Though she cannot be certain it is doing much more than gathering dust, not really. She has no way to be sure, no barometer on which to measure such insubstantial things. No thermometer for chaos. At the moment, it feels like she is pushing against an empty void.
Isobel lifts the hat carefully from the box, the long ends of the ribbons spilling in a waterfall around it. It is oddly pretty, for being an old hat and a handkerchief and a card tied up in fraying ribbon. Almost festive.
“The smallest charms can be the most effective,” Isobel says, taken aback when her voice catches, almost on the brink of tears.
The hat does not reply.
“I don’t think you’re having any effect at all,” Isobel says.
Again, the hat has no reply.
She had only wanted to keep the circus balanced. To prevent two conflicting sides from causing damage to each other or their surroundings.
To keep the scales from breaking.
Over and over in her mind, she sees them together in the ballroom.
She remembers snatches of an overheard argument. Marco saying he had done everything for
But now it is clear.
All the emotion in the cards when she would try to read about him, it was all for Celia.
The circus itself, all for her. For every beautiful tent he creates, she builds one in return.
And Isobel herself has been helping to keep it balanced. Helping him. Helping them both