His attention remains focused on the flames despite the press of patrons around him as the fire is amplified through a rainbow of hues.
When the last arrow lands, he closes his eyes. The white flames burn red through his eyelids.
CELIA EXPECTED TO FEEL like a poor imitation of her father during her first performances, but to her relief the experience is vastly different from the one she watched so many times in theater after theater.
The space is small and intimate. The audiences are modest enough that they remain individual people rather than blending into an anonymous crowd.
She finds she is able to make each performance unique, letting the response of the audience inform what she chooses to do next.
While she enjoys it more than she thought she would, she is grateful that she has stretches of time to herself in between. As it nears midnight, she decides to see if she can find a place to discreetly watch the lighting of the bonfire.
But as she makes her way through the area that is already being referred to as backstage despite the lack of stage, she is quickly swept up in the somewhat ordered chaos surrounding the impending birth of the Murray twins.
Several of the performers and staff have gathered, waiting anxiously. The doctor who has been brought in seems to find the entire situation strange. The contortionist comes and goes. Aidan Murray paces like one of his cats.
Celia endeavors to be as helpful as she can, which consists mainly of fetching cups of tea and finding new and creative ways to assure people that everything will be fine.
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 Lefevre 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.
