The Night Circus
Page 13
It reminds her so much of consoling her old spiritualist clients that she is surprised when she is thanked by name.
The soft cry that sounds minutes before midnight comes as a relief, met by sighs and cheers.
And then something else immediately follows.
Celia feels it before she hears the applause echoing from the courtyard, the shift that suddenly spreads through the circus like a wave.
It courses through her body, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine, almost knocking her off of her feet.
“Are you all right?” a voice behind her says, and she turns to find Tsukiko laying a warm hand on her arm to steady her. The too-knowing gleam that Celia is beginning to find familiar shines in the contortionist’s smiling eyes.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Celia says, struggling to catch her breath.
“You are a sensitive person,” Tsukiko says. “It is not unusual for sensitive people to be affected by such events.”
Another cry echoes from the adjoining chamber, joining the first in a gentle chorus.
“They have remarkable timing,” Tsukiko says, turning her attention to the newborn twins.
Celia can only nod.
“It is a shame you missed the lighting,” Tsukiko continues. “It was remarkable as well.”
While the Murray twins’ cries subside, Celia tries to shake the feeling that remains tingling over her skin.
She is still unsure who her opponent is, but whatever move has just been made, it has rattled her.
She feels the entirety of the circus radiating around her, as though a net has been thrown over it, trapping everything within the iron fence, fluttering like a butterfly.
She wonders how she is supposed to retaliate.
Opening Night III: Smoke and Mirrors
LONDON, OCTOBER 13 AND 14, 1886
Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre enters not a single tent on opening night. Instead, he wanders through pathways and concourses and walks in loops around the courtyard with Marco in tow, who is taking notes whenever Chandresh finds something to comment upon.
Chandresh watches the crowd, discerning how people decide which tents to enter. He identifies signage that needs to be adjusted or elevated to be easier to read, doors that are not visible enough and others that are too predominant, drawing too little attention or too much of a crowd.
But these are minute details, really, extra oil for inaudible squeaking. It could not be better. The people are delighted. The line for tickets snakes around the outside of the fence. The entire circus glistens with excitement.
A few minutes before midnight, Chandresh positions himself by the edge of the courtyard for the lighting of the bonfire. He chooses a spot where he can view both the bonfire and a good portion of the crowd.
“Everything is ready for the lighting, correct?” he asks.
No one answers him.
He turns to his left and his right, finding only giddy patrons streaming past.
“Marco?” he says, but Marco is nowhere to be found.
One of the Burgess sisters spots Chandresh and approaches him, carefully navigating her way through the crowded courtyard.
“Hello, Chandresh,” she says when she reaches him. “Is something wrong?”
“I seem to have misplaced Marco,” he says. “Strange. But nothing to worry about, Lainie, dear.”
“Tara,” she corrects.
“You look alike,” Chandresh says, puffing on his cigar. “It’s confusing. You should stay together as a set to avoid such faux pas.”
“Really, Chandresh, we’re not even twins.”
“Which of you is older, then?”
“That’s a secret,” Tara says, smiling. “May we declare the evening a success yet?”
“So far it is satisfactory, but the night is relatively young, my dear. How is Mrs. Murray?”
“She is doing fine, I believe, though it’s been an hour or so since I heard any news. It will make for a memorable birthday for the twins, I should think.”
“They might be useful if they’re as indistinguishable as you and your sister. We could put them in matching costumes.”
Tara laughs. “You might wait until they can walk, at least.”
Around the unlit cauldron that will hold the bonfire, twelve archers are taking their positions. Tara and Chandresh halt their conversation to watch. Tara observes the archers while Chandresh watches the crowd as their attention is drawn to the display. They turn from crowd to audience as though choreographed along with the archers. Everything proceeding precisely as planned.
The archers let their arrows fly, one by one, sending the flames through a rainbow of conflagration. The entire circus is doused in color as the clock tolls, twelve deep chimes reverberating through the circus.
On the twelfth knell, the bonfire blazes, white and hot. Everything in the courtyard shudders for a moment, scarves fluttering despite the lack of any breeze, the fabric of the tents quivering.
The audience bursts into applause. Tara claps along, while beside her Chandresh stumbles, dropping his cigar to the ground.
“Chandresh, are you all right?” Tara asks.
“I feel rather dizzy,” he says. Tara takes Chandresh by the arm to steady him, pulling him closer to the side of the nearest tent, out of the way of the crowd that has started moving again, spilling out in all directions.
“Did you feel that?” he asks her. His legs are shaking and Tara struggles to support him as they are jostled by passersby.
