime ago that he walked to the circus, though it was only a few hours. And more than that, it feels as though the Bailey who entered the circus was an entirely different person than the one leaving it now, with a silver ticket in his pocket. He wonders which is the real Bailey, for certainly the Bailey who spent hours in trees alone is not the Bailey who is granted special admission to a spectacular circus, who makes friends with such interesting people without even trying.

By the time he reaches the farm, he is sure that the Bailey he is now is closer to the Bailey he is supposed to be than the Bailey he had been the day before. He may not be certain what any of it means, but for now he does not think that it much matters.

In his dreams, he is a knight on horseback, carrying a silver sword, and it does not really seem that strange after all.

Tête-à-Tête LONDON, AUGUST 1896

The Midnight Dinner is rather subdued tonight, despite the number of guests. The circus is preparing for a stretch near London, having recently departed Dublin, so there are a handful of performers present. Mr. Barris is visiting from Vienna as well.

Celia Bowen spends much of the meal talking with Mme. Padva, who is seated to her left, draped in lapis-blue silk.

The gown Celia wears is a Padva design, one that was created for her to perform in but then deemed inappropriate, the silver fabric catching the light at every tuck and curve in such a way that it proved too distracting. The effect was so flattering that Celia could not bear to give it up, and instead kept it for normal wear.

“Someone cannot keep his eyes off of you, my dear,” Mme. Padva remarks, subtly tilting her glass in the direction of the door, where Marco is standing quietly to the side, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Perhaps he is admiring your handiwork,” Celia says without turning.

“I would wager that he is more interested in the contents than the gown itself.”

Celia only laughs, but she knows that Mme. Padva is correct, as she has felt Marco’s gaze burning into the back of her neck all evening, and she is finding it increasingly difficult to ignore.

His attention only wavers away from Celia once, when Chandresh knocks over a heavy crystal wineglass that narrowly avoids crashing into one of the candelabras, spilling red wine over the gold brocade of the tablecloth.

But before Marco can react, Celia leaps to her feet from across the table, righting the glass without touching it, a detail only Chandresh has the proper perspective to notice. When she takes her hand away, the glass is filled again, the tablecloth spotless.

“Clumsy, clumsy,” Chandresh mutters, looking at Celia warily before turning away to pick up his conversation with Mr. Barris.

“You could have been a ballerina,” Mme. Padva remarks to Celia. “You are quite good on your feet.”

“I am good off my feet as well,” Celia says, and Mr. Barris nearly knocks over his own glass while Mme. Padva cackles.

For the remainder of the dinner, Celia keeps a watchful eye on Chandresh. He spends most of the time discussing some sort of renovation to the house with Mr. Barris, occasionally repeating himself though Mr. Barris pretends not to notice. Chandresh does not touch his wineglass again, and it is still full when it is cleared at the end of the course.

After dinner, Celia is the last to leave. During the exodus, she misplaces her shawl and refuses to let anyone wait for her while she searches for it, waving them away into the night.

It proves difficult, attempting to locate a length of ivory lace in the singular chaos of la maison Lefèvre. Though she traces her steps through the library and the dining room it is nowhere to be found.

Eventually, Celia abandons her search and returns to the foyer, where Marco is standing by the door with her shawl folded casually over his arm.

“Are you looking for this, Miss Bowen?” he asks.

He moves to place it on her shoulders but the lace disintegrates between his fingers, falling into dust.

When he looks up at her again she is wearing the shawl, tied perfectly, as though it had never been removed.

“Thank you,” Celia says. “Good night.” She breezes by him and out the door before he can respond.

“Miss Bowen?” Marco calls, chasing after her as she descends the front stairs.

“Yes?” Celia responds, turning back as she reaches the pavement.

“I was hoping I could trouble you for that drink we did not have in Prague,” Marco says. He holds her eyes steadily with his while she considers.

The intensity of his gaze is even stronger than it had been when it was focused on the back of her neck, and while Celia can feel the coercion of it, a technique her father was always fond of, there is something genuine as well, something almost like a plea.

It is that, coupled with curiosity, that causes her to nod her consent.

He smiles and turns, walking back inside the house, leaving the door open.

After a moment, she follows. The door swings shut and locks behind her.

Inside, the dining room has been cleared but the dripping candles still burn in the candelabras.

Two glasses of wine sit on the table.

