Alice glanced at Bastjan, who smiled at her. “All right,” she said, returning the smile and looking gratefully up at Crake. “When you put it like that.”
They got to their feet. Bastjan started to slide his mother’s box back into its hiding place, but Alice put a hand on his arm. “I could bring it with me,” she said. “Keep it safe for you while you’re rehearsing.”
Bastjan frowned. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s important to you, isn’t it? Anyone can tell that. And if you’re worried about it being found – well, it’s already been found. The next person to find it mightn’t want to give it back.”
“She’s got a point, son,” Crake said, with a shrug.
“I’ll take care of it. I promise,” Alice said.
“You already know there’s nothin’ in it worth stealin’,” Bastjan said, looking back at her.
“I won’t—”
“No money, nothin’ valuable,” Bastjan continued.
“I wouldn’t—”
“An’ if anythin’ happens to it, I swear—”
“Nothing will happen to it,” Alice said, looking between him and Crake. “Listen. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
She licked her lips nervously and closed her eyes. “There is someone after me – a woman, named Mrs Palmer. She’s … she’s not someone you really want on your tail. I need to stay away from her. And if I’m trusting you both to keep me hidden, and if I have nothing to give you, then the best way for me to pay you back is to take care of this box.” She opened her eyes again. “I’m not going to run – why would I? Mrs P would be on me in a heartbeat.” She looked beseechingly at Bastjan. “Plus without me, you can’t read what’s in the notebook and it might be important. I want to help.”
“Does this Mrs Palmer know you’re here?” Crake asked, looking serious. Alice shook her head.
Another whistle sounded outside, sharp and commanding. Bastjan and Crake shared a look, and then Bastjan turned to Alice.
“That’s the last whistle. We’ve got to go.” He handed her the box and she took it with a grateful, surprised grin. “C’mon. Let’s get you hid, an’ then we can get on with the show.”
Bastjan took a deep breath. So many thoughts were swirling around inside his head that he felt like it was going to spin right off his shoulders and fly out of the big top, straight through the hole where the king pole passed through the canvas roof. He looked up, seeing the circle of blue sky, and shook out his limbs. Nanette had started his rehearsal on the low wire and he was about to begin his fifth attempt to make it all the way across.
“You can do it, Bastjan,” came Nanette’s gentle voice. “Come on.”
Bastjan nodded, raising his arms. Nanette lifted him high enough for him to land lightly on the wire and he found his balance instantly. He began to walk, standing tall, his shoulders relaxed and his arms held out like he was a bird poised for flight.
The curtain leading from the performers’ area was suddenly pulled aside and Bastjan’s focus wavered. Two men came into the ring – one was Cyrus Quinn, in his shirtsleeves, his hair and beard braided; the other was a stranger. He was a full head shorter than the ringmaster and dressed in a smart suit. He had a long coat draped over one arm and his face was strangely pale, like something which had been left in the dark too long.
“Here we are,” Bastjan heard Quinn say. “This is the act you were interested in, sir, Ester’s boy. If you’d care to take a seat, Mr Bauer?”
The stranger tsked irritably. “It’s Dr Bauer, Mr Quinn. I have explained this already.” His voice was low, but somehow it carried throughout the tent.
“Apologies, sir, apologies,” Quinn said, ushering Bauer to the stalls. They climbed the steps to sit midway up, where the stranger could get a clear view of the entire ring.
Bastjan took one step after another, concentrating on the bite of the wire. He turned a careful cartwheel at the end and pivoted on one foot to change direction, before beginning the return journey. He glanced to the side; the ringmaster had appeared at the ringside barrier and Bastjan felt the weight of his presence. He placed his foot and then risked a look up into the stalls. Dr Bauer’s distant, moon-white gaze was unsettling enough to make him look away instantly.
“Good work,” Quinn called, too loudly for Bastjan’s benefit alone. “Keep it up.”
Bastjan reached the end of the wire and leaped down, landing neatly in the sawdust of the ring. Nanette gave him a quick, satisfied nod and the boy walked to the water butt. He pulled out the dipper and took a drink, watching the ringmaster approaching from the corner of his eye. When he could avoid it no longer, Bastjan turned to face him.
