The man’s gaze does not waver. He does not so much as glance at the vanishing door.
A moment later, Celia Bowen is sitting in front of him, turned to the side and resting her arms on the back of the chair. She is dressed as she had been during her performance, in a white gown covered in a pattern of unassembled puzzle pieces, falling together into darkness along the hem.
“You came to visit me,” she says, unable to hide the pleasure in her voice.
“I had a few days,” Marco says. “And you haven’t been near London recently.”
“We’ll be in London in the autumn,” Celia says. “It’s become somewhat traditional.”
“I couldn’t wait that long to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, as well,” Celia says softly. She reaches out and straightens the brim of his hat.
“Do you like the Cloud Maze?” he asks. He takes her hand in his as she lowers it.
“I do,” she says, her breath catching as his fingers close over hers. “Did you persuade our Mr. Barris to help with that?”
“I did, indeed,” Marco says, running his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “I thought I could use some assistance in getting the balance right. Besides, you have your Carousel and we share the Labyrinth, I thought it only fair that I have a Barris original of my own.”
The intensity of his eyes and his touch rushes over Celia like a wave and she takes her hand from his before it pulls her under.
“Have you come to show me your own feats of illustrious illusion?” she asks.
“It was not on my agenda for the evening, but if you would like … ”
“You already watched me, it would only be fair.”
“I could watch you all night,” he says.
“You have,” Celia says. “You’ve been in every single audience this evening, I noticed.”
She stands and walks to the center of the circle, turning so her gown swirls around her.
“I can see every seat,” she says. “You are not hidden from me when you sit in the back row.”
“I thought I would be too tempted to touch you if I sat in the front,” Marco says, moving from his chair to stand at the edge of the circular performance space, just inside the first row of chairs.
“Am I close enough for your illusion?” she asks.
“If I say no, will you come closer?” he retaliates, not bothering to hide his grin.
In response, Celia takes another step toward him, the hem of her gown brushing over his shoes. Close enough for him to lift his arm and gently rest his hand on her waist.
“You didn’t have to touch me last time,” she remarks, but she does not protest.
“I thought I’d try something special,” Marco says.
“Should I close my eyes?” Celia asks playfully, but instead of answering, he spins her around so she faces away from him, keeping his hand on her waist.
“Watch,” he whispers in her ear.
The striped canvas sides of the tent stiffen, the soft surface hardening as the fabric changes to paper. Words appear over the walls, typeset letters overlapping handwritten text. Celia can make out snatches of Shakespearean sonnets and fragments of hymns to Greek goddesses as the poetry fills the tent. It covers the walls and the ceiling and spreads out over the floor.
And then the tent begins to open, the paper folding and tearing. The black stripes stretch out into empty space as their white counterparts brighten, reaching upward and breaking apart into branches.
“Do you like it?” Marco asks, once the movement settles and they stand within a darkened forest of softly glowing, poem-covered trees.
Celia can only nod.
He reluctantly releases her, following as she walks through the trees, reading bits of verse on branches and trunks.
“How do you come up with such images?” she asks, placing her hand over the layered paper bark of one of the trees. It is warm and solid beneath her fingers, illuminated from within like a lantern.
“I see things in my mind,” Marco says. “In my dreams. I imagine what you might like.”
“I don’t think you’re meant to be imagining how to please your opponent,” Celia says.
“I have never fully grasped the rules of the game, so I am following my instincts instead,” Marco says.
“My father is still purposefully vague about the rules,” Celia says as they walk through the trees. “Particularly when I inquire as to when or how the verdict will be determined.”
“Alexander also neglected to provide that information.”
“I hope he does not pester you as much as my father does me,” Celia says. “Though of course, my father has nothing better to do.”
“I have hardly seen him in years,” Marco says. “He has always been … distant and not terribly forthcoming, but he is the closest thing to family I have. And yet he tells me nothing.”
“I’m rather jealous,” Celia says. “My father constantly tells me what a disappointment I am.”
“I refuse to believe you could ever disappoint anyone,” Marco says.
“You never had the pleasure of meeting my father.”
“Would you tell me what really happened to him?” Marco asks. “I’m quite curious.”
Celia sighs before she begins, pausing beside a tree etched with words of love and longing. She has never told anyone this story, never been given the opportunity to relate it to anyone who would understand.
“My father was always somewhat overambitious,” she starts. “What he meant to do, he did not accomplish, not as he intended. He wanted to remove himself from the physical world.”
“How would that be possible?” Marco asks. Celia appreciates that he does not immediately dismiss the idea. She can see him trying to work it out in his mind and she struggles with the best way to explain it.
“Suppose I had a glass of wine,” she says. A glass of red wine appears in her hand. “Thank you. If I took this wine and poured it into a basin of water, or a lake or even the ocean, would the wine itself be gone?”
“No, it would only be diluted,” Marco says.