“Feel what?” she asks, but Chandresh does not reply, still clearly unsteady. “Why did no one think to put benches in the courtyard?” Tara mutters to herself.
“Is there a problem, Miss Burgess?” a voice asks behind her. She turns to find Marco hovering behind her, notebook in hand and looking quite concerned.
“Oh, Marco, there you are,” Tara says. “Something is wrong with Chandresh.”
They are beginning to attract stares from the crowd. Marco takes Chandresh’s arm and pulls him into a quieter corner, standing with his back to the courtyard to provide a modicum of privacy.
“Has he been like this long?” Marco asks Tara as he steadies Chandresh.
“No, it came on quite suddenly,” she replies. “I worry he might faint.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Marco tells her. “The heat, perhaps. I can handle this, Miss Burgess. It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”
Tara furrows her brow, reluctant to leave.
“It’s nothing,” Marco repeats emphatically.
Chandresh looks at the ground as though he has lost something, not seeming to register the conversation at all.
“If you insist,” Tara relents.
“He’s in perfectly good hands, Miss Burgess,” Marco says, and then he turns before she can say another word, and he and Chandresh walk off into the crowd.
“There you are,” Lainie says, appearing at her sister’s shoulder. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Did you see the lighting? Wasn’t it spectacular?”
“Indeed,” Tara says, still scanning the crowd.
“Whatever is the matter?” Lainie asks. “Did something happen?”
“How much do you know about Chandresh’s assistant?” Tara asks in response.
“Marco? Not very much,” Lainie says. “He’s worked for Chandresh for a few years, specializes in accounting. Before that he was a scholar of some sort, I believe. I’m not entirely sure what he studied. Or where, for that matter. He’s not particularly talkative. Why do you ask? Seeking another dark and handsome conquest?”
Tara laughs, despite her distraction.
“No, nothing like that. Only curiosity.” She takes her sister by the arm. “Let us go and seek out other mysteries to explore for the moment.”
Arm in arm they navigate the crowd, circling around the glowing bonfire that many patrons are still gazing at, mesmerized by the dancing white flames.
In this tent, suspended high above you, there are people. Acrobats, trapeze artists, aerialists. Illuminated by dozens of round glowing lamps hanging from the top of the tent like planets or stars.
There are no nets.
You watch the performance from this precarious vantage point, directly below the performers with nothing in between.
There are girls in feathered costumes who spin at various heights, suspended by ribbons that they can manipulate. Marionettes that control their own strings.
Normal chairs with legs and backs act as trapezes.
Round spheres that resemble birdcages rise and descend while one or more aerialists move from within the sphere to without, standing on the top or hanging from the bars on the bottom.
In the center of the tent there is a man in a tuxedo, suspended by one leg that is tied with a silver cord, hands clasped behind his back.
He begins to move, extremely slowly. His arms reach out from his sides, first one and then the other, until they hang below his head.
He starts to spin. Faster and faster, until he is only a blur at the end of a rope.
He stops, suddenly, and he falls.
The audience dives out of the way below him, clearing a space of bare, hard ground below.
You cannot bear to watch. You cannot look away.
Then he stops at eye level with the crowd. Suspended by the silver rope that now seems endlessly long. Top hat undisturbed on his head, arms calmly by his sides.
As the crowd regains its composure, he lifts a gloved hand and removes his hat.
Bending at the waist, he takes a dramatic, inverted bow.
Oneiromancy
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 1902
Bailey spends the entire day willing the sun to set, but it defies him and keeps its usual pace across the sky, a pace that Bailey has never really thought about before but today finds excruciatingly slow. He almost wishes it were a school day so he would have something to help pass the hours. He wonders if he should take a nap, but he is far too excited about the sudden appearance of the circus to possibly sleep.
Dinner passes the same way it has for months, stretches of silence broken by his mother’s attempts at polite conversation and Caroline’s occasional sighs.
His mother mentions the circus, or more specifically, the influx of people it will bring.
Bailey expects the silence to fall again, but instead Caroline turns to him.
“Didn’t we dare you to sneak into the circus the last time it was here, Bailey?” Her tone is curious and light, as though she truly does not remember whether or not such a thing occurred.
“What, during the day?” his mother asks. Caroline nods, vaguely.
“Yes,” Bailey says quietly, willing the uncomfortable silence to return.
“Bailey,” his mother says, managing to turn his name into a disappointment-laced admonishment. Bailey is not certain how it is his fault, being the daree and not the darer, but Caroline responds before he can protest.
“Oh, he didn’t do it,” she says, as though she now recalls the incident clearly.
Bailey only shrugs.
“Well, I would hope not,” his mother says.