“Where has Chandresh gone to?” Celia asks, picking up one of the glasses and walking to the opposite side of the table from where Marco stands.

“He has retired to the fifth floor,” Marco says, taking the remaining glass for himself. “He had the former servants’ quarters renovated to keep as his private rooms because he enjoys the view. He will not be down until the morning. The rest of the staff has departed, so we have the majority of the house to ourselves.”

“Do you often entertain your own guests after his have gone?” Celia asks.

“Never.”

Celia watches him while she sips her wine. Something about his appearance bothers her, but she cannot identify what, exactly.

“Did Chandresh really insist that all the fire in the circus be white so it would match the color scheme?” she asks after a moment.

“He did indeed,” Marco says. “Told me to contact a chemist or something. I opted to take care of it myself.” He runs his fingers over the candles on the table and the flames shift from warm gold to cool white, tinged with a silvery blue in the center. He runs his fingers back in the other direction, and they return to normal.

“What do you call it?” Marco asks.

Celia does not need to ask what he means.

“Manipulation. I called it magic when I was younger. It took me quite some time to break that habit, though my father never cared for the term. He’d call it enchanting, or forcibly manipulating the universe when he was not in the mood for brevity.”

“Enchanting?” Marco repeats. “I had not thought of it as such before.”

“Nonsense,” Celia says. “It’s precisely what you do. You enchant. You’re clearly good at it. You have so many people in love with you. Isobel. Chandresh. And there must be others.”

“How do you know about Isobel?” Marco asks.

“The company of the circus is fairly large but they all talk about each other,” Celia says. “She seems utterly devoted to someone whom none of us has ever met. I noticed immediately that she pays particular attention to me, I even wondered at one point if she might be my opponent. After you appeared in Prague when she was waiting for someone it was rather simple to figure out the rest. I do not believe anyone else knows. The Murray twins have a theory that she is in love with the dream of someone and not an actual person.”

“The Murray twins sound quite clever,” Marco says. “If I am enchanting in that way it is not always intentional. It was helpful in securing the position with Chandresh, as I had only a single reference and little experience. Though it does not seem to be working quite so effectively on you.”

Celia puts down her glass, still not certain what to make of him. The shifting light from the candles enhances the indistinct quality about his face, so she looks away before she replies, turning her attention to the contents of the mantelpiece.

“My father used to do something similar,” she says. “That pulling, charming seduction. I spent the first several years of my life watching my mother pine for him, steadfastly. Loving and longing far beyond the time when he had lost what little interest in her he ever held. Until one day when I was five years old and she took her own life. When I was old enough to understand, I promised myself I would not suffer so for anyone. It will take a great deal more than that charming smile of yours to seduce me.”

But when she looks back, the charming smile has disappeared.

“I am sorry you lost your mother in such a way,” Marco says.

“It was a long time ago,” Celia says, surprised by the genuine sympathy. “But thank you.”

“Do you remember much about her?” he asks.

“I remember impressions more than actualities. I remember her constant crying. I remember how she looked at me as though I was something to be feared.”

“I do not remember my parents,” Marco says. “I have no memories before the orphanage that I was plucked out of because I met some unspecified criteria. I was made to read a great deal, I traveled and studied and was generally groomed to play some sort of clandestine game. I’ve been doing so, along with accounting and bookkeeping and whatever else Chandresh requests of me, for most of my life.”

“Why are you being so honest with me?” Celia asks.

“Because it is refreshing to be truly honest with someone for a change,” Marco says. “And I suspect you would know if I lied to you outright. I hope I can expect the same from you.”

Celia considers this a moment before she nods.

“You remind me a bit of my father,” she says.

“How so?” Marco asks.

“The way you manipulate perception. I was never particularly good at that myself, I’m better with tangible things. You don’t have to do that with me, by the way,” she adds, finally realizing what disconcerts her about his appearance.

“Do what?” Marco asks.

“Look like that. It’s very good, but I can tell it’s not entirely genuine. It must be terribly annoying to keep it up constantly.”

Marco frowns, but then, very slowly, his face begins to change. The goatee fades and disappears. The chiseled features become softer and younger. His striking green eyes fade to a green-tinged grey.

The false face had been handsome, yes, but consciously so. As though he was too aware of his own attractiveness, something Celia found distinctly unappealing.

