He thinks no more of it, other than a passing thought of how the clock itself might be doing, and where it might be (though he assumes, incorrectly, that it remains in London), particularly when he is working on a clock that reminds him of the Wunschtraum clock, which was how he referred to it during the more troublesome parts of its construction, uncertain whether or not it was a dream that could be realized.
He does not hear from Mr. Barris beyond that single letter.
Auditory
LONDON, APRIL 1886
There is an unprecedented gathering of illusionists in the lobby of the theater. A gaggle of pristine suits and strategically placed silk handkerchiefs. Some have trunks and capes, others carry birdcages or silver-topped canes. They do not speak to each other as they wait to be called in, one at a time, referenced not by name (given or stage) but by a number written on a small slip of paper given to them upon arrival. Instead of chitchatting or gossiping or sharing tricks of the trade, they shift in their seats and cast rather conspicuous glances at the girl.
A few mistook her for an assistant when they arrived, but she sits waiting in her chair with her own numbered slip of paper (23).
She has no trunk, no cape, no birdcage or cane. She is dressed in a deep-green gown with a black puffed-sleeve jacket buttoned over it. A pile of brown curls is pinned neatly upon her head under a tiny and feathered but otherwise unremarkable black hat. Her face maintains a semblance of girlishness, in the length of her eyelashes and the slight pout of her lips, despite the fact that she is clearly too old to be properly called a girl. But it is difficult to discern her age and no one dares inquire. The others think of her as the girl regardless, and refer to her as such when they discuss the affair after the fact. She acknowledges no one despite the barely concealed glances and occasional outright stare.
One by one, each illusionist’s number is called by a man with a list and a notebook who escorts them through a gilded door on the side of the lobby, and, one by one, each returns to the lobby and exits the theater. Some last only minutes, while others remain in the theater for quite some time. Those with higher numbers shift impatiently in their seats as they wait for the man with the notebook to reappear and politely call out the number on their respective slips of paper.
The last illusionist to enter the gilded door (a rotund fellow with a top hat and flashy cape) returns to the lobby rather quickly and visibly agitated, flouncing through the exit back onto the street, letting the theater doors slam shut behind him. The sound is still echoing through the lobby when the man with the notebook reappears, nods absently at the room, and clears his throat.
“Number twenty-three,” Marco says, checking the number on his list.
All the eyes in the room turn as the girl rises from her seat and steps forward.
Marco watches her approach, confused at first but then the confusion is replaced by something else entirely.
He could tell from across the room that she was lovely, but when she is near enough to look him in the eyes the loveliness—the shape of her face, the contrast of her hair against her skin—evolves into something more.
She is radiant. For a moment, while they look at each other, he cannot remember what he is meant to be doing, or why she is handing him a piece of paper with the number twenty-three written on it in his own handwriting.
“This way, please,” he manages to say as he takes her number and holds the door open for her. She bobs the slightest of curtseys in acknowledgment and the lobby is abuzz with whispers before the door has fully closed behind them.
*
THE THEATER IS MASSIVE AND ORNATE, with rows upon rows of plush red velvet seats. Orchestra, mezzanine, and balcony spreading out from the empty stage in a cascade of crimson. It is empty save for two people seated approximately ten rows back from the stage. Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre sits with his feet propped up on the seat in front of him. Mme. Ana Padva sits on his right, pulling a watch from her bag while she stifles a yawn.
Marco emerges from the wing of the stage with the girl in the green dress trailing close behind him. He gestures for her to move to the center of the stage, unable to take his eyes from her as he announces her to the mostly empty theater.
“Number twenty-three,” he says, before descending a small set of stairs near the proscenium and hovering by the edge of the front row, pen poised over his open notebook.
Mme. Padva looks up and smiles, tucking her watch back into her bag.
“What’s this, then?” Chandresh asks, not directing the question at anyone in particular. The girl does not respond.
“This is number twenty-three,” Marco repeats, checking his notes to make certain the number is accurate.
“We’re auditioning illusionists, my dear girl,” Chandresh says, rather loudly, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. “Magicians, conjurers, etcetera. No need for lovely assistants at this time.”
“I am an illusionist, sir,” the girl says. Her voice is calm and low. “I am here for your auditions.”
“I see,” Chandresh says, frowning as he looks the girl over slowly from head to toe. She stands perfectly still in the center of the stage, patiently, as though she has expected such a reaction.
“Is there something wrong with that?” Mme. Padva asks.
“I am not entirely sure it is appropriate,” Chandresh says, eyeing the girl thoughtfully.
“After all of your pontificating about the contortionist?”
Chandresh pauses, still looking at the girl on the stage who, while comparatively elegant, does not appear particularly unusual.
“That’s a different matter” is all he can manage as to his reasoning.
“Really, Chandresh,” Mme. Padva says. “We should at least let her show off her skills before arguing over the appropriateness of a female illusionist.”
“But she has so much more sleeve to hide things up,” he protests.
