The Night Circus

  Visitations

  SEPTEMBER 1902

  Celia Bowen sits at a desk surrounded by piles of books. She ran out of space for her library some time ago, but instead of making the room larger she has opted to let the books become the room. Piles of them function as tables, others hang suspended from the ceiling, along with large golden cages holding several live white doves.

  Another round cage, sitting on a table rather than hanging from above, contains an elaborate clock. It marks both time and astrological movements as it ticks steadily through the afternoon.

  A large black raven sleeps uncaged alongside the complete works of Shakespeare.

  Mismatched candles in silver candelabras, burning in sets of three, surround the desk in the center of the room. Upon the desk itself there is a slowly cooling cup of tea, a scarf that has been partially unraveled into a ball of crimson yarn, a framed photograph of a deceased clockmaker, a solitary playing card long separated from its deck, and an open book filled with signs and symbols and signatures procured from other pieces of paper.

  Celia sits with a notebook and pen, attempting to decipher the system the book is written in.

  She tries to think the way she imagines Marco might have as he wrote it, picturing him inscribing each page, rendering the delicate ink branches of the tree that winds throughout the book.

  She reads each signature over and over, checking how securely each lock of hair is pasted, scrutinizing each symbol.

  She has spent so much time repeating this process that she could recreate the book from memory, but she still does not fully comprehend how the system works.

  The raven stirs and caws at something in the shadows.

  “You’re bothering Huginn,” Celia says, without looking up.

  The candlelight catches only the edges of her father’s form as he hovers nearby. Highlighting the creases of his jacket, the collar of his shirt. Glinting in the hollows of his dark eyes.

  “You should really get another one,” he says, peering at the agitated raven. “A Muninn to complete the set.”

  “I prefer thought to memory, Papa,” Celia says.

  “Hrmph” is the only response.

  Celia ignores him as he leans over her shoulder, watching her flip through the inscribed pages.

  “This is a god-awful mess,” he says.

  “A language you cannot speak yourself is not necessarily a god-awful mess,” Celia says, transcribing a line of symbols into her notebook.

  “This is messy work, bindings and charms,” Hector says, floating to the other side of the desk to get a better look. “Very much Alexander’s style, overly complicated and covert.”

  “Yet with enough study anyone could do it. Quite the contrast to all your lectures about how I was special.”

  “You are special. You are beyond this”—he waves a transparent hand over the pile of books—“this use of tools and constructs. There is so much more you could accomplish with your talents. So much more to explore.”

  “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ ” Celia quotes at him.

  “Please, no Shakespeare.”

  “I am haunted by the ghost of my father, I think that should allow me to quote Hamlet as much as I please. You used to be quite fond of Shakespeare, Prospero.”

  “You are too intelligent for this behavior. I expected more of you.”

  “I apologize for not living up to your absurd expectations, Papa. Don’t you have anyone else to bother?”

  “There are very few people I can converse with in this state. Alexander is dreadfully boring, as always. Chandresh was interesting enough but that boy has altered his memory so many times that it’s not much better than talking to myself. Though it might be nice for a change of scenery.”

  “You talk to Chandresh?” Celia asks.

  “Occasionally,” Hector says, inspecting the clock as it turns within its cage.

  “You told Chandresh that Alexander was going to be at the circus that night. You sent him there.”

  “I made a suggestion to a drunk. Drunks are highly suggestible. And nicely accepting of conversations with dead people.”

  “You must have known he could do nothing to Alexander,” Celia says. The reasoning makes no sense, not that her father’s reasoning often does.

  “I thought the old man could use a knife in the back for a change. That student of his was practically screaming to do it himself, so much so that the idea of it was already in Chandresh’s head, all of that rage sneaking into his subconscious from being exposed to it over time. All I had to do was give him a push in the right direction.”

  “You said there was a rule about interference,” Celia says, placing down her pen.

  “Interfering with you or your opponent,” her father clarifies. “I can interfere with anyone else as much as I please.”

  “Your interfering got Friedrick killed!”

  “There are other clockmakers in the world,” Hector says. “You could find a new one if you are in need of additional timepieces.”

  Celia’s hands are shaking as she picks up a volume from the pile of Shakespeare and hurls it at him. As You Like It passes through his chest without pause, hitting the wall of the tent beyond and falling to the ground. The raven caws, ruffling its feathers.

  The cages around the doves and the clock begin to quiver. The glass over the framed photograph cracks.

  “Go away, Papa,” Celia says through clenched teeth, trying to control herself.

  “You cannot keep pushing me away,” he says.

  Celia turns her attention to the candles on the desk, concentrating on a single dancing flame.

  “You think you are making personal connections with these people?” Hector continues. “You think you mean anything to them? They are all going to die eventually. You are letting your emotions trump your power.”

  “You are a coward,” Celia says. “You are both cowards. You fight by proxy because you are too cowardly to challenge each other directly. Afraid that you will fail and have nothing to blame except yourselves.”

