Bailey is not certain where to go. He wanders through paths expecting to see Poppet around every corner, but he is met with only stripes and emptiness. Finally, he heads toward the courtyard, toward the bonfire.
As he turns a corner that opens up into the wide space of the bonfire courtyard, he is more surprised by the fact that the fire is not burning than he is to find that there is indeed someone waiting for him.
But the figure standing by the cauldron of curling iron is not Poppet. This woman is too short, her hair too dark. When she turns she has a long silver cigarette holder at her lips, and the smoke curls around her head like snakes.
It takes him a moment to recognize the contortionist, having only ever seen her upon a platform bending herself into impossible shapes.
“You are Bailey, yes?” she says.
“Yes,” Bailey answers, wondering if absolutely everyone in the circus knows who he is.
“You are late,” the contortionist tells him.
“Late for what?” Bailey asks, confused.
“I doubt she will be able to hold on much longer.”
“Who?” Bailey asks, though the thought pops into his head that the contortionist might be referring to the circus itself.
“And of course,” she continues, “had you arrived earlier it might have played out differently. Timing is a sensitive thing.”
“Where’s Poppet?” Bailey asks.
“Miss Penelope is indisposed at the moment.”
“How can she not know that I’m here?” he asks.
“She might very well know you are here, but that does not change the fact that she is, as I have mentioned, indisposed at the moment.”
“Who are you?” Bailey asks. His shoulder is throbbing now and he cannot quite pinpoint when everything stopped making sense.
“You may call me Tsukiko,” the contortionist says. She takes a long drag on her cigarette.
Beyond her, the monstrous bowl of wrought-iron curls sits hollow and still. The ground around it, usually painted in a spiral pattern of black and white, is now nothing but darkness, as though it has been swallowed up by empty space.
“I thought the fire never went out,” Bailey says, walking closer to it.
“It never has before,” Tsukiko says.
Reaching the edge of the still-hot iron curls, Bailey stands on his toes to peer inside. It is almost filled with rainwater, the dark surface rippling in the breeze. The ground beneath his feet is black and muddy, and when he steps back he accidentally kicks a black bowler hat.
“What happened?” Bailey asks.
“That is somewhat difficult to explain,” Tsukiko answers. “It is a long and complicated story.”
“And you’re not going to tell it to me, are you?”
She tilts her head a bit, and Bailey can see the hint of a smile playing around her lips.
“No, I am not,” she says.
“Great,” Bailey mutters under his breath.
“I see you have taken up the banner,” Tsukiko says, pointing her cigarette at his red scarf. Bailey is unsure how to respond to this, but she continues without waiting for an answer. “I suppose you could call it an explosion.”
“The bonfire exploded? How?”
“Remember when I said it was difficult to explain? That has not changed.”
“Why didn’t the tents burn?” Bailey asks, looking around at the seemingly never-ending stripes. Some of the closer tents are splattered with mud, but none are burned despite the charred ground surrounding them.
“That was Miss Bowen’s doing,” Tsukiko says. “I suspect without that precaution there would have been more extensive damage.”
“Who is Miss Bowen?” Bailey asks.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Tsukiko responds.
“You don’t answer very many of them,” Bailey retaliates.
The smile appears in full then, curling up in a manner Bailey finds almost disturbingly friendly.
“I am only an emissary,” Tsukiko says. “I am here to act as convoy to escort you to a meeting, for a discussion of such matters, I suppose, because at the moment I am the only living person who has any idea of what has transpired, and why you are here. Your questions are better saved for someone else.”
“And who might that be?” Bailey asks.
“You shall see,” Tsukiko says. “Come this way.”
She beckons him forward, leading him around the bonfire to the other side of the courtyard. They walk a short way down an adjoining passageway, layers of mud sticking to Bailey’s formerly shiny shoes.
“Here we are.” Tsukiko stops at a tent entrance, and Bailey moves closer to check the sign, knowing which tent it is as soon as he glances at the words upon it.
Fearsome Beasts and Strange Creatures
Wonders in Paper and Mist
“Are you coming with me?” Bailey asks.
“No,” Tsukiko says. “Only an emissary, remember? I shall be in the courtyard if you need me.”
With that she gives him a polite nod and walks back the way they came, and as Bailey watches her go he notices that the mud is not sticking to her boots.
After she disappears around a corner, Bailey enters the tent.
Incendiary
NEW YORK, OCTOBER 31, 1902
Marco’s back slams against the ground as though he has been roughly pushed, leaving him coughing both from the impact and the cloud of black ash surrounding him.
A light rain is falling as he pulls himself up, and as the air around him clears he sees a row of tiny trees and stars, surrounded by silver gears and black-and-white chess pieces.
It takes him a moment to realize he is standing next to the Wunschtraum clock.
The clock is ticking toward midnight, the harlequin juggler at the top balancing eleven balls amongst the twinkling stars and moving pieces.
The sign announcing the circus’s closure due to inclement weather clatters in the wind. Though for the moment, the rain is not much more than a heavy mist.