In response, the girl unbuttons her puffed-sleeve jacket and drops it unceremoniously on the stage by her feet. Her green gown is both sleeveless and strapless, leaving her shoulders and arms completely bare save for a long silver chain with what appears to be a silver locket around her neck. She then removes her gloves and tosses them one by one on the crumpled jacket as well. Mme. Padva gives Chandresh a pointed look that is met with a sigh.
“Very well,” Chandresh says. “On with it.” He gestures vaguely at Marco.
“Yes, sir,” Marco says, turning to address the girl. “We have a few preliminary questions before the practical demonstration. Your name, miss?”
“Celia Bowen.”
Marco records this in his notebook.
“And your stage name?” he asks.
“I don’t have a stage name,” Celia says. Marco notes this as well.
“Where have you performed professionally?”
“I have never performed professionally before.”
At this Chandresh moves to interrupt but Mme. Padva stops him.
“Then with whom have you studied?” Marco asks.
“With my father, Hector Bowen,” Celia answers. She pauses for a moment before adding, “Though perhaps he is better known as Prospero the Enchanter.”
Marco drops his pen.
“Prospero the Enchanter?” Chandresh removes his feet from the chair in front of him and leans forward, staring at Celia as though he is seeing a completely different person. “Your father is Prospero the Enchanter?”
“Was,” Celia clarifies. “He … passed last year.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, dear,” Mme. Padva says. “But who, pray tell, is Prospero the Enchanter?”
“Only the greatest illusionist of his generation,” Chandresh says. “Used to book him whenever I could get my hands on him, years ago now. Absolutely brilliant, completely mesmerized every audience. Never seen anyone to match him, never.”
“He would have been pleased to hear that, sir,” Celia says, her eyes briefly glancing over to the shadowed curtains at the side o
f the stage.
“I told him as much, though I haven’t seen him in ages. Got very drunk with him in a pub some years back and he went on about pushing the boundaries of what theater can be, inventing something more extraordinary. He probably would have loved this entire endeavor. Damned shame.” He sighs heavily, shaking his head. “Well, on with it then,” he says, leaning back in his seat and regarding Celia with a considerable amount of interest.
Marco, pen in hand once more, returns to his list of questions.
“A-are you capable of performing without a stage?”
“Yes,” Celia says.
“Can your illusions be viewed from all angles?”
Celia smiles. “You are looking for someone who can perform in the midst of a crowd?” she asks Chandresh. He nods. “I see,” Celia says. Then, so swiftly she appears not even to move, she picks up her jacket from the stage and flings it out over the seats where, instead of tumbling down, it swoops up, folding into itself. In the blink of an eye folds of silk are glossy black feathers, large beating wings, and it is impossible to pinpoint the moment when it is fully raven and no longer cloth. The raven swoops over the red velvet seats and up into the balcony where it flies in curious circles.
“Impressive,” Mme. Padva says.
“Unless she had him concealed in those gigantic sleeves,” Chandresh mutters. On the stage, Celia crosses closer to Marco.
“May I borrow that for a moment?” she asks him, indicating his notebook. He hesitates before handing it to her. “Thank you,” she says, returning to the center of the stage.
She barely glances at the list of questions in precise handwriting before tossing the notebook straight up into the air where it turns end over end and the blur of fluttering paper becomes a white dove flapping its wings and taking flight in a loop around the theater. The raven caws at it from its perch in the balcony.
“Ha!” Chandresh exclaims, both at the dove and the expression on Marco’s face.
The dove swoops back down to Celia, settling gently on her outstretched hand. She strokes its wings and then releases it back into the air. It lifts up only a few feet above her head before wings are paper once again and it topples quickly down. Celia catches it with one hand and gives it back to Marco, whose complexion is now a few shades paler.
“Thank you,” Celia says with a smile. Marco nods absently, not meeting her eyes, and quickly retreats to his corner.
“Marvelous, simply marvelous,” Chandresh says. “This could work. This could most definitely work.” He rises from his seat and moves down the aisle, stopping to pace thoughtfully in front of the orchestra pit by the footlights.
“There is the matter of costuming her,” Mme. Padva calls toward him from her seat. “I had only considered formal suits. A similar sort of gown might do just as well, I suppose.”
“What manner of costume do you require?” Celia asks.
“We have a color scheme to work with, dear,” Mme. Padva says. “Or lack thereof, rather. Nothing but black and white. Though on you a full black gown might be a bit too funereal.”
“I see,” says Celia.
Mme. Padva stands and moves down the aisle to where Chandresh is pacing. She whispers something in his ear and he turns to consult with her, taking his eyes off of Celia for a moment.
No one is watching her except Marco as she stands perfectly still on the stage, waiting patiently. And then, very slowly, her gown begins to change.
Starting at the neckline and seeping down like ink, the green silk is turning a murky, midnight black.
Marco gasps. Chandresh and Mme. Padva turn at the sound just in time to witness the creeping black fade into snow-bright white at the bottom of the skirt, until all evidence that the gown was ever green is gone.
“Well, that makes my job much easier,” Mme. Padva says, though she cannot conceal the delight in her eyes. “Though I think perhaps your hair is too light a shade.”
Celia shakes her head and her brown curls deepen in hue to a near black, as glossy and ebony as the wings of her raven.