The silence resumes, and Bailey stares out the window, wondering what exactly constitutes nightfall. He thinks perhaps it would be best to get to the gates as soon as it could even remotely be considered dusk and wait if necessary. His feet feel itchy beneath the table, and he wonders how soon he will be able to escape.
It takes ages to clear the table, an eternity to help his mother with the dishes. Caroline disappears to her room and his father pulls out the newspaper.
“Where are you going?” his mother asks as he puts on his scarf.
“I’m going to the circus,” Bailey says.
“Don’t be too late,” she says. “You have work to do.”
“I won’t,” Bailey says, relieved that she has neglected to specify a time, leaving “too late” up to interpretation.
“Take your sister,” she adds.
Only because there is no way to leave the house without his mother watching to see whether or not he stops at Caroline’s room, Bailey knocks at the half-closed door.
“Go away,” his sister says.
“I’m going to the circus, if you would care to join me,” Bailey says, his voice dull. He already knows what her answer will be.
“No,” she says, as predictable as the dinnertime silence. “How childish,” she adds, shooting him a disdainful glare.
Bailey leaves without another word, letting the wind slam the front door behind him.
The sun is just beginning to set, and there are more people out than usual at this time of day, all walking in the same direction.
As he walks, his excitement begins to wane. Perhaps it is childish. Perhaps it will not be the same.
When he reaches the field there is already a crowd gathered, and he is relieved that there are plenty of patrons his own age or much older, and only a few have children with them. A pair of girls around his age giggles as he passes them, trying to catch his eye. He cannot tell if it is meant to be flattering or not.
Bailey finds a spot to stand within the crowd. He waits, watching the closed iron gates, wondering if the circus will be different than he remembers.
And he wonders, in the back of his mind, if the red-haired girl in white is somewhere inside.
The low orange rays from the sun make everything, including the circus, look as though it is aflame before the light disappears completely. It is quicker than Bailey expected, the moment that shifts from fire to twilight, and then the circus lights begin flickering on, all over the tents. The crowd “ooohs” and “ahhs” appropriately, but a few in the front gasp in surprise when the massive sign above the gates begins to sputter and spark. Bailey can’t help but smile when it is fully lit, shining like a beacon: Le Cirque des Rêves.
While the day of waiting was tediously slow, the line to enter the circus moves remarkably fast, and soon Bailey is standing at the ticket booth, purchasing a single admission.
The soft cry that sounds minutes before midnight comes as a relief, met by sighs and cheers.
And then something else immediately follows.
Celia feels it before she hears the applause echoing from the courtyard, the shift that suddenly spreads through the circus like a wave.
It courses through her body, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine, almost knocking her off of her feet.
“Are you all right?” a voice behind her says, and she turns to find Tsukiko laying a warm hand on her arm to steady her. The too-knowing gleam that Celia is beginning to find familiar shines in the contortionist’s smiling eyes.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Celia says, struggling to catch her breath.
“You are a sensitive person,” Tsukiko says. “It is not unusual for sensitive people to be affected by such events.”
Another cry echoes from the adjoining chamber, joining the first in a gentle chorus.
“They have remarkable timing,” Tsukiko says, turning her attention to the newborn twins.
Celia can only nod.
“It is a shame you missed the lighting,” Tsukiko continues. “It was remarkable as well.”
While the Murray twins’ cries subside, Celia tries to shake the feeling that remains tingling over her skin.
She is still unsure who her opponent is, but whatever move has just been made, it has rattled her.
She feels the entirety of the circus radiating around her, as though a net has been thrown over it, trapping everything within the iron fence, fluttering like a butterfly.
She wonders how she is supposed to retaliate.
Opening Night III: Smoke and Mirrors
LONDON, OCTOBER 13 AND 14, 1886
Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre enters not a single tent on opening night. Instead, he wanders through pathways and concourses and walks in loops around the courtyard with Marco in tow, who is taking notes whenever Chandresh finds something to comment upon.
Chandresh watches the crowd, discerning how people decide which tents to enter. He identifies signage that needs to be adjusted or elevated to be easier to read, doors that are not visible enough and others that are too predominant, drawing too little attention or too much of a crowd.
But these are minute details, really, extra oil for inaudible squeaking. It could not be better. The people are delighted. The line for tickets snakes around the outside of the fence. The entire circus glistens with excitement.
A few minutes before midnight, Chandresh positions himself by the edge of the courtyard for the lighting of the bonfire. He chooses a spot where he can view both the bonfire and a good portion of the crowd.
“Everything is ready for the lighting, correct?” he asks.
No one answers him.
He turns to his left and his right, finding only giddy patrons streaming past.
