The Night Circus

by Erin Morgenstern

  “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 crys
tal 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 slow
ly, 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.