“Are you ready?” Quinn asked.
Nanette looked at Bastjan and the boy nodded. She gave the ringmaster a level stare. “With the net,” she said. After a breath’s pause, the ringmaster whistled his rousties into action.
Nanette and Bastjan jogged to the trapeze platform. As soon as they were in position, Nanette signalled to the roustie controlling the ropes and he released the sandbag which acted as their counterweight. Up they went, fast as a thought. They made the platform secure at the top, where the hoop had been tied off and was waiting for them. Far below, a team of rousties were running around the ring, chaining the safety net in place. Bastjan’s ears were primed for their whistle, the signal to let them know it was ready.
“While we’re waiting –” Nanette stretched her muscles as she spoke – “just listen. You’re going to be fine, Bastjan. Nobody is expecting you to be your mother.” Bastjan quivered at her words. “Do some basic moves, whatever you can manage, and do them as well as you can. And that will be good enough.” Nanette bent to place one hand against Bastjan’s cheek. “It’s just like the swing you’re used to with the Runner Beans.” She grimaced. “Well. It’s near enough like it. If you can manage that swing, you can manage this. Believe me.” Bastjan closed his eyes against the whirling in his belly. The swing he used as part of his tumbling act was suspended ten feet off the ground. This hoop was three times as high.
The signal came, making Bastjan jump and open his eyes. Nanette grasped the hoop, pulling free its mooring rope, and held it steady while Bastjan sat into it. Finally, he gave the nod to say he was ready – and Nanette released her grip.
The hoop swung gracefully across the roof space and Bastjan allowed himself one full swoop to get the feel of it. Then, on the return leg, he leaned backwards, gathering speed as he went. He started with a simple trick – turning around in the hoop – and, his confidence growing, he stood and balanced on one leg, holding on with one hand while he raised the other above his head, imagining the applause from below.
He swung back into a sitting position, his legs dangling casually, and then he let his hands slide along the cool metal as he dropped his body out of the hoop, keeping his legs bent tight around it. At the apex of the next swing, once his heart had stopped hopping in his chest, he let go of the hoop and allowed his arms to swing freely.
He was tumbling through the air, spinning in his sequinned costume with his legs and arms spread, shining like a star – or a snowflake. That was the name of the act, of course. The Dance of the Snowflakes. From nowhere, out of the darkness, came a slender hand, its grip strong as it caught him. Then he was being bundled against his mother, their costumes locking together with specially made hooks. Her fingers fumbled a little as they settled him safely and then they were off, sweeping across the roof space with the spotlight on them making them sparkle so brightly that every eye beneath the big top could see them fly. The applause was deafening. He looked up; there was his mother’s smiling face, sweaty and shining in the lights, strands of her hair sticking to her forehead, and her heart inside her beating, beating, beating…
Bastjan jerked out of his dream-memory, throwing the hoop’s momentum off. His chest felt as if it was full of mud, suddenly – hot mud, thick and choking, and he couldn’t catch his breath. The hoop began to wobble d
angerously and he lost his nerve. He pulled himself up into a sitting position again and coughed, pleading with his lungs to open up.
“Whoop,” he croaked, cold sweat standing out on his forehead. “Whoop.” He glanced at the platform; even from here, he could see the concern on Nanette’s face. She readied herself to catch the hoop the next time he got close enough.
As Bastjan reached the platform and the comfort of Nanette’s solid arms, he looked down. The ringmaster was standing with his hands on his hips, staring up at him.
“Whoop,” came his breath once more, fighting its way through his neck and into his lungs. “Nanette, I – whoop – I gotta get down.”
“Yes, you do,” the woman agreed, signalling to the roustie. He dropped the platform and a moment later they were on the ground. Bastjan fell to his knees on the sawdust floor and fought for breath. A shadow loomed over him and he looked up to see Quinn standing there with his eyes wide and his teeth gritted.
