The Night Circus

by Erin Morgenstern

  “What books, sir?” Marco asks. Chandresh looks back at the desk. There are no papers, no pile of ledgers. There is an inkwell next to the lamp, a brass statue of an Egyptian deity, a clock, and the empty brandy bottle. Nothing else remains on the polished-wood surface.

  Chandresh stumbles, looking from the desk to Marco and back, unable to focus.

  “I will not let you do this to me,” Chandresh says, picking up the brandy bottle from the desk and brandishing it in front of him. “You are dismissed from your position. You shall leave immediately.”

  The brandy bottle vanishes. Chandresh stops, grasping at the empty air.

  “I cannot leave,” Marco says, his voice calm and controlled. He speaks each word slowly, as though he is explaining something to a small child. “I am not allowed. I must remain here, and I must continue with this nonsense, as you so aptly put it. You are going to return to your drinking and your parties and you will not even remember that we had this conversation. Things will continue as they always have. That is what is going to happen.”

  Chandresh opens his mouth to object and then closes it again, confused. He glances at Marco, then back at the empty desk. He looks at his hand, opening and closing his fingers, trying to grasp something that is no longer there, though he cannot remember what it was.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, turning back to Marco. “I … I’ve lost my train of thought. What were we discussing?”

  “Nothing of import, sir,” Marco says. “Just a few minor details about the circus.”

  “Of course,” Chandresh says. “Where is the circus now?”

  “Sydney, Australia, sir.” His voice wavers but he covers it with a short cough before turning away.

  Chandresh only nods absently.

  “May I take that for you, sir?” Marco says, indicating the empty bottle that is once again sitting on the desk.

  “Oh,” Chandresh says. “Yes, yes, of course.” He hands the bottle to Marco without looking at it or him, barely registering the action.

  “May I get you another, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Chandresh says, wandering out of Marco’s office and back into his own study. He settles into a leather armchair by the window.

  In the office, Marco gathers up fallen notebooks and papers with trembling hands. He rolls the blueprints and piles the papers and books.

  He takes the silver knife he finds discarded on the floor and returns it to the dartboard in the study, stabbing the blade into the bull’s-eye.

  Then he empties every drawer in the office, removes each file and document. When everything is properly organized, he locates a set of suitcases in his adjoining rooms and fills them near to bursting, the large leather-bound book cushioned between stacks of paper. He combs through his rooms, removing every personal belonging from the space.

  He extinguishes the office lamps and locks the door behind him.

  Before he leaves for the night, arms laden with suitcases and rolls of blueprints, Marco places a full bottle of brandy and a glass on the table next to Chandresh’s chair. Chandresh does not even acknowledge his presence. He stares out the window into the darkness and the rain. He does not hear the click of the door as Marco leaves.

  “He has no shadow,” Chandresh says to himself before he pours a glass of brandy.

  *

  VERY LATE IN THE EVENING, Chandresh has a rather lengthy conversation with the ghost of an old acquaintance he knew only as Prospero the Enchanter. Thoughts that might have drifted away on waves of brandy otherwise remain intact in his head, confirmed and secured by a diaphanous magician.

  Three Cups of Tea with Lainie Burgess

  LONDON, BASEL, AND CONSTANTINOPLE, 1900

  Mme. Ana Padva’s studio is a remarkable space situated near Highgate Cemetery, with floor-to-ceiling windows providing a panoramic view of London. Dress forms displaying elaborate gowns stand in groups and pairs, giving the impression of a party with a great many headless guests.

  Lainie Burgess wanders through a gathering of black-and-white gowns as she waits for Mme. Padva, pausing to admire one in ivory satin delicately covered with black velvet fretwork, like wrought iron in long scrolling lines and curves.

  “I can make that in a color if you would like it for yourself,” Mme. Padva says as she enters the room, her cane accompanying her with a steady beat against the tile floor.

  “It is too grand for me, Tante Padva,” Lainie says.

  “They are difficult to balance without color,” Mme. Padva says, turning the form around and regarding the train with a narrowed eye. “Too much white and people assume they are wedding gowns, too much black and they become heavy and dour. This one may need more black, I think. I would add more of a sleeve but Celia cannot abide them.”

  Mme. Padva shows Lainie around the rest of her latest work, including a wall of recent sketches, before they sit down for tea at a table by one of the windows.

  “You have a new assistant every time I visit,” Lainie remarks, after the latest version brings a tray with their tea and quickly disappears again.

  “They get bored of waiting for me to die and then they flit off to work for someone else, once they decide shoving me out a window and hoping I might roll down the hill into a mausoleum is too much trouble. I am an old woman with a lot of money and no heir; they are well-coiffed vultures. This one will not last more than a month.”

  “I had always assumed you would leave everything to Chandresh,” Lainie says.

  “Chandresh is not in need of any of this financially, and I do not think he would be able to manage the business end of things the way I would prefer. He does not have the eye for it. Not that he has the eye for much of anything, these days.”

  “Is he that unwell?” Lainie asks, stirring her tea.