“Marco?” he says, but Marco is nowhere to be found.
One of the Burgess sisters spots Chandresh and approaches him, carefully navigating her way through the crowded courtyard.
“Hello, Chandresh,” she says when she reaches him. “Is something wrong?”
“I seem to have misplaced Marco,” he says. “Strange. But nothing to worry about, Lainie, dear.”
“Tara,” she corrects.
“You look alike,” Chandresh says, puffing on his cigar. “It’s confusing. You should stay together as a set to avoid such faux pas.”
“Really, Chandresh, we’re not even twins.”
“Which of you is older, then?”
“That’s a secret,” Tara says, smiling. “May we declare the evening a success yet?”
“So far it is satisfactory, but the night is relatively young, my dear. How is Mrs. Murray?”
“She is doing fine, I believe, though it’s been an hour or so since I heard any news. It will make for a memorable birthday for the twins, I should think.”
“They might be useful if they’re as indistinguishable as you and your sister. We could put them in matching costumes.”
Tara laughs. “You might wait until they can walk, at least.”
Around the unlit cauldron that will hold the bonfire, twelve archers are taking their positions. Tara and Chandresh halt their conversation to watch. Tara observes the archers while Chandresh watches the crowd as their attention is drawn to the display. They turn from crowd to audience as though choreographed along with the archers. Everything proceeding precisely as planned.
The archers let their arrows fly, one by one, sending the flames through a rainbow of conflagration. The entire circus is doused in color as the clock tolls, twelve deep chimes reverberating through the circus.
On the twelfth knell, the bonfire blazes, white and hot. Everything in the courtyard shudders for a moment, scarves fluttering despite the lack of any breeze, the fabric of the tents quivering.
The audience bursts into applause. Tara claps along, while beside her Chandresh stumbles, dropping his cigar to the ground.
“Chandresh, are you all right?” Tara asks.
“I feel rather dizzy,” he says. Tara takes Chandresh by the arm to steady him, pulling him closer to the side of the nearest tent, out of the way of the crowd that has started moving again, spilling out in all directions.
“Did you feel that?” he asks her. His legs are shaking and Tara struggles to support him as they are jostled by passersby.
“Feel what?” she asks, but Chandresh does not reply, still clearly unsteady. “Why did no one think to put benches in the courtyard?” Tara mutters to herself.
“Is there a problem, Miss Burgess?” a voice asks behind her. She turns to find Marco hovering behind her, notebook in hand and looking quite concerned.
“Oh, Marco, there you are,” Tara says. “Something is wrong with Chandresh.”
They are beginning to attract stares from the crowd. Marco takes Chandresh’s arm and pulls him into a quieter corner, standing with his back to the courtyard to provide a modicum of privacy.
“Has he been like this long?” Marco asks Tara as he steadies Chandresh.
“No, it came on quite suddenly,” she replies. “I worry he might faint.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Marco tells her. “The heat, perhaps. I can handle this, Miss Burgess. It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”
Tara furrows her brow, reluctant to leave.
“It’s nothing,” Marco repeats emphatically.
Chandresh looks at the ground as though he has lost something, not seeming to register the conversation at all.
“If you insist,” Tara relents.
“He’s in perfectly good hands, Miss Burgess,” Marco says, and then he turns before she can say another word, and he and Chandresh walk off into the crowd.
“There you are,” Lainie says, appearing at her sister’s shoulder. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Did you see the lighting? Wasn’t it spectacular?”
“Indeed,” Tara says, still scanning the crowd.
“Whatever is the matter?” Lainie asks. “Did something happen?”
“How much do you know about Chandresh’s assistant?” Tara asks in response.
“Marco? Not very much,” Lainie says. “He’s worked for Chandresh for a few years, specializes in accounting. Before that he was a scholar of some sort, I believe. I’m not entirely sure what he studied. Or where, for that matter. He’s not particularly talkative. Why do you ask? Seeking another dark and handsome conquest?”
Tara laughs, despite her distraction.
“No, nothing like that. Only curiosity.” She takes her sister by the arm. “Let us go and seek out other mysteries to explore for the moment.”
Arm in arm they navigate the crowd, circling around the glowing bonfire that many patrons are still gazing at, mesmerized by the dancing white flames.
In this tent, suspended high above you, there are people. Acrobats, trapeze artists, aerialists. Illuminated by dozens of round glowing lamps hanging from the top of the tent like planets or stars.
There are no nets.
You watch the performance from this precarious vantage point, directly below the performers with nothing in between.
There are girls in feathered costumes who spin at various heights, suspended by ribbons that they can manipulate. Marionettes that control their own strings.
