Another flourish, and the black silk folds and curves in on itself, becoming a black top hat. The woman places it on her head, topping off an ensemble that looks like a ball gown fashioned out of the night sky: black silk dotted with sparkling white crystals. She acknowledges her audience with a subtle bow.
The illusionist has made her entrance.
A few people, including Bailey, manage to applaud, while those who had abandoned their seats return to them, looking both disturbed and curious.
The performance is continuous. The displays Bailey has difficulty thinking of as tricks meld one into the other. The doves vanish frequently, only to reappear on hats or under chairs. There is also a black raven, far too large to have been cleverly concealed. It is only after the performance has gone on for some time that Bailey slowly realizes that because of the circle of chairs, the shape and closeness of the space, there is no room for mirrors or tricks of the light. Everything is immediate and palpable. She even transforms one audience member’s pocket watch from metal to sand and back again. At one point all the chairs float some distance off the ground, and while the movement is steady and secure, Bailey’s toes barely graze the floor and he clutches the sides of his chair nervously.
At the end of the act, the illusionist takes a bow with a pivoting turn, acknowledging the entire circle as the audience applauds. As she completes the rotation, she is no longer there. Only a few sparkling shimmers remain, echoes of the crystals in her gown.
The door reappears in the side of the tent and the small audience makes their way out. Bailey lags behind, glancing back as he leaves at the spot where the illusionist had been.
Outside, though it was not there before, is another raised platform, much like the one the contortionist stood on. But the figure on this platform does not move. Bailey almost thinks it is a statue, dressed in a white gown edged in matching fur that cascades beyond the platform to the ground. Her hair and skin, even her eyelashes, are an icy white.
But she moves. Very, very slowly. So slowly that Bailey cannot pinpoint exact motions, only slight changes. Soft flakes of iridescent snow float to the ground, falling from her like leaves from a tree.
Bailey walks around, looking at her from every angle. Her eyes follow him, though the snow-flecked lashes do not blink.
There is a small silver plaque on the platform, partially obscured by the cascading gown.
It reads in memoriam, but it does not specify who it is for.
Rules of the Game
1887–1889
There are fewer Circus Dinners now that the circus itself is up and running properly, gaining its self-sufficiency, as Chandresh phrased it at one dinner not long after opening night. The original conspirators still gather for dinner occasionally, particularly when the circus is performing nearby, but this has become more and more infrequent.
Mr. A. H— does not appear, despite his standing invitation.
And as these meetings were the only opportunity Marco was given to see his instructor, the continued absence frustrates him.
After a year without a sign, without any word or a single glimpse of the grey top hat, Marco decides to call on him.
He does not know his instructor’s current residence. He assumes, rightly, that it is likely a temporary place and by the time he tracked down the proper location his instructor would have moved to a new, equally temporary residence.
Instead, Marco carves a series of symbols into the frost on the window of his flat that faces out to the street, using the columns of the museum beyond as a guide. Most of the symbols are indistinguishable unless the light hits them at precise angles, but they are collectively set into the shape of a large
The next day there is a knock at the door.
As always, the man in the grey suit refuses to enter the flat. He only stands in the hall and fixes Marco with a cool grey stare.
“What is it that you want?” he asks.
“I would like to know if I am doing well,” Marco says.
His instructor looks at him for a moment, his expression as inscrutable as ever.
“Your work has been sufficient,” he says.
“Is this how the challenge is going to proceed?” Marco asks. “Each of us manipulating the circus? How long will it go on?”
“You have been given a venue to work within,” his instructor says. “You present your skills to the best of your ability and your opponent does the same. You do not interfere with each other’s work. It shall continue in this manner until there is a victor. It is not that complex.”
“I’m not certain I understand the rules,” Marco says.
“You don’t need to understand the rules. You need to follow them. As I said, your work has been sufficient.”
He starts to leave, but then hesitates.
“Do not do that again,” he says, pointing over Marco’s shoulder at the frost-covered window.
Then he turns and walks away.
The symbols on the window melt into meaningless streaks.
IT IS THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY and the circus sleeps quietly, but Celia Bowen stands in front of the Carousel, watching as black and white and silver creatures file past, suspended on coordinating ribbons, riderless.
“I don’t like this thing,” a voice behind her says.
Hector Bowen is no more than an apparition in the dimly lit tent. His dark suit vanishes into the shadows. The shifting light catches and releases the brightness of his shirt, the grey of his hair, illuminating the disapproving glare on his face as he watches the Carousel over his daughter’s shoulder.
“Whyever not?” Celia responds without turning. “It’s extremely popular. And it was a great deal of work; that should count for something, Papa.”
His derisive scoff is only an echo of what it once was, and Celia is relieved that he cannot see her smile at the softness of the sound.
“You would not be so reckless were I not … ” His voice trails off with a wave of a transparent hand next to her arm.
“Don’t be cross with me about that,” Celia says. “You did it to yourself, it’s not my fault you cannot undo it. And I am hardly being reckless.”
“How much did you tell this architect of yours?” her father asks.
“I told him as much as I thought he needed to know,” Celia says as he drifts past her, moving to inspect the Carousel. “He’s fond of pushing boundaries, and I offered to help him push them further. Is Mr. Barris my opponent? That would be quite devious of him, building me a carousel to avoid suspicion.”
“He is not your opponent,” Hector says with a dismissive gesture, the lace cuff of his shirt fluttering like a moth. “Though such a thing could very well be considered cheating.”
“How is utilizing an engineer to execute an idea not working within the venue, Papa? I discussed it with him, he handled the design and construction, and I … embellished it. Would you like to ride it? It goes quite a bit farther than around and around.”
“Obviously,” Hector says, looking down at the darkened tunnel that the line of creatures disappears into. “I still don’t like it.”
Celia sighs, walking to the edge of the Carousel to pet the head of an oversized raven as it passes by.
“There are already countless elements in this circus that are collaborative,” she says. “Why can I not use