  “He has lost something of himself,” Mme. Padva says. “I have seen him become preoccupied with projects before, but nothing to this degree. It has rendered him a ghost of what he was, though in Chandresh’s case, a ghost of his former self is more vibrant than most people. I do what I can. I find avant-garde ballet companies to occupy his theaters. I prop him up at the opera when he should be doing the same for me.” She takes a sip of her tea before adding, “And not to bring up a delicate subject, my dear, but I keep him far away from trains.”

  “That is likely wise,” Lainie says.

  “I have known him since he was a child, it is the least I can do.”

  Lainie nods. She has other questions but she decides they are best saved for someone else to whom she has been meaning to pay a visit. For the rest of the afternoon, they discuss no more than fashion and art movements. Mme. Padva insists on making her a less formal version of the ivory-and-black gown in peach and cream, finishing a sketch in a matter of minutes.

  “When I do retire, this is all going to you, my dear,” Mme. Padva says before Lainie leaves. “I would not trust anyone else with it.”

  *

  THE OFFICE IS LARGE BUT LOOKS SMALLER than it is due to the volume of its contents. While a great deal of its walls are composed of frosted glass, most of it is obscured by cabinets and shelves. The drafting table by the windows is all but hidden in the meticulously ordered chaos of papers and diagrams and blueprints. The bespectacled man seated behind it is almost invisible, blending in with his surroundings. The sound of his pencil scratching against paper is as methodical and precise as the ticking of the clock in the corner.

  It is identical to an office that occupied a similar space in London, and then another in Vienna, before it was moved here to Basel.

  Mr. Barris puts his pencil down and pours himself a cup of tea. He nearly drops it when he looks up and sees Lainie Burgess standing in his doorway.

  “Your assistant appears to be out at the moment,” she says. “I did not mean to startle you.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Mr. Barris says, putting his teacup down on the desk before rising from his chair. “I was not expecting you until later this evening.”

  �
�I took an earlier train,” Lainie says. “And I wanted to see you.”

  “More time spent with you is always a pleasure,” Mr. Barris says. “Tea?”

  Lainie nods as she navigates her way around the crowded office to the chair on the other side of the desk.

  “What is it that you discussed when Tara visited you in Vienna?” she asks before she has even taken her seat.

  “I thought you knew,” he says without looking at her, keeping his attention on the teapot as he pours.

  “We are two different people, Ethan. Just because you could never decide which one of us you were in love with does not make us interchangeable.”

  He puts down the pot and prepares her tea, knowing how she takes it without having to ask.

  “I asked you to marry me and you never gave me an answer,” he says as he stirs.

  “You asked me after she died,” Lainie says. “How could I ever be certain that was a choice you made or one that was made for you?”

  He hands her the cup of tea, resting his hand over hers as she takes it.

  “I love you,” he says. “I loved her as well but it was never the same. You are as dear as family to me, all of you. More dear, in some cases.”

  He returns to his chair, removing his spectacles to wipe them with his handkerchief.

  “I don’t know why I wear these things,” he says, looking down at them. “I haven’t needed them for years.”

  “You wear them because they suit you,” Lainie says.

  “Thank you,” he says as he replaces them, watching her as she sips her tea. “That offer still stands.”

  “I know,” Lainie says. “I am considering it.”

  “Take your time,” Mr. Barris says. “We appear to have a great deal of it.”

  Lainie nods, placing her teacup on the desk.

  “Tara was always the rational, sensible one,” she says. “We balanced each other, that was one of the reasons we excelled at whatever we did. She grounded my imaginative ideas. I saw in details while she saw in scope. Not seeing the scope is why I am here and she is not. I took each element separately and never looked to see that they did not fit together properly.”

  The clock ticks heavily through the pause that follows.

  “I don’t want to have this conversation,” Mr. Barris says once the ticking becomes insufferable. “I didn’t want to have it with her then and I do not want to have it with you now.”

  “You know what’s going on here, don’t you?” Lainie asks.

  Mr. Barris straightens a pile of papers on his desk while he considers his response.

  “Yes,” he says after a moment. “I do.”

  “Did you tell my sister?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell me,” Lainie says.

  “I cannot. To explain would involve breaking a trust and I am not willing to do that, not even for you.”

  “How many times have you lied to me?” Lainie asks, rising from her chair.

  “I have never lied,” Mr. Barris counters, standing as well. “I do not share what I am not at liberty to say. I gave my word and I intend to keep it but I have never lied to you. You never even asked me, you assumed I knew nothing.”

  “Tara asked you,” Lainie says.

  “Indirectly,” Mr. Barris says. “I do not think she knew what to ask and I would not have answered if she did. I was concerned about her and I suggested that she speak with Alexander if she wanted answers. I assume that was why she was at the station. I do not know if she ever spoke to him. I have not asked.”

  “Alexander knows as well?” Lainie asks.

  “I believe there is little, if anything, that he is ignorant about.”

  Lainie sighs and returns to her chair. She picks up her cup of tea and then without taking a sip puts it down again.