And there was something else, a hollowness that was likely the result of the illusion, an impression that he was not entirely present in the room.

But now, now there is a different person standing next to her, much more present, as if a barrier has been removed between them. He feels closer, though the distance between them has not changed, and his face is quite handsome, still.

The intensity of his stare increases with these eyes; looking at him now she can see deeper, without being distracted by the color.

Celia can feel the heat rising up her neck and manages to control it enough that the flush is not noticeable in the candlelight.

And then she realizes why there is something familiar there as well.

“I’ve seen you like this before,” she says, placing his true countenance in a location in her memory. “You’ve watched my show like that.”

“Do you remember all of your audiences?” Marco asks.

“Not all of them,” Celia says. “But I remember the people who look at me the way you do.”

“What way might that be?”

“As though they cannot decide if they are afraid of me or they want to kiss me.”

“I am not afraid of you,” Marco says.

They stare at each other in silence for a while, the candles flickering around them.

“It seems a great deal of effort for a rather subtle difference,” Celia says.

“It has its advantages.”

“I think you look better without it,” Celia says. Marco looks so surprised that she adds, “I said I would be honest, didn’t I?”

“You flatter me, Miss Bowen,” he says. “How many times have you been to this house?”

“At least a dozen,” Celia says.

“And yet, you have never had a tour.”

“I have never been offered one.”

“Chandresh does not believe in them. He prefers to let the house remain an enigma. If the guests do not know where the boundaries are, it gives the impression that the house itself goes on forever. It used to be two buildings, so it can be somewhat disorienting.”

“I did not know that,” Celia says.

“Two adjoining town houses, one a mirror of the other. He bought both and had them renovated into a single dwelling, with a number of enhancements. I do not believe we have the time for the full tour, but I could show you a few of the more obscure rooms, if you would like.”

“I would,” Celia says, placing her empty wineglass on the table next to his own. “Do you often give forbidden tours of your employer’s house?”

“Only once, and that was because Mr. Barris was quite persistent.”

*

FROM THE DINING ROOM, they cross under the shadow of the elephant-headed statue in the hall, passing into the library and stopping at the stained-glass sunset that stretches the height of one wall.

“This is the game room,” Marco says, pushing the glass and letting it swing open into the next room.

“How appropriate.”

Gaming is more theme than function for the room. There are several chessboards with missing pieces, and pieces without boards of their own lined up on windowsills and bookshelves. Dartboards without darts hang alongside backgammon games suspended in mid-play.

The billiard table in the center is covered in bloodred felt.

A selection of weaponry lines one wall, arranged in pairs. Sabres and pistols and fencing foils, each twinned with another, prepared for dozens of potential duels.

“Chandresh has a fondness for antique armament,” Marco explains as Celia regards them. “There are pieces in other rooms but this is the majority of the collection.”

He watches her closely as she walks around the room. She appears to be attempting not to smile as she looks over the gaming elements artfully arranged around them.

“You smile as though you have a secret,” he says.

“I have a lot of secrets,” Celia says, glancing at him over her shoulder before turning back to the wall. “When did you know I was your opponent?”

“I did not know until your audition. You were a mystery for years before that. And I’m certain you noticed that you caught me by surprise.” He pauses before adding, “I cannot say that it has truly been an advantage. How long have you known?”

“I knew in the rain in Prague, and you know perfectly well that was when I knew,” Celia says. “You could have let me go with an umbrella to puzzle over, but instead you chased me down. Why?”

“I wanted it back,” Marco says. “I’m quite fond of that umbrella. And I had grown weary of hiding from you.”

“I once suspected anyone and everyone,” Celia says. “Though I did think it was more likely someone in the circus proper. I should have known it was you.”

“And why is that?” Marco asks.

“Because you pretend to be less than you are,” she says. “That much is clear as day. I will admit, I never thought to charm my umbrella.”

“I have lived most of my life in London,” Marco says. “As soon as I learned to charm objects, it was one of the first things I did.”

He removes his jacket and tosses it over one of the leather chairs in the corner. He takes a deck of playing cards off of a shelf, unsure if she will be willing to humor him but too curious not to try.

“Do you want to play cards?” Celia asks.

“Not exactly,” Marco answers as he shuffles. When he is satisfied, he places the deck on the billiard table.