  “That is not true,” Hector protests.

  “I hate you,” Celia says, still staring at the candle flame.

  The shadow of her father shudders and vanishes.

  *

  THERE IS NO FROST UPON THE WINDOWS of Marco’s flat, so he inscribes lines of symbols in the shape of a letter A with ink, pressing his darkened fingers against the panes. The ink drips down over the glass like rain.

  He sits staring at the door, twisting the silver ring around his finger in anxious circles until the knock comes early the next morning.

  The man in the grey suit does not admonish him for calling. He stands in the hall outside the door with his hands on his cane and waits for Marco to speak.

  “She thinks one of us has to die in order for the game to end,” Marco says.

  “She is correct.”

  Having the confirmation is worse than Marco had expected. The small glimmer of hope he had held that she might be mistaken is crushed in three simple words.

  “To win would be worse than losing,” he says.

  “I did inform you that your feelings for Miss Bowen would make the challenge more difficult for you,” his instructor replies.

  “Why would you do this to me?” Marco asks. “Why would you spend all that time training me for such a thing?”

  The pause before the response is heavy.

  “I thought it preferable to the life you might have had otherwise, regardless of the consequences.”

  Marco closes and locks the door.

  The man in the grey suit lifts his hand to knock again, but then lowers it and walks away instead.

  You follow the sound of a flute into a hidden corner, the hypnotic melody beckoning you closer.

  Seated on the ground, nestled in an alcove on striped silk pillows, are two women. One plays the flute you heard. A burning coil of incense sits between them, along with a large
black-lidded basket.

  A small audience is gathering. The other woman carefully removes the lid from the basket before taking out a flute of her own and adding a countermelody to the first.

  Two white cobras coil around each other as they rise from the woven basket, in perfect time with the music. For a moment they seem to be one snake and not two, and then they separate again, moving down along the sides of the basket, gliding onto the ground quite close to your feet.

  The snakes move back and forth together in motions resembling a strikingly formal dance. Elegant and graceful.

  The music increases in tempo, and now there is something harsher about the way the snakes move. Waltz morphs into battle. They circle each other, and you watch for one or the other to strike.

  One of them hisses, softly, and the other responds in kind. They continue to circle as the music and the incense rise into the starry sky above.

  You cannot tell which snake strikes first. They are identical, after all. As they rear and hiss and jump at each other you are distracted by the fact that they are both no longer stark white but a perfect ebony black.

  Precognition

  EN ROUTE FROM BOSTON TO NEW YORK, OCTOBER 31, 1902

  Most of the train’s passengers have settled into their respective cars and compartments to read or sleep or otherwise pass the journey. Corridors that were bustling with people at departure time are now nearly empty as Poppet and Widget make their way from car to car, quiet as cats.

  Tags hang by each compartment door, marked with handwritten names. They stop at the one that reads “C. Bowen” and Widget lifts his hand to knock softly on the frosted glass.

  “Come in,” calls a voice from inside, and Poppet slides the door open.

  “Are we interrupting anything?” she asks.

  “No,” Celia says. “Do come in.” She closes the symbol-filled book she has been reading and places it on a table. The entire compartment looks like an explosion in a library, piles of books and paper amongst the velvet-covered benches and polished-wood tables. The light dances around the room with the motion of the train, bouncing off the crystal chandeliers.

  Widget slides the door closed behind them and latches it.

  “Would you like some tea?” Celia asks.

  “No, thank you,” Poppet says. She looks nervously at Widget, who only nods.

  Celia watches both of them, Poppet biting her lip and refusing to meet Celia’s eyes, while Widget leans against the door.

  “Out with it,” she says.

  “We … ” Poppet starts. “We have a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?” Celia asks, moving piles of books so they can sit on the violet benches but the twins both remain where they are.

  “I think something that was supposed to happen didn’t happen,” Poppet says.

  “And what might that be?” Celia asks.

  “Our friend Bailey was supposed to come with us.”

  “Ah yes, Widget mentioned something about that,” Celia says. “I take it he did not?”

  “No,” Poppet says. “We waited for him but he didn’t come, but I don’t know if that’s because he didn’t want to or because we left early.”

  “I see,” Celia says. “It seems a very big decision to me, deciding whether or not to run away and join the circus. Perhaps he did not have enough time to properly consider it.”

  “But he was supposed to come,” Poppet says. “I know he was supposed to come.”

  “Did you see something?” Celia asks.

  “Sort of.”

  “How does one sort of see something?”

  “It’s not as clear as it was before,” Poppet says. “I can’t see anything as clearly as I used to. It’s all bits and pieces that don’t make sense. Nothing here has made any sense for a year and you know it.”

  “I think that is an exaggeration, but I understand how it can seem that way,” Celia says.

  “It is not an exaggeration,” Poppet says, raising her voice.

  The chandeliers begin to shudder and Celia closes her eyes, taking a deep breath and waiting for them to return to a gentle sway before she speaks.