  Mr. Barris crosses to the other side of the desk and takes her hands in his, making sure she looks him in the eye before he speaks.

  “I would tell you if I could,” he says.

  “I know that, Ethan,” she says. “I do.”

  She squeezes his hands softly to reassure him.

  “I don’t mind this, Lainie,” Mr. Barris says. “I move my office every few years, I hire a new staff. I keep up with projects through correspondence, it is not a difficult thing to manage considering what I receive in return.”

  “I understand,” she says. “Where is the circus now?”

  “I’m not certain. I believe it recently left Budapest, though I do not know where it is en route to. I can find out; Friedrick will know and I owe him a telegram.”

  “And how will Herr Thiessen know where the circus is headed?”

  “Because Celia Bowen tells him.”

  Lainie does not ask him any further questions.

  Mr. Barris is relieved when she accepts the invitation to join him for dinner, and even more so when she agrees to extend her stay in Switzerland before catching up with the circus.

  *

  LAINIE INVITES CELIA to join her at the Pera Palace Hotel in Constantinople as soon as she reaches the city. She waits in the tea lounge, two lightly steaming, tulip-shaped glasses with matching saucers resting upon the tile table in front of her.

  When Celia arrives, they greet each other warmly. Celia inquires about Lainie’s journey before they discuss the city and the hotel, including the sweeping height of the room they sit within.

  “It’s like being in the acrobat tent,” Lainie remarks, looking up at the domes that line the ceiling, each one dotted with circles of turquoise-tinted glass.

  “You have not been to the circus in far too long,” Celia says. “We have your costumes, if you would like to join the statues this evening.”

  “Thank you, but no,” Lainie says. “I am not in the mood to stand so still.”

  “You are welcome at any time,” Celia says.

  “I know,” Lainie says. “Though truthfully, I am not here for the circus. I am here to speak with you.”

  “What is it you would like to speak about?” Celia asks, a look of concern falling over her face.

  “My sister was killed at St. Pancras Station, after a visit to the Midland Grand Hotel,” Lainie says. “Do you know why she went there?”

  Celia’s grip on her tea glass tightens.

  “I know who she went there to see,” she says, choosing her words carefully.

  “I suppose Ethan told you that,” Lainie says.

  Celia nods.

  “Do you know why she wanted to see him?” Lainie asks.

  “No, I do not.”

  “Because she didn’t feel right,” Lainie says. “She knew down to her bones that her world had changed and she had received no explanation, nothing to grasp onto, to understand. I believe we have all felt similarly and we are all dealing with it in different ways. Ethan and Tante Padva both have their work to consume their time, to keep their minds occupied. I had not concerned myself with it at all for quite a while. I loved my sister dearly and I always will, but I think she made a mistake.”

  “I thought it was an accident,” Celia says softly, looking down at the patterned tile on the table.

  “No, before that. Her mistake was asking the wrong questions of the wrong people. It is not a mistake I plan on repeating.”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  “That is why I am here,” Lainie says. “How long have we known each other, Celia?”

  “Over ten years.”

  “Surely by now you can trust me enough to tell me what it is that’s really going on here. I doubt you’d dare to tell me it is nothing, or suggest I not trouble myself with such matters.”

  Celia places her glass on its saucer. She explains as best she can. She keeps the details vague, covering only the basic concept of the challenge, and how the circus functions as the venue. How certain people know more than others on every level, though she chooses not to name each individual and makes it clear that even she does not have all the answers.

  Lainie says nothing, she li
stens carefully and occasionally sips her tea.

  “How long has Ethan known?” she asks when Celia has finished.

  “A very long time,” Celia says.

  Lainie nods and lifts her glass to her lips but instead of sipping her tea, she opens her fingers, releasing her grip.

  The cup falls, crashing into the saucer below.

  The glass shatters, the sound echoing through the room. The tea spills out over the tiles.

  Before anyone turns at the noise, the cup has righted itself. The broken pieces re-form around the liquid and the glass sits intact, the tile surface of the table is dry.

  Those who glanced over at their table at the noise assume it was their imagination, and return their attention to their own tea.

  “Why didn’t you stop it before it broke?” Lainie asks.

  “I don’t know,” Celia says.

  “If you ever need anything from me, I would like you to ask,” Lainie says as she stands to leave. “I am tired of everyone keeping their secrets so well that they get other people killed. We are all involved in your game, and it seems we are not as easily repaired as teacups.”

  Celia sits alone for some time after Lainie departs, both cups of tea growing cold.

  Stormy Seas

  DUBLIN, JUNE 1901

  After the illusionist takes her bow and disappears before her rapt audience’s eyes, they clap, applauding the empty air. They rise from their seats and some of them chatter with their companions, marveling over this trick or that as they file out the door that has reappeared in the side of the striped tent.

  One man, sitting in the outer circle of chairs, remains in his seat as they leave. His eyes, almost hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his bowler hat, are fixed on the space in the center of the circle that the illusionist occupied only moments before.

  The rest of the audience departs.

  The man continues to sit.

  After a few minutes the door fades into the wall of the tent, invisible once more.