The Night Circus (37 page)

“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.

And then he tells her stories. Myths he learned from his instructor. Fantasies he created himself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines. Circus concepts that would not fit in tents.

She responds with tales from her childhood spent in back rooms of theaters. Adventures in far-flung cities the circus has visited. She recounts events from her spiritualist days, delighted when he finds the endeavor as absurd as she had at the time.

They sit and talk until just before dawn, and he leaves her only when the circus is about to close.

Marco holds Celia to his chest for a moment before he stands, pulling her up with him.

He takes a card from his pocket that contains only the letter
M
and an address.

“I have been spending less time at Chandresh’s residence,” he says, handing her the card. “When I am not there, this is where you’ll find me. You are welcome any time, day or night. Should you ever be in the mood for a distraction.”

“Thank you,” Celia says. She turns the card over in her fingers and it vanishes.

“When all of this is over, no matter which one of us wins, I will not let you go so easily. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Marco takes her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the silver ring that conceals her scar.

Celia traces the line of his jaw with her fingertips. Then she turns, disappearing before he can reach out to pull her back.

An Entreaty
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 30, 1902

T
he sheep are in a terrible mood today as Bailey attempts to usher them from one field to another. They have resisted prodding, swearing, and pushing, insisting that the grass in their current field is much nicer than the grass just on the other side of the gate in the low stone wall, no matter how much Bailey tries to persuade them otherwise.

And then there is a voice behind him.

“Hello, Bailey.”

Poppet looks wrong, somehow, standing there on the opposite side of the wall. The daylight is too bright, the surroundings too mundane and green. Her clothes, even though they are her incognito-wear and not her circus costume, seem too fancy. Her skirt too ruffled for everyday wear; her boots, though dusty, too dainty and impractical for walking across a farm. She wears no hat, her red hair loose, whipping around her head in the wind.

“Hello, Poppet,” he says once he recovers from his surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you about something,” she says. “Ask you something, I mean.”

“It couldn’t wait until tonight?” Bailey asks. Meeting up with Poppet and Widget almost as soon as the circus opens each evening has become a nightly routine.

Poppet shakes her head.

“I thought it would be better to give you time to think about it,” she says.

“Think about what?”

“Think about coming with us.”

Bailey blinks at her. “What?” he manages to ask.

“Tonight is our last night here,” she says. “And I want you to come with us when we leave.”

“You’re joking,” Bailey says.

Poppet shakes her head.

“I’m not, I swear I’m not. I wanted to wait until I was sure it was the right thing to ask, the right thing to do, and I’m sure now. It’s important.”

“What do you mean? Important how?” Bailey asks.

Poppet sighs. She looks up, peering as though she is searching for the stars hidden behind the blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds.

“I know you’re supposed to come with us,” she says. “I know that part for certain.”

“But why? Why me? What would I do, just tag along? I’m not like you and Widget, I can’t do anything special. I don’t belong in the circus.”

“You do! I’m certain that you do. I don’t know why yet, but I’m sure you belong with me. With us, I mean.” A scarlet blush creeps into her cheeks.

“I’d like to, I would. I just  … ” Bailey looks around at the sheep, at the house and the barn up on the hill lined with apple trees. It would either solve the argument of Harvard versus farm or make it much, much worse. “I can’t just leave,” he says, though it is not, he thinks, exactly what he means.

“I know,” Poppet says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask you to. But I think  …  No, I don’t think, I know. I know that if you don’t come with us we won’t be back.”

“Won’t be back here? Why?”

“Won’t be back anywhere,” Poppet says. She raises her eyes to the sky again, scowling at it before she turns back to Bailey. “If you don’t come with us, there won’t be any more circus. And don’t ask me why, they don’t tell me why.” She gestures at the sky, at the stars beyond the clouds. “They just say that in order for there to be a circus in the future, you need to be there. You, Bailey. You and me and Widge. I don’t know why it’s important that it’s all three of us, but it is. If not, it will just crumble. It’s already starting.”

“What do you mean? The circus is fine.”

“I’m not sure it’s anything that’s really noticeable from the outside. It’s  …  If one of your sheep was sick, would I notice?”

“Probably not,” Bailey says.

“But you would?” Poppet asks.

Bailey nods.

“That’s how it is with the circus. I know how it’s supposed to feel and it doesn’t feel like that right now and it hasn’t for a while. I can tell something’s wrong and I can feel it crumbling like cake that doesn’t have enough icing to hold it together but I don’t know what it is. Does that make any sense?”

Bailey only stares at her, and she sighs before she continues.

“Remember the night we were in the Labyrinth? When we got stuck in the birdcage room?”

Bailey nods.

“I’ve never been stuck anywhere in the Labyrinth before. Never. If we can’t find our way out of a room or a hall I can focus and I can feel where the doors are. I can tell what’s behind them. I try not to do it because it’s not any fun that way, but that night I did when we couldn’t figure it out and it didn’t work. It’s starting to feel unfamiliar and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“But how can I do anything to help?” Bailey asks.

“You’re the one who finally found the key, remember?” Poppet says. “I keep looking for answers, for the right thing to do, and nothing’s been clear except for you. I know it’s too much to ask to have you leave your home and your family, but the circus is my home and my family and I can’t lose them. Not if there’s something I can do to prevent it. I’m sorry.”

She sits on the rock wall, facing away from him. Bailey sits next to her, still facing the field and the incorrigible sheep. They sit in silence for a while. The sheep wander in lazy circles, nibbling on the grass.

“Do you like it here, Bailey?” Poppet asks, looking out over the farm.

“Not particularly,” Bailey says.

“Have you ever wished for someone to come and take you away?”

“Did Widge tell you that?” Bailey asks, wondering if the thought is so strong that it sits on him, evident and readable.

“No,” Poppet says. “It was a guess. But Widge did ask me to give you this.” She pulls a tiny glass bottle from her pocket and hands it to him.

Bailey knows that though the bottle appears empty it is likely not, and he is too curious not to open it immediately. He pulls out the minuscule stopper, relieved that it remains attached to the bottle with a curl of wire.

The sensation inside is so familiar, so comforting and recognizable and real that Bailey can feel the roughness of the bark, the smell of the acorns, even the chattering of the squirrels.

“He wanted you to be able to keep your tree with you,” Poppet says. “If you decide to come with us.”

Bailey replaces the stopper in the bottle. Neither of them speaks for some time. The breeze tugs at Poppet’s hair.

“How long do I have to think about it?” Bailey asks quietly.

“We’re leaving when the circus closes tonight,” Poppet says. “The train will be ready before dawn, though it would be better if you could come earlier than that. Leaving can get a bit  …  complicated.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bailey says. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“Thank you, Bailey,” Poppet says. “Can you do me one favor, though? If you’re not going to come with us, could you just not come to the circus tonight at all? And let this be goodbye? I think it would be easier.”

Bailey stares at her blankly for a moment, her words not quite sinking in. This is even more horrible than the choice to leave. But he nods because it feels like the proper thing to do.

“All right,” he says. “I won’t come unless I’m going with you. I promise.”

“Thank you, Bailey,” Poppet says. She smiles, though he cannot tell if the smile is a happy one or not.