He flips over a card. The king of spades. He taps the surface and the king of spades becomes the king of hearts. He lifts his hand, pulling it back and unfurling his fingers over the card, welcoming her to make the next move.

Celia smiles. She unties the shawl from her shoulders and drapes it over his discarded jacket. Then she stands with her hands clasped behind her back.

The king of hearts flips up, balancing on its edge. It stands there for a moment before slowly and deliberately ripping in half. The two pieces stay standing, separate, for a moment before they fall, the patterned back facing up.

Mimicking Marco’s gesture, Celia taps the card and it snaps back together. She pulls her hand back and the card flips itself over. The queen of diamonds.

Then the entire deck hovers in the air for a moment before collapsing onto the table, cards scattering out over the red felt surface.

“You are better than I am at physical manipulation,” Marco admits.

“I have an advantage,” Celia says. “What my father calls a natural talent. I find it harder not to influence my surroundings, I was constantly breaking things as a child.”

“How much impact can you have on living things?” Marco asks.

“It depends on the thing in question,” Celia says. “Objects are easier. It took me years to master anything animate. And I work much better with my own birds than I could with any old pigeon taken off the street.”

“What could you do to me?”

“I might be able to change your hair, perhaps your voice,” Celia says. “No more than that without your full consent and awareness, and true consent is more difficult to give than you might think. I can’t repair injury. I rarely have much more than a temporary, superficial impact. It is easier with people I’m more familiar with, though it is never particularly easy.”

“What about with yourself?”

In response, Celia goes to the wall and removes a thin Ottoman dagger with a jade hilt from where it hangs with its partner. Holding it in her right hand, she places her left palm down on the billiard table, over the scattered cards. Without hesitating, she plunges the blade into the back of her hand, piercing through skin and flesh and cards and into the felt underneath.

Marco flinches, but says nothing.

Celia pries the dagger up, her hand and the two of spades still impaled on the blade, blood beginning to drip down to her wrist. She holds out her hand and turns it slowly, presenting it with a certain amount of showmanship so that Marco can see that there is no illusion involved.

With her other hand she removes the dagger, the bloodied playing card fluttering down. Then the droplets of blood begin rolling backward, seeping into the gash in her palm which then shrinks and disappears until there is no more than a sharp red line on her skin, and then nothing.

She taps the card and the blood disappears. The rip left by the blade no longer visible. The card is now the two of hearts.

Marco picks up the card and runs his fingers over the mended surface. Then with a subtle turn of his hand, the card vanishes. He leaves it safely tucked within his pocket.

“I am relieved that we were not challenged to a physical fight,” he says. “I think you would have the advantage.”

“My father used to slice open the tips of my fingers one by one until I could heal all ten at once,” Celia says, returning the dagger to its place on the wall. “So much of it is feeling from the inside how everything is supposed to fit, I have not been able to do it with anyone else.”

“I think your lessons were a great deal less academic than mine.”

“I would have preferred more reading.”

“I think it strange we were prepared in drastically different ways for the same challenge,” Marco says. He looks at Celia’s hand again, though now there is clearly nothing amiss, no indication that it was stabbed only moments ago.

“I suspect that is part of the point,” she says. “Two schools of thought pitted against each other, working within the same environment.”

“I confess,” Marco says, “I don’t fully understand the point, even after all this time.”

“Nor do I,” Celia admits. “I suspect calling it a challenge or a game is not entirely accurate. I’ve come to think of it more as a dual exhibition. What else do I get to see on my tour?”

“Would you like to see something in progress?” Marco asks. Knowing that she thinks of the circus as an exhibition comes as a pleasant surprise, as he had stopped considering it antagonistic years ago.

“I would,” Celia says. “Especially if it is the project that Mr. Barris was going on about during dinner.”

“It is indeed.”

Marco escorts her out of the game room through another door, passing briefly through the hall and into the expansive ballroom at the rear of the house, where the moonlight filters in from the glass doors lining the back wall.

*

OUTSIDE, IN THE SPACE the garden formerly occupied beyond the terrace, the area has been excavated to sit a level deeper, sunken into the earth. At the moment it is mostly an arrangement of packed soil and stacks of stone forming tall but rudimentary walls.

Celia carefully descends the stone steps and Marco follows her. Once at the bottom, the walls create a maze, leaving only a small portion of the garden visible at a time.