“Precisely,” Celia says. “My father figured out a way to remove his glass.” As she speaks, the glass in her hand fades, but the wine remains, floating in the air. “But he went straight for the ocean rather than a basin or even a larger glass. He has trouble pulling himself back together again. He can do it, of course, but with difficulty. Had he been content to haunt a single location, he would likely be more comfortable. Instead, the process left him adrift. He has to cling to things now. He haunts his town house in New York. Theaters he performed in often. He holds to me when he can, though I have learned how to avoid him when I wish to. He hates that, particularly because I am simply amplifying one of his own shielding techniques.”
“Could it be done?” Marco asks. “What he was attempting? Properly, I mean.”
Celia looks at the wine hovering without its glass. She raises a hand to touch it and it quivers, dividing into droplets and then coming back together.
“I believe it could,” she says, “under the right circumstances. It would require a touchstone. A place, a tree, a physical element to hold on to. Something to prevent drifting. I suspect my father simply wanted the world at large to function as his, but I believe it would have to be more localized. To function as a glass but leave more flexibility to move within.”
She touches the hovering wine again, pushing it toward the tree she stands beside. The liquid seeps into the paper, slowly saturating it until the entire tree glows a rich crimson in a forest of white.
“You’re manipulating my illusion,” Marco says, looking curiously at the wine-soaked tree.
“You’re letting me,” Celia says. “I wasn’t certain I’d be able to.”
“Could you do it?” Marco asks. “What he was attempting?”
Celia regards the tree thoughtfully for a moment before replying.
“If I had reason to, I think I could,” she says. “But I am rather fond of t
he physical world. I think my father was feeling his age, which was much more advanced than it appeared, and did not relish the idea of rotting in the ground. He may have also wished to control his own destiny, but I cannot be certain, as he did not consult me before he attempted it. Left me with a lot of questions to answer and a funeral to fake. Which is easier than you might suppose.”
“But he speaks with you?” Marco asks.
“He does, though not as often as he once did. He looks the same; I think it is an echo, his consciousness retaining the semblance of a physical form. But he lacks solidity and it vexes him terribly. He might have been able to stay more tangible had he done it differently. Though I’m not certain I’d want to be stuck in a tree for the rest of eternity, myself, would you?”
“I think that would depend on the tree,” Marco says.
He turns to the crimson tree and it glows brighter, the red of embers shifting to the bright warmth of fire.
The surrounding trees follow suit.
As the light from the trees increases, it becomes so bright that Celia closes her eyes.
The ground beneath her feet shifts, suddenly unsteady, but Marco puts a hand on her waist to keep her upright.
When she opens her eyes, they are standing on the quarterdeck of a ship in the middle of the ocean.
Only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats upon is dark black ink.
Tiny lights hang across the sky, like tightly packed stars bright as sun.
“I thought something vast would be nice after all the talk of confined spaces,” Marco says.
Celia walks to the edge of the deck, running her hands along the spines of the books that form the rail. A soft breeze plays with her hair, bringing with it the mingling scent of dusty tomes and damp, rich ink.
Marco comes and stands next to her as she looks at the midnight sea that stretches out into a clear horizon with no land in sight.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
She glances down at his right hand resting on the rail, frowning as she regards his bare, unmarked fingers.
“Are you looking for this?” he asks, moving his hand with a flourish. The skin shifts, revealing the scar that wraps around his ring finger. “It was made by a ring when I was fourteen. It said something in Latin, but I don’t know what it was.”
“Esse quam videri,” Celia says. “To be, rather than to seem. It’s the Bowen family motto. My father was very fond of engraving it on things. I’m not entirely sure he appreciated the irony. That ring was likely something like this one.”
She places her right hand next to his, along the adjoining books. The silver band on her finger is engraved with what Marco had thought was an intricate filigree, but is the same phrase in a looping script.
Celia twists the ring, sliding it down her finger so he can see the matching scar.
“It is the only injury I have never been able to fully heal,” she says.
“Mine was similar,” Marco says, looking at her ring though his eyes keep moving to the scar instead. “Only it was gold. Yours was made by something of Alexander’s?”
Celia nods.
“How old were you?” he asks.
“I was six years old. That ring was plain and silver. It was the first time I’d met someone who could do the things that my father did, though he seemed so very different from my father. He told me I was an angel. It was the loveliest thing anyone had ever said to me.”
“It is an understatement,” Marco says, placing his hand over hers.
A sudden breeze tugs at the layered paper sails. The pages flutter as the surface of the ink ripples below.
“You did that,” Marco says.
“I didn’t mean to,” Celia says, but she does not take her hand away.
“I don’t mind,” Marco says, entwining his fingers with hers. “I can do that myself, you know.”
The wind increases, sending waves of dark ink crashing into the ship. Pages fall from the sails, swirling around them like leaves. The ship begins to tilt and Celia almost loses her footing, but Marco puts his arms around her waist to steady her while she laughs.
“This is quite impressive, Mr. Illusionist,” she says.