Marco rubs the shimmering powder from his face, which has reverted to its true form and he is too disoriented to change it. He tries to get a better look at the dark ash on his suit but it is already fading away.
The striped curtain beyond the ticket booth hangs open, and through the haze, Marco can see a figure standing in the shadows, illuminated by the sharp spark of light from a cigarette lighter.
“Bonsoir,” Tsukiko says cheerfully as he approaches, tucking her lighter back in her pocket as she balances her cigarette in its long silver holder. A rush of wind howls across the space, rattling the circus gates.
“How … how did she do this?” Marco asks.
“Isobel, you mean?” Tsukiko replies. “I taught her that particular trick. I do not think she understood the nuances of it, but it appears she performed fine regardless. Do you feel unsteady at all?”
“I’m fine,” Marco says, though his back is aching from the fall and his eyes still sting. He watches Tsukiko curiously. He has never spoken at any great length with the contortionist, and her presence is almost as confusing as the fact that moments ago he had been somewhere else entirely.
“Here, come out of the wind at least.” Tsukiko motions him into the curtained tunnel with her cigarette-free hand. “That is a better face than the other one,” she says, scrutinizing his appearance through mist and smoke. “It suits you.” She lets the curtain fall once he has entered, leaving them enclosed in darkness studded with dimly sparkling lights, the glowing tip of her cigarette the one spot of color amongst the dots of white.
“Where is everyone?” Marco asks, shaking the rain from his bowler hat.
“Inclement-weather party,” Tsukiko explains. “Traditionally held in the acrobats’ tent, as it is the largest. But you would not know that, as you are not truly a member of the company, are you?”
He cannot see her expression well enough to read it, though he can tell that she is grinning brightly.
“No, I suppose I am not,”
he says. He follows her as she walks through the mazelike tunnel, moving deeper into the circus. “Why am I here?” he asks.
“We will get to that in due time,” she says. “How much did Isobel tell you?”
The conversation with Isobel outside his building is almost lost in Marco’s memory, despite occurring only moments ago. He recalls fleeting pieces of it. Nothing coherent enough to articulate.
“No matter,” Tsukiko says when he does not respond immediately. “It is sometimes difficult to gather one’s senses after such a journey. Did she tell you that we have something in common?”
Marco recalls Isobel mentioning Celia and someone else, but not who, exactly.
“No,” he says.
“We are both former students of the same instructor,” Tsukiko says. The end of her cigarette glows brighter as she inhales in the near darkness. “Temporary cover only, I am afraid,” she adds as they reach another curtain. She pulls it back and the space is flooded with glowing light from the courtyard. She gestures for Marco to step out into the rain, taking a drag from her cigarette as he obediently walks through the open curtain, trying to make sense of her last statement.
The lights that adorn the tents are dark, but in the center of the courtyard the bonfire burns brightly, glowing and white. The soft rain falling around it glistens.
“It is lovely,” Tsukiko says, stepping into the courtyard with him. “I will grant you that.”
“You were a former student of Alexander’s?” Marco asks, not certain he has understood.
Tsukiko nods.
“I tired of writing things in books, so I began inscribing them on my body instead. I am not fond of getting my hands dirty,” she says, indicating his ink-stained fingers. “I am surprised he agreed to such an open venue for this challenge. He always preferred seclusion. I suspect he is not pleased with the way it has progressed.”
As he listens to her, Marco notices that the contortionist is completely dry. Every drop of rain that falls on her evaporates instantly, sizzling into steam as soon as it touches her.
“You won the last game,” he says.
“I survived the last game,” Tsukiko corrects.
“When?” Marco asks as they walk toward the bonfire.
“It ended eighty-three years, six months, and twenty-one days ago. It was a cherry-blossom day.”
Tsukiko takes a long drag from her cigarette before she continues.
“Our instructors do not understand how it is,” she says. “To be bound to someone in such a way. They are too old, too out of touch with their emotions. They no longer remember what it is to live and breathe within the world. They think it simple to pit any two people against each other. It is never simple. The other person becomes how you define your life, how you define yourself. They become as necessary as breathing. Then they expect the victor to continue on without that. It would be like pulling the Murray twins apart and expecting them to be the same. They would be whole but not complete. You love her, do you not?”
“More than anything in the world,” Marco says.
Tsukiko nods thoughtfully.
“My opponent’s name was Hinata,” she says. “Her skin smelled of ginger and cream. I loved her more than anything in the world, as well. On that cherry-blossom day, she set herself on fire. Ignited a pillar of flame and stepped into it as though it were water.”
“I’m sorry,” Marco says.
“Thank you,” Tsukiko says, with a shadow of her normally bright smile. “It is what Miss Bowen is planning to do for you. To let you win.”
“I know.”
“I would not wish such pain on anyone. To be the victor. Hinata would have adored this,” she says as they reach the bonfire, watching the flames dance in the increasing rain. “She was quite fond of fire. Water was always my element. Before.”
She holds out her hand and watches as the raindrops refuse to reach her skin.
“Do you know the story of the wizard in the tree?” she asks.
“The Merlin story?” Marco asks. “I know several versions.”