“I thought it might be beneficial for Chandresh to have a project to occupy himself with,” Marco explains. “As he so rarely leaves the house these days, renovating the gardens seemed a good place to start. Would you like to see what it will look like when it is complete?”

“I would,” Celia says. “Do you have the plans here?”

In response, Marco lifts one hand and gestures around them.

What had been little more than stacks of rough stone moments before is now set and carved into ornate arches and pathways, covered in crawling vines and speckled with bright, tiny lanterns. Roses hang from curving trellises above them, the night sky visible through the spaces between the blossoms.

Celia puts her hand to her lips to muffle her gasp. The entire scene, from the scent of the roses to the warmth radiating from the lanterns, is astounding. She can hear a fountain bubbling nearby and turns down the now grass-covered path to find it.

Marco follows her as she explores, taking turn after turn through the twisting pathways.

The fountain in the center cascades down a carved stone wall, flowing into a round pond full of koi. Their scales glow in the moonlight, bright splashes of white and orange in the dark water.

Celia puts her hand out, letting the water from the fountain rush over her fingers as she presses against the cold stone below.

“You’re doing this in my mind, aren’t you?” she asks when she hears Marco behind her.

“You’re letting me,” he says.

“I could probably stop it, you know,” Celia says, turning around to face him. He leans against one of the stone archways, watching her.

“I’m certain you could. If you resisted at all it would not work as well, and it can be blocked almost entirely. And of course, proximity is key for the immersion.”

“You cannot do this with the circus,” Celia says.

Marco shrugs his shoulders.

“There is too much distance, unfortunately,” he says. “It is one of my specialties, yet there is little opportunity to use it. I am not adept at creating this type of illusion to be viewed by more than one person at a time.”

“It’s amazing,” Celia says, watching the koi swimming at her feet. “I could never manage something so intricate, even though they call me the illusionist. You’d wear that title better than I.”

“I suppose ‘The Beautiful Woman Who Can Manipulate the World with Her Mind’ is too unwieldy.”

“I don’t think that would fit on the sign outside my tent.”

His laugh is low and warm and Celia turns away to hide her smile, keeping her attention on the swirling water.

“There is no use for one of my specialties, as well,” she says. “I am very good at manipulating fabric, but it seems so unnecessary given what Madame Padva can do.” She twirls in her gown, the silver catching the light so she glows as brightly as the lanterns.

“I think she’s a witch,” Marco says. “And I mean that in the most complimentary manner.”

“I think she would take that as a compliment, indeed,” Celia says. “You are seeing all this as well, exactly as I see it?”

“More or less,” Marco says. “The nuances are richer the closer I am to the viewer.”

Celia circles to the opposite side of the pond, nearer to where he stands. She examines the carvings on the stone and the vines twining around them, but her gaze keeps returning to Marco. Any attempt at subtlety is ruined when he repeatedly catches her eyes with his own. Looking away again becomes more difficult each time.

“It was clever of you to use the bonfire as a stimulus,” she says, trying to keep her attention on a tiny glowing lantern.

“I’m not surprised you figured that out,” Marco says. “I had to come up with some way of staying connected since I am not able to travel with the circus. The lighting seemed a perfect opportunity to establish a lasting hold. I didn’t want you to have too much control, after all.”

“It had repercussions,” Celia says.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say there is more that is remarkable about the Murray twins than their hair.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what that is, are you?” Marco asks.

“A lady cannot reveal all of her secrets,” Celia says. She pulls a rose down from a hanging branch, closing her eyes as she inhales the scent, the petals velvet soft against her skin. The sensory details of the illusion are so luscious, it is almost dizzying. “Who thought to sink the garden?” she asks.

“Chandresh. It’s inspired by another room in the house, I can show you that one if you’d like.”

Celia nods and they retrace their steps through the garden. She stays closer to him as they walk, close enough to touch though he keeps his hands clasped behind his back. When they reach the terrace, Celia glances back at the garden, where the roses and lanterns have reverted to dirt and stone.

*

INSIDE, MARCO LEADS CELIA across the ballroom. He stops at the far wall and slides one of the dark-wood panels open to reveal a curving stairway spiraling downward.

“Is it a dungeon?” Celia asks as they descend.

“Not precisely,” Marco says. When they reach the gilded door at the end of the stairs, he opens it for her. “Mind your step.”