“Marvelous,” Chandresh says, almost to himself.
Celia simply smiles.
Chandresh leaps up to the stage, taking the small flight of stairs in only two steps. He inspects Celia’s gown from every angle.
“May I?” he asks before carefully touching the fabric of her skirt. Celia nods. The silk is undeniably black and white, the transition between the two a soft fade of grey, distinct fibers visible in the weave.
“What happened to your father, if you don’t mind my prying?” Chandresh asks, his attention still on her gown.
“I do not mind,” Celia says. “One of his tricks did not go entirely as planned.”
“That’s a damned shame,” he says, stepping back. “Miss Bowen, might you be interested in a somewhat unique employment opportunity?”
He snaps his fingers and Marco approaches with his notebook, halting a few paces away from Celia, his stare moving from her gown to her hair and back, spending a considerable amount of time in between.
Before she can respond, a caw echoes through the theater from the raven still perched on the balcony, watching the scene in front of him curiously.
“Just a moment,” Celia says. She lifts her hand in a delicate gesture at the raven. In response it caws again and spreads its large wings, taking flight and swooping toward the stage, gaining speed as it approaches. Descending quickly it dives, flying directly at Celia and not wavering or slowing as it reaches the stage, but approaching at full speed. Chandresh jumps back with a start, almost falling over Marco as the raven crashes into Celia in a flurry of feathers.
And then it is gone. Not a single feather remains and Celia is once again wearing a puffed-sleeve black jacket, already buttoned over her black-and-white gown.
In the front of the orchestra, Mme. Padva claps.
Celia bows, taking the opportunity to retrieve her gloves from the floor.
“She’s perfect,” Chandresh remarks, pulling a cigar from his pocket. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Yes, sir,” says Marco behind him, the notebook in his hand shaking slightly.
*
THE ILLUSIONISTS WAITING IN THE LOBBY grumble when they are thanked for their time and politely dismissed.
Stratagem
LONDON, APRIL 1886
She’s too good to keep out in the crowd,” Chandresh says. “She simply must have her own tent. We’ll put the seats in a ring or something, keep the audience right in the middle of the action.”
“Yes, sir,” Marco says, fiddling with his notebook, running his fingers over the pages that had been wings only minutes before.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” Chandresh asks. “You’re white as a sheet.” His voice echoes through the empty theater as they stand alone on the stage, Mme. Padva having whisked Miss Bowen off, peppering her with questions about gowns and hairstyles.
“I am fine, sir,” Marco says.
“You look awful,” Chandresh says, puffing on his cigar. “Go home.”
Marco looks up at him, surprised. “Sir, there is paperwork that needs to be done,” he protests.
“Do it tomorrow, plenty of time for such things. Tante Padva and I will take Miss Bowen back to the house for tea and we can sort out the particulars and paperwork later. Get some rest or have yourself a drink or whatever it is you do.” Chandresh waves a hand at him absently, the smoke from his cigar trailing in bobbing waves.
“If you insist, sir.”
“I do insist! And get rid of the rest of those fellows in the lobby. No need to see a bunch of suits with capes when we’ve already found something far more interesting. Quite attractive, too, I should think, if one’s predilections run in that direction.”
“Indeed, sir,” Marco says, a blush creeping into his pallor. “Until tomorrow then.” He nods his head in something almost like a bow before turning gracefully on his heel and heading out to the lobby.
“Didn’t take you to be the easily
spooked type, Marco,” Chandresh calls after him, but Marco does not turn.
Marco politely dismisses the illusionists in the lobby, explaining that the position has been filled and thanking them for their time. None of them notice that his hands are shaking, or that he is clutching the pen in his hand so tightly that his knuckles are white. Nor do they notice when it snaps in two within his fist, black ink seeping down his wrist.
After the illusionists have departed, Marco gathers his things, wiping his ink-covered hand on his black coat. He puts on his bowler hat before he exits the theater.
With every step, he grows more visibly distressed. People move out of his way on the crowded pavement.
When he reaches his flat, Marco drops his bag to the floor, leaning against the door with a heavy sigh.
“What’s wrong?” Isobel asks from a chair next to the empty fireplace. She conceals the length of hair she has been braiding in her pocket, scowling as she knows she will have to rebraid the entire piece because her concentration was broken. It is the part she still has the most difficulty with, the concentration and focus.
For now, she abandons it and watches Marco as he crosses the room to reach the bookcases lining the wall.
“I know who my opponent is,” Marco says, pulling armfuls of books down from their shelves and spreading them out haphazardly over tables, leaving several in messy piles on the floor. Those remaining on the shelves collapse, a few volumes falling, but Marco does not seem to notice.
“Is it that Japanese woman you were so curious about?” Isobel asks, watching as Marco’s impeccable filing system falls into chaos. The flat has always been kept in perfect order, and she finds the sudden upheaval disquieting.
“No,” Marco says as he flips through pages. “It’s Prospero’s daughter.”
Isobel picks up a potted violet that has toppled in the wake of the falling books and places it back upon its shelf.
The Night Circus Page 8
