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.
And before he can tell her to tell Widget goodbye for him if need be, she leans forward and kisses him, not on the cheek, as she has a handful of times before, but on the lips, and Bailey knows in that moment that he will follow her anywhere.
Poppet turns without a word and walks away. Bailey watches until he can no longer see her hair against the sky and then continues to stare after her, the tiny bottle clutched in his hand, still uncertain of how to feel or what to do and left with only hours to decide.
Behind him, the sheep, left to their own devices, decide to wander through the open gate into the field beyond.
Invitation
LONDON, OCTOBER 30, 1901
When the circus arrives in London, though Celia Bowen is tempted to go immediately to the address of Marco’s flat, which is printed on the card she keeps on her person at all times, she goes instead to the Midland Grand Hotel.
She does not make any inquiries at the desk.
She does not speak to anyone.
She stands in the middle of the lobby, going unnoticed by the staff and guests that pass her on their way to other locations, other appointments, and other temporary places.
After she has stood for more than an hour, as still as one of the circus statues, a man in a grey suit approaches her.
He listens without reaction as she speaks, and when she is finished, he only nods.
She executes a perfect curtsey, and then she turns and leaves.
The man in the grey suit stands alone, unnoticed, in the lobby for some time.
Intersections I: The Drop of a Hat
LONDON, OCTOBER 31–NOVEMBER 1, 1901
The circus is always particularly festive on All Hallows’ Eve. Round paper lanterns hang in the courtyard, the shadows dancing over their white surfaces like silently howling faces. Leather masks in white and black and silver with ribbon ties are set in baskets by the gates and around the circus for patrons to wear, should they wish. It is sometimes difficult to discern performer from patron.
It is an altogether different experience to wander through the circus anonymously. To blend in with the environment, becoming a part of the ambiance. Many patrons enjoy the experience immensely, while others find it disconcerting and prefer to wear their own faces.
Now the crowd has thinned considerably in these hours past midnight as the clock ticks its way into All Hallows’ proper.
The remaining masked patrons wander like ghosts.
The line for the fortune-teller has dwindled down to nothing in these hours. Most people seek their fortunes early in the evening. The late of the night is suited for less cerebral pursuits. Earlier the querents filed in almost nonstop, but as October fades into November there is no one waiting in the vestibule, no one waiting behind the beaded curtain to hear what secrets the cards have to tell.
And then the beaded curtain parts, though she heard no one approach.
What Marco comes to tell her should not be a shock. The cards have been telling her as much for years but she refused to listen, choosing to see only the other possibilities, the alternate paths to be taken.
Hearing it from his own lips is another thing entirely. As soon as he speaks the words, a forgotten memory finds its way to the front of her mind. Two green-clad figures in the center of a vibrant ballroom, so undeniably in love that the entire room flushes with heat.
She asks him to draw a single card. The fact that he consents surprises her.
That the card he draws is
When he leaves, Isobel removes her sign for the evening.
She sometimes removes her sign early, or for periods of time when she is tired from reading or in need of a respite. Often she spends this time with Tsukiko, but instead of seeking out the contortionist this particular evening, she sits alone at her table, shuffling her tarot deck compulsively.
She flips one card faceup, then another and another.
There are only swords. Lines of them in pointed rows. Four. Nine. Ten. The single sharp ace.
She pushes them back into a pile.
She abandons the cards and turns to something else instead.
She keeps the hatbox under her table. It is the safest place she could think of, the easiest for her to access. Often she forgets it is even there, concealed beneath the cascading velvet. Always suspended between her and her querents. A constant unseen presence.
Now she reaches beneath the table and draws it out from velvet shadows into the flickering candlelight.
The hatbox is plain and round, covered in black silk. It has no latch or hinge, its lid kept in place by two ribbons, one black and one white, that are tied in careful knots.
Isobel places the box upon the table and brushes a thick layer of dust off the top, though much of it still sticks to the knotted ribbons. She hesitates, and thinks for a moment that it would be better to leave it alone, to return it to its resting place. But it does not seem to matter any longer.
She unties the ribbons slowly, working the knots out with her fingernails. When they are loosened enough for her to remove the lid, she pulls it off gingerly, as though she fears what she might find inside.
Inside the box is a hat.
It is just as she left it. An old black bowler hat, showing some wear around the brim. It is tied with more black and white ribbons, wrapped like a present in light and dark bows. Beneath the knots of the ribbon there is a single tarot card. Between the hat and the card there is a folded white lace handkerchief, its edges embroidered with looping black vines.
They were such simple things. Knots and intent.
She had laughed through her lessons, much preferring her cards. They seemed so straightforward in comparison, despite their myriad meanings.
It was only a precaution. Precautions are wise in such unpredictable circumstances. No stranger than bringing along an umbrella for a walk on a day that feels like rain, even if the sun is shining brightly.