The room is small but the ceiling is high, a golden chandelier draped with crystals suspended in the center. The rounded walls and ceiling are painted a deep, vibrant blue and ornamented with stars.

A path wraps around the edge of the room like a ledge, though the majority of the floor is sunken and filled with large cushions covered in a rainbow of embellished silk.

“Chandresh claims it is modeled after a room belonging to a courtesan in Bombay,” Marco says. “I find it marvelous for reading, myself.”

Celia laughs and a curl of her hair falls across her cheek.

Marco tentatively moves to brush it off her face, but before his fingers reach her, she pushes herself off the ledge, her silver gown a billowing cloud as she falls onto the pile of jewel-toned cushions.

He watches her for a moment before copying her action himself, sinking into the center of the room alongside her.

They lie staring up at the chandelier, the light reflecting over the crystals turning it into the night sky without need of any illusion.

“How often are you able to visit the circus?” Celia asks.

“Not as often as I’d like. Whenever it is near London, of course. I try to reach it elsewhere in Europe if I can escape from Chandresh for sufficient periods of time. I sometimes feel like I have one foot on both sides. I am intimately familiar with so much of it, and yet it is always surprising.”

“Which is your favorite tent?”

“Truthfully? Yours.”

“Why?” she asks, turning to look at him.

“It appeals to my personal taste, I suppose. You do in public things I have been taught in secret. Perhaps I appreciate it on a different level than most. I also very much enjoy the Labyrinth. I had been unsure whether or not you would be willing to collaborate on it.”

“I got quite the lecture about that particular collaboration,” Celia says. “My father called it debauched juxtaposition, he must have worked for days to come up with a worthy insult. He sees something tawdry in the combining of skills, I have never understood why. I adore the Labyrinth, I have had far too much fun adding rooms. I particularly love that hallway you made where it snows, so you can see the footprints left by other people navigating their way around.”

“I had not thought of it in such a lascivious manner before,” Marco says. “I look forward to visiting it again with that in mind. Though I had been under the impression that your father was not in the position to be commenting on such matters.”

“He’s not dead,” Celia says, turning back to the ceiling. “It is rather difficult to explain.”

Marco decides against asking her to try, returning to the subject of the circus instead.

“Which tent is your favorite?” he asks.

“The Ice Garden,” Celia answers, without even pausing to consider.

“Why is that?” Marco asks.

“Because of the way it feels,” she says. “It’s like walking into a dream. As though it is someplace else entirely and not simply another tent. Perhaps I am just fond of snow. However did you come up with it?”

Marco reflects on the process, as he has never been asked to explain the origin of his ideas before.

“I thought it might be interesting to have a conservatory, but of course it necessitated a lack of color,” he says. “I pondered a great many options before settling on fabricating everything from ice. I am pleased that you think it like a dream, as that is where the core of the idea came from.”

“It’s the reason I made the Wishing Tree,” Celia says. “I thought a tree covered in fire would make for a proper complement to ones made from ice.”

Marco replays in his mind his first encounter with the Wishing Tree. A mixture of annoyance and amazement and wistfulness that seems different in retrospect. He was uncertain he would even be able to light his own candle, his own wish, wondering if it was somehow against the rules.

“Do all of those wishes come true?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” Celia says. “I’ve not been able to follow up with every person who has wished on it. Have you?”

“Perhaps.”

“Did your wish come true?”

“I am not entirely certain yet.”

“You shall have to let me know,” Celia says. “I hope it does. I suppose in a way, I made the Wishing Tree for you.”

“You didn’t know who I was then,” Marco says, turning to look at her. Her attention remains focused on the chandelier, but that alluring, secret-keeping smile has returned.

“I didn’t know your identity, but I had an impression of who my opponent was, being surrounded by things you made. I had thought you might like it.”

“I do like it,” Marco says.

The silence that falls between them is a comfortable one. He longs to reach over and touch her, but he resists, fearful of destroying the delicate camaraderie they are building. He steals glances instead, watching the way the light falls over her skin. Several times he catches her regarding him in a similar manner, and the moments when she holds his eyes with hers are sublime.

“How are you managing to keep everyone from aging?” Celia asks after a while.

“Very carefully,” Marco answers. “And they are aging, albeit extremely slowly. How are you moving the circus?”

“On a train.”

“A train?” Marco asks, incredulous. “The entire circus moved by a single train?”