Normal chairs with legs and backs act as trapezes.
Round spheres that resemble birdcages rise and descend while one or more aerialists move from within the sphere to without, standing on the top or hanging from the bars on the bottom.
In the center of the tent there is a man in a tuxedo, suspended by one leg that is tied with a silver cord, hands clasped behind his back.
He begins to move, extremely slowly. His arms reach out from his sides, first one and then the other, until they hang below his head.
He starts to spin. Faster and faster, until he is only a blur at the end of a rope.
He stops, suddenly, and he falls.
The audience dives out of the way below him, clearing a space of bare, hard ground below.
You cannot bear to watch. You cannot look away.
Then he stops at eye level with the crowd. Suspended by the silver rope that now seems endlessly long. Top hat undisturbed on his head, arms calmly by his sides.
As the crowd regains its composure, he lifts a gloved hand and removes his hat.
Bending at the waist, he takes a dramatic, inverted bow.
Oneiromancy
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 1902
Bailey spends the entire day willing the sun to set, but it defies him and keeps its usual pace across the sky, a pace that Bailey has never really thought about before but today finds excruciatingly slow. He almost wishes it were a school day so he would have something to help pass the hours. He wonders if he should take a nap, but he is far too excited about the sudden appearance of the circus to possibly sleep.
Dinner passes the same way it has for months, stretches of silence broken by his mother’s attempts at polite conversation and Caroline’s occasional sighs.
His mother mentions the circus, or more specifically, the influx of people it will bring.
Bailey expects the silence to fall again, but instead Caroline turns to him.
“Didn’t we dare you to sneak into the circus the last time it was here, Bailey?” Her tone is curious and light, as though she truly does not remember whether or not such a thing occurred.
“What, during the day?” his mother asks. Caroline nods, vaguely.
“Yes,” Bailey says quietly, willing the uncomfortable silence to return.
“Bailey,” his mother says, managing to turn his name into a disappointment-laced admonishment. Bailey is not certain how it is his fault, being the daree and not the darer, but Caroline responds before he can protest.
“Oh, he didn’t do it,” she says, as though she now recalls the incident clearly.
Bailey only shrugs.
“Well, I would hope not,” his mother says.
The silence resumes, and Bailey stares out the window, wondering what exactly constitutes nightfall. He thinks perhaps it would be best to get to the gates as soon as it could even remotely be considered dusk and wait if necessary. His feet feel itchy beneath the table, and he wonders how soon he will be able to escape.
It takes ages to clear the table, an eternity to help his mother with the dishes. Caroline disappears to her room and his father pulls out the newspaper.
“Where are you going?” his mother asks as he puts on his scarf.
“I’m going to the circus,” Bailey says.
“Don’t be too late,” she says. “You have work to do.”
“I won’t,” Bailey says, relieved that she has neglected to specify a time, leaving “too late” up to interpretation.
“Take your sister,” she adds.
Only because there is no way to leave the house without his mother watching to see whether or not he stops at Caroline’s room, Bailey knocks at the half-closed door.
“Go away,” his sister says.
“I’m going to the circus, if you would care to join me,” Bailey says, his voice dull. He already knows what her answer will be.
“No,” she says, as predictable as the dinnertime silence. “How childish,” she adds, shooting him a disdainful glare.
Bailey leaves without another word, letting the wind slam the front door behind him.
The sun is just beginning to set, and there are more people out than usual at this time of day, all walking in the same direction.
As he walks, his excitement begins to wane. Perhaps it is childish. Perhaps it will not be the same.
When he reaches the field there is already a crowd gathered, and he is relieved that there are plenty of patrons his own age or much older, and only a few have children with them. A pair of girls around his age giggles as he passes them, trying to catch his eye. He cannot tell if it is meant to be flattering or not.
Bailey finds a spot to stand within the crowd. He waits, watching the closed iron gates, wondering if the circus will be different than he remembers.
And he wonders, in the back of his mind, if the red-haired girl in white is somewhere inside.
The low orange rays from the sun make everything, including the circus, look as though it is aflame before the light disappears completely. It is quicker than Bailey expected, the moment that shifts from fire to twilight, and then the circus lights begin flickering on, all over the tents. The crowd “ooohs” and “ahhs” appropriately, but a few in the front gasp in surprise when the massive sign above the gates begins to sputter and spark. Bailey can’t help but smile when it is fully lit, shining like a beacon: Le Cirque des Rêves.
While the day of waiting was tediously slow, the line to enter the circus moves remarkably fast, and soon Bailey is standing at the ticket booth, purchasing a single admission.