“Call me by my name,” he says. He has never heard her speak his name and holding her in his arms he suddenly craves the sound. “Please,” he adds when she hesitates.
“Marco,” she says, her voice low and soft. The sound of his name on her tongue is even more intoxicating than he had imagined, and he leans in to taste it.
Just before his lips reach hers, she turns away.
“Celia,” Marco sighs against her ear, filling her name with all the desire and frustration she feels herself, his breath hot on her neck.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I … I don’t want to make this any more complicated than it already is.”
He says nothing, keeping his arms around her, but the breeze begins to settle, the waves pounding against the ship become calm.
“I have spent a great deal of my life struggling to keep myself in control,” Celia says, leaning her head against his shoulder. “To know myself inside and out, everything kept in perfect order. I lose that when I’m with you. That frightens me, and—”
“I don’t want you to be frightened,” Marco interrupts.
“It frightens me how much I like it,” Celia finishes, turning her face back to his. “How tempting it is to lose myself in you. To let go. To let you keep me from breaking chandeliers rather than constantly worrying about it, myself.”
“I could.”
“I know.”
They stand silently together as the ship drifts toward the endless horizon.
“Come away with me,” Marco says. “Anywhere. Away from the circus, away from Alexander and your father.”
“We can’t,” Celia says.
“Of course we can,” Marco insists. “You and I together, we could do anything.”
“No,” Celia says. “We can only do anything here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Have you ever thought about it, about simply leaving? Really, truly thought about it with the intent to follow through and not as a dream or a passing fancy?” When he does not answer, she continues. “Think about it, right now. Picture us abandoning this place and this game and starting over together somewhere else, and mean it.”
Marco closes his eyes and draws it out in his mind, focusing not on the wishful dream but on the practicalities. Planning out the smallest details, from organizing Chandresh’s books for a new accountant to packing the suits in his flat, even down to the wedding bands on their fingers.
And then his right hand begins to burn, the pain sharp and searing, beginning at the scar around his finger and racing up his arm, blacking out every thought in his mind. It is the same pain from when the scar was made, increased a thousandfold.
The motion of the ship ceases instantly. The paper crumbles and the ocean of ink fades away, leaving only a circle of chairs inside a striped tent as Marco collapses to the floor.
The pain ebbs slightly when Celia kneels next to him and takes his hand.
“The night of the anniversary party,” she says. “The night you kissed me. I thought it that night. I didn’t want to play anymore, I only wanted to be with you. I thought I would ask you to run away with me and I meant it. The very moment I convinced myself that we could manage it, I was in so much pain I could barely stand. Friedrick didn’t know what to make of me, he sat me in a quiet corner and held my hand and did not pry when I couldn’t explain because that’s how kind he is.”
She looks down at the scar on Marco’s hand as he struggles to catch his breath.
“I thought perhaps it was about you,” she says. “So once I tried not boarding the train as it departed and that was just as painful. We are well and truly bound.”
“You wanted to run away with me,” Marco says, smiling despite the lingering pain. “I wasn’t sure that kiss would
be quite so effective.”
“You could have made me forget, taken it out of my memory as easily as you did with everyone else at the party.”
“That was not particularly easy,” Marco says. “And I did not want you to forget it.”
“I couldn’t,” Celia says. “How are you feeling?”
“Miserable. But the pain itself is fading. I told Alexander I wanted to quit that night. I must not have meant it. I only wanted a reaction from him.”
“It is likely meant to make us think we are not caged,” Celia says. “We cannot feel the bars unless we push against them. My father says it would be easier if we did not concern ourselves so with each other. Perhaps he is right.”
“I’ve tried,” Marco says, cupping her face in his hands. “I have tried to let you go and I cannot. I cannot stop thinking of you. I cannot stop dreaming about you. Do you not feel the same for me?”
“I do,” Celia says. “I have you here, all around me. I sit in the Ice Garden to get a hint of this, this way that you make me feel. I felt it even before I knew who you were, and every time I think it could not possibly get any stronger, it does.”
“Then what is stopping us from being together now?” he asks. He slides his hands down from her face, following the neckline of her gown.
“I want to,” Celia says, gasping as his hands move lower. “Believe me, I want to. This is not only about you and me. There are so many people tangled up in this game. It’s becoming more and more difficult to keep everything in order. And this”—she rests her hands over his—“this is extremely distracting. I worry what might happen if I lose my concentration.”
“You don’t have a power source,” he says. She looks at him, confused.
“A power source?” she repeats.
“The way I use the bonfire, as a conduit. Borrowing energy from the fire. You don’t have anything like that, you work only with yourself?”
“I don’t know any other way,” Celia says.
“You are constantly controlling the circus?” Marco asks.
Celia nods. “I am accustomed to it. Most of the time it is manageable.”
“I can’t imagine how exhausting that must be.”
He kisses her softly on the forehead before letting her go, staying as close to her as he can without touching.
The Night Circus Page 27