“It’s a large train,” Celia says. “And it’s magic,” she adds, making Marco laugh.

“I confess, Miss Bowen, you are not what I had expected.”

“I assure you that feeling is mutual.”

Marco stands, stepping back up to the ledge by the door.

Celia reaches out her hand to him and he takes it to help her up. It is the first time he has touched her bare skin.

The reaction in the air is immediate. A sudden charge ripples through the room, crisp and bright. The chandelier begins to shake.

The feeling rushing over Marco’s skin is intense and intimate, beginning where his palm meets hers but spreading beyond that, farther and deeper.

Celia pulls her hand away after she catches her balance, stepping back and leaning against the wall. The feeling begins to subside as soon as she lets him go.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, clearly out of breath. “You caught me by surprise.”

“My apologies,” Marco says, his heartbeat pounding so loudly in his ears that he can barely hear her. “Though I cannot say I’m entirely sure what happened.”

“I tend to be particularly sensitive to energy,” Celia says. “People who do the sort of things you and I do carry a very palpable type of energy, and I  …  I am not accustomed to yours just yet.”

“I only hope that was as pleasurable a sensation for you as it was for me.”

Celia does not reply, and to keep himself from reaching for her hand again, he opens the door instead, leading her back up the twisting stairway.

*

THEY WALK THROUGH the moonlit ballroom, their steps echoing together.

“How is Chandresh?” Celia asks, attempting to find a subject to fill the silence, anything to distract herself from her still-shaking hands, and remembering the fallen glass at dinner.

“He wavers,” Marco says with a sigh. “Ever since the circus opened, he has been increasingly unfocused. I  …  I do what I can to keep him steady, though I fear it has an adverse effect on his memory. I had not intended to, but after what happened with the late Miss Burgess I thought it the wisest course of action.”

“She was in the peculiar position of being involved in all this but not within the circus itself,” Celia says. “I am sure it is not the easiest perspective to manage. At least you can observe Chandresh.”

“Indeed,” Marco says. “I do wish there was a way to protect those outside the circus the way the bonfire protects those within it.”

“The bonfire?” Celia asks.

“It serves several purposes. Primarily, it is my connection to the circus, but it also functions as a safeguard of a sort. I neglected the fact that it does not cover those outside the fence.”

“I neglected even considering safeguards,” Celia says. “I do not think I understood at first how many other people would become involved in our challenge.” She stops walking, standing in the middle of the ballroom.

Marco stops as well but says nothing, waiting for her to speak.

“It was not your fault,” she says quietly. “What happened to Tara. The circumstances may have played out the same way regardless of anything you or I did. You cannot take away anyone’s own free will, that was one of my very first lessons.”

Marco nods, and then he takes a step closer to her. He reaches out to take her hand, slowly brushing his fingers against hers.

The feeling is as strong as it had been when he touched her before, but something is different. The air changes, but the chandeliers hanging above them remain steady and still.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“You mentioned something about energy,” Marco says. “I’m focusing yours with mine, so you won’t break the chandeliers.”

“If I broke anything, I could probably fix it,” Celia says, but she does not let go.

Without the concern for the effect she might be having on the surroundings, she is able to relax into the sensation instead of resisting it. It is exquisite. It is the way she has felt in so many of his tents, the thrill of being surrounded by something wondrous and fantastical, only magnified and focused directly on her. The feel of his skin against hers reverberates across her entire body, though his fingers remain entwined in hers. She looks up at him, caught in the haunting greenish-grey of his eyes again, and she does not turn away.

They stand gazing at each other in silence for moments that seem to stretch for hours.

The clock in the hall chimes and Celia jumps, startled. As soon as she releases Marco’s hand she wants to take it again, but the whole evening has been too overwhelming already.

“You hide it so well,” she says. “I can feel the same energy radiating like heat in each of your tents, but in person it’s completely concealed.”

“Misdirection is one of my strengths,” Marco says.

“It won’t be as easy now that you have my attention.”

“I like having your attention,” he says. “Thank you for this. For staying.”

“I forgive you for stealing my shawl.”

She smiles as he laughs.

And then she vanishes. A simple trick of distracting his attention long enough to slip out through the hall, despite the lingering temptation to stay.

*

MARCO FINDS HER SHAWL left behind in the game room, still draped over his jacket.