He crouched beside the trembling boy, grabbing him beneath the chin. “Get back up there,” the ringmaster hissed. “Get up there now or this whole circus will be on the skids.”
“Whoop,” Bastjan replied. “I … I can’t.”
Quinn’s eyes bulged. He leaned closer, increasing his grip on Bastjan’s chin until it became agonizing. “Didn’t you hear me, you ignorant lump? Get up there now or feel the back of my hand!”
Bastjan tried to breathe. His eyes filled with hot tears. “I tol’ you,” he gasped. “Whoop. I can’t.”
Quinn hauled in two or three deep breaths through flared nostrils, until finally he spoke again. “You can’t? More like you won’t! What’s the use of ’avin’ an ’ighwire boy who can’t even catch ’is breath, eh? I should sell you, I should! You’re not worth the food I pay for!” The ringmaster’s face reddened and Bastjan’s heart beat faster as he heard Quinn’s true accent, his true self, begin to creep through his ringmaster persona.
“I’m sorry! I – whoop – I’m sorry, Dad! I’m doin’ me best!” The tears he’d been trying to keep inside finally spilled over. Dad. Quinn wasn’t his dad. Bastjan had never known his father – all he knew was he’d been a roustie from another circus. But somehow, in his desperation, Bastjan tried to remind the ringmaster that he was also his stepfather. It had never done him any good before, but he prayed it would help now.
His prayers weren’t answered. “Your best ain’t good enough,” Quinn growled. “Yer nothin’ but a clod! Yer mother’d die all over again, this time out o’ shame, if she could see you now!” He scrubbed his hands through his hair, pulling the top of his braid loose. “You stupid thing, I wish I’d left you in the poorhouse!”
Bastjan closed his eyes and sobbed, his mind filling with the memory that had made him lose his balance – his mother’s beautiful smile, the pride in her eyes, the joy she felt in flight. The sound of her beating heart.
“Mr Quinn,” came Nanette’s voice, sharp as a whip. “That’s quite enough, sir.”
Quinn looked up at her. “You stay out of it, you old has-been,” he snapped. “God knows why I keep you around.”
Nanette dropped to one knee, her arm going round Bastjan’s shoulders. “Because before you lost your heart to this poor boy’s mother, I was the finest aerialist you’d ever seen,” she told him calmly. “And now that she’s gone before her time, I’m still the best aerialist you’ve got. So –” the woman shrugged – “take it or leave it.” She glanced up at the stalls. “Oh, and you might like to know your benefactor has done a runner.”
Quinn swore, turning to look at the seat where Dr Bauer had been. Nanette was right; the man with the strangely pale face was gone.
Wares stuck close to Alice’s heels as they crept out of the big top. They’d been hiding behind a haybale when a man had come striding through the performers’ area – a pale man with sideways-slicked hair, carrying his coat over one arm. In his wake he left a strange smell. It was more like the absence of a smell, like a wave of cold air which seemed to surround and trail behind him. He’d walked right past Alice and Wares without even noticing they were there, his eyes fixed on the flap tied open at the back of the performers’ area, which gave access to the wagons. Within a few heartbeats he’d vanished into the daylight outside the tent, ducking slightly as he passed beneath the canvas. Something about him had struck Alice as odd – as dangerous, even – and she couldn’t suppress her curiosity.
She’d counted to five before clicking her tongue to get Wares’s attention and then they’d slipped out after him.
Keeping low, crouching behind crates and stray equipment, they followed the stranger as he hurried, stiff-legged, through the camp. He stopped at the edge of the circle of wagons as though looking for something, his head turning from side to side. Alice and Wares ducked quickly behind a large, empty gas cylinder – but as Alice crouched, she knocked against something that looked like an old unicycle frame, making it clang against the tank. Alice’s breath dried up as the stranger’s eyes landed on their hiding place and then the dog set off at a run, tearing across the campground, yapping as he went.