“There are many,” Tsukiko says with a nod. “Old stories have a habit of being told and retold and changed. Each subsequent storyteller puts his or her mark upon it. Whatever truth the story once had is buried in bias and embellishment. The reasons do not matter as much as the story itself.”
The rain continues to increase, falling heavily as she continues.
“Sometimes it is a cave, but I like the version with the tree. Perhaps a tree is more romantic.”
She takes the still-glowing cigarette from its holder, balancing it gently between her graceful fingers.
“While there are a number of trees here that could be used for this purpose,” she says, “I thought this might be more appropriate.”
Marco turns his attention to the bonfire. It illuminates the rain falling over it in such a way that the droplets of water sparkle like snow.
All of the versions of the Merlin story he knows involve the magician being imprisoned. In a tree or a cave or a rock.
Always as a punishment, the consequence of a foolish love.
He looks back at Tsukiko.
“You understand,” she says, before he can speak.
Marco nods.
“I knew you would,” she says. The light from the white flames brightens her smile through the rain.
“What are you doing, Tsukiko?” a voice calls from behind her. When Tsukiko turns, Marco can see Celia standing at the edge of the courtyard. Her moonlight gown is soaked to a dull grey, its crisscrossing ribbons stream out behind her in trails of black and white and charcoal, tangling with her hair in the wind.
“Go back to the party, dear,” Tsukiko says, tucking the silver cigarette holder in her pocket. “You will not want to be here for this.”
“For what?” Celia says, staring at Marco.
When Tsukiko speaks, she addresses them both.
“I have been surrounded by love letters you two have built each other for years, encased in tents. It reminds me of what it was to be with her. It is wonderful and it is terrible. I am not yet prepared to give it up, but you are letting it fade.”
“You told me love was fickle and fleeting,” Celia says, confused.
“I lied,” Tsukiko says, rolling her cigarette between her fingers. “I thought it might be easier if you doubted him. And I gave you a year to find a way for the circus to continue without you. You have not. I am stepping in.”
“I am try—” Celia starts, but Tsukiko cuts her off.
“You continue to overlook a simple fact,” she says. “You carry this circus within yourself. He uses the fire as a tool. You are the greater loss, but too selfish to admit it. You believe you could not live with the pain. Such pain is not lived with. It is only endured. I am sorry.”
“Kiko, please,” Celia says. “I need more time.”
Tsukiko shakes her head.
“I told you before,” she says, “time is not something I can control.”
Marco has not taken his eyes from Celia since she appeared in the courtyard, but now he turns away.
“Go ahead,” he says to Tsukiko, shouting over the growing din of the rain. “Do it! I would rather burn by her side than live without her.”
What might have been a simple cry of the word “No” is distorted into something greater by the wind as Celia screams. The agony in her voice cuts through Marco like every blade in Chandresh’s collection combined, but he keeps his attention on the contortionist.
“It will end the game, yes?” he asks. “It will end the game even if I am trapped in the fire and not dead.”
“You will be unable to continue,” Tsukiko says. “That is all that matters.”
“Then do it,” Marco says.
Tsukiko smiles at him. She places her palms together, curls of smoke from her cigarette rising over her fingers.
She gives him a low, respectful bow.
Neither of them are watching as Celia runs toward them through the r
ain.
Tsukiko flicks her still-glowing cigarette toward the fire.
It is still in the air when Marco cries out for Celia to stop.
It has barely touched the flickering white flames of the bonfire when she leaps into his arms.
Marco knows he does not have the time to push her away, so he pulls her close, burying his face in her hair, his bowler hat torn from his head by the wind.
And then the pain starts. Sharp, ripping pain as though he is being pulled apart.
“Trust me,” Celia whispers in his ear, and he stops fighting it, forgetting everything but her.
In the moment before the explosion, before the white light becomes too blinding to discern precisely what is happening, they dissolve into the air. One moment they are there, Celia’s dress fluttering in the wind and the rain, Marco’s hands pressed against her back, and the next they are only a blur of light and shadow.
Then both of them are gone and the circus is ablaze, flames licking against the tents, twisting up into the rain.
Alone in the courtyard, Tsukiko sighs. The flames pass by her without touching, swirling around in a vortex. Illuminating her with impossible brightness.
Then, as quickly as they came, the flames die down to nothing.
The bonfire’s curling cage sits empty, not even a smoldering ember remains. The rain patters in a hollow echo against the metal, drops evaporating into steam where the iron is still hot.
Tsukiko pulls another cigarette from her coat, flicking open her lighter with a lazy, practiced gesture.
The flame catches easily, despite the rain.
She watches the cauldron fill with water while she waits.
Transmutation
NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1, 1902
If Celia could open her mouth, she would scream.
But there is too much to control between the heat and the rain and Marco in her arms.
She focuses only on him, pulling everything that he is with her as she breaks herself apart. Holding to the memory of every touch of his skin against hers, every moment she has spent with him. Carrying him with her.
Suddenly, there is nothing. No rain. No fire. A stretch of calm white nothingness.