  “Poppet, there is no one here who is more upset by what happened last year than I am. And I have told you before it is not your fault, and there is nothing that could have been done to prevent it. Not by you, not by me, not by anyone else. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” Poppet says. “But what’s the use in seeing the future if I can’t do anything to stop it?”

  “You cannot stop things,” Celia says. “You can only be prepared for them to happen.”

  “You could stop them,” Poppet mumbles, looking around at the multitude of books. Celia puts a finger under Poppet’s chin and turns her head to look her in the eye.

  “Only a handful of people on this train have any idea how integral I am to the running of the circus,” she says. “And as much as you two are amongst them and you are both extremely clever, you do not comprehend the scope of what goes on here and you wouldn’t particularly like it if you did. Now, tell me what you sort of saw.”

  Poppet closes her eyes, trying to concentrate. “I don’t know,” she says. “It was bright, everything was on fire, and Bailey was there.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that,” Celia says.

  “I can’t,” Poppet says. “I haven’t seen anything clearly since before—”

  “And that’s likely because you don’t want to see anything clearly after that, and I can’t say I blame you. But if you want me to do something to prevent whatever this is, I am going to need more information.”

  She unclasps the long silver chain that hangs around her neck, checking the time on the pocket watch that hangs from it before she holds it up in front of Poppet’s eyes.

  “Please, Poppet,” Celia says. “You don’t need the stars for this. Just focus. Even if you don’t want to.”

  Poppet frowns, then turns her attention to the dangling silver watch as it sways in the warm light.

  Her eyes narrow, focusing on the reflections in the curve of the watch, and then they soften, looking at something beyond the watch, beyond the train.

  She starts to sway as her eyes flutter closed, and she falls backward. Widget leaps forward to catch her before she hits the floor.

  Celia helps him move Poppet to one of the velvet benches by the table, while on a nearby shelf a cup of tea pours itself, steaming and brewing instantly in a flowered china cup.

  Poppet blinks, looking up at the chandeliers as though seeing them for the first time, before turning back to Celia to accept the cup of tea.

  “That hurt,” Poppet says.

  “I’m sorry, dearest,” Celia says. “I think your sight is getting stronger, which makes it even more troublesome for you to be suppressing it.”

  Poppet nods, rubbing her temples.

  “Tell me everything you saw,” Celia says. “Everything. I don’t care if it doesn’t make any sense. Try to describe it.”

  Poppet looks into her tea before she starts.

  “There’s a fire,” she says. “It starts with the bonfire but … bigger and there’s nothing containing it. Like the whole courtyard is on fire, there’s a loud noise and this heat and … ” Poppet pauses, closing her eyes as she attempts to concentrate on the images in her head. She opens her eyes and looks back at Celia. “You’re there. You’re with someone else and I think it’s raining, and then you’re not there anymore but you still are, I can’t explain it. And then Bailey is there, not during the fire but after it, I think.”

  “What did the someone else look like?” Celia asks.

  “A man. He was tall. In a suit, with a bowler hat, I think. It was hard to tell.”

  Celia rests her head in her hands for a moment before she speaks.

  “If that is who I think it is, I know for a fact he is in London at the moment, so perhaps this is not as immediate as you think.”

  “But it is, I’m sure of it,” Poppet protests
.

  “Timing has never been your strong point. You said yourself that this friend of yours is also present for this incident, and your first complaint was that he is not here. This might not happen for weeks or months or years, ’Pet.”

  “But we have to do something,” Poppet says, slamming her teacup down on the table. The tea stops before it splashes onto an open book as though there is an invisible wall surrounding it. “To be prepared, like you said.”

  “I will do what I can to prevent the circus from going up in smoke. I shall fireproof it as much as possible. Is that enough for now?”

  After a moment, Poppet nods.

  “Good,” Celia says. “We’ll be off the train in a matter of hours, we can discuss this more later.”

  “Wait,” Widget says. He has been sitting on the back of one of the velvet benches, staying out of the conversation. Now he turns to Celia. “I have a question before you shoo us away.”

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “You said we don’t comprehend the scope of what goes on here,” he says.

  “That was likely not the best choice of words.”

  “It’s a game, isn’t it?” Widget asks.

  Celia looks at him, a slow, sad smile tugging at her lips.

  “It took you sixteen years to figure that one out,” she says. “I expected more from you, Widge.”

  “I’d guessed as much for a while,” he says. “It’s not easy to see things you don’t want me to know, but I’ve been picking up bits of it lately. You haven’t been as guarded as usual.”

  “A game?” Poppet asks, looking back and forth between her brother and Celia.

  “Like a chess game,” Widget says. “The circus is the board.”

  “Not exactly,” Celia says. “It’s not as straightforward as chess.”

  “We’re all playing a game?” Poppet asks.

  “Not us,” Widget says. “Her and someone else. The rest of us are, what, extra pieces?”

  “It’s not like that,” Celia says.

  “Then what is it like?” Widget asks.