“Wares!” she hissed, reaching out to grab him, but she wasn’t fast enough. The stranger’s head whipped round to look as Wares barrelled past him, but then Alice saw him relax. Clearly, he’d decided the noise had been made by the dog. She gave a shaky grin, silently giving thanks for the tricks Wares had learned as part of Mrs Palmer’s gang, and then the stranger started walking again. Alice steeled herself and crept after him. You’re up to something, she thought, frowning at the man. And I’m going to find out what. She slipped between two wagons, pressing herself against the side of one of them and peeking around its front wheel until she had a clear view of the stranger.
Then from behind a cart with the words Bracklebrick Farm on the side, Alice saw a roustie appear – a man with a speckled neckerchief and a dusty, patched waistcoat – who nodded at the stranger. The two men cast wary looks around the campground before approaching one another.
Alice watched the roustie mutter something in the stranger’s ear, at the same time as the stranger slipped something – a banknote? – into the roustie’s waistcoat pocket. Her breath hitched as the roustie nodded in the direction of Crake and Bastjan’s wagon before he hurried away. Alice watched him go, hardly able to believe what she’d seen. Did he just tell that man where Crake and Bastjan live?
The stranger looked around once more, before walking towards Bastjan and Crake’s wagon, striding up the steps as though he had every right to. He pulled open the top half of their door and leaned in to unlatch the bottom panel. Then he let himself into their home. Alice’s hand travelled to the box she had in her hidden pocket. She squeezed it, as though checking it was still there, and watched the wagon for several long moments, unsure of what to do.
“Bauer!” came a voice from behind her. “Dr Bauer!”
Alice froze for a moment before dropping silently to the ground. She crept beneath the belly box of the wagon and wriggled out of sight just in time. The ringmaster came striding across the campground, his expression thunderous. He passed her hiding place without giving it a glance.
The stranger emerged from Crake and Bastjan’s wagon nonchalantly, his eyebrows raised politely. “Mr Quinn,” he said. “What is it, please?”
“Just wondering where you’d gone, Doctor,” Quinn said, stopping with one foot on the bottom step of Crake and Bastjan’s wagon. Alice couldn’t see his face properly, but she saw the tension in his arms and shoulders. “Circus camps are dangerous places for people who aren’t used to ’em. I wouldn’t want you coming to any harm.”
Bauer gave the ringmaster an indulgent smile. “I have handled myself in far more challenging environments than this one, Mr Quinn. I assure you of that. But I thank you for your concern.”
Quinn straightened his shoulders and folded his arms. “Is there anything I can show you, sir? Would you like a tour of the animal enclosures? We have a magnificent bull elephant on site, you
might—”
“Mr Quinn, let me be honest. I am not at this wagon by accident.” Bauer’s smile flattened before fading completely. “I am here because I hoped to find some small keepsake, a trinket which once belonged to your late wife, something which I – as a great fan of her work – would enjoy having for my own.”
There was a moment’s silence and then Quinn spoke again. “I think I’m seeing the truth of it now,” he said, leaning against the wagon’s railing. He looked up at the smaller man, who was standing on a higher step. “You want something of Ester’s, and if you don’t get it, you’ll be skedaddling off back to London with your money. Is that about the size of it?”
Bauer’s mouth tightened. “You’ve been a man of business for a great many years, Mr Quinn. I see you are nobody’s fool.”
Quinn snorted. “Fools don’t last long in this line of work. Tell me what you’re lookin’ for, Dr Bauer, and let’s get the deal done.”
Bauer pulled out a handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed at his lips. “I seek a box, Mr Quinn. It is made of dark wood, with an enamelled lid. Possibly, this lid will have a fish design, as it comes from a village which makes its living from the sea, and such artistry is common there. It belonged to Miss Manduca and I believe she brought it with her from Melita, many years ago.”
“Well, you won’t find it in there,” Quinn said, and Alice gripped the box again as she listened. Her pulse hopped in her fingers. “The boy doesn’t have anything of his mother’s. And that’s not even the wagon Ester lived in, anyhow. I forget which one was hers.”
A flash of irritation crossed Bauer’s face. “Ah. That is a shame. Do you know whether the boy – Bastjan, is it? – has maintained contact with his family on Melita? Perhaps the box has remained there.”
Skyborn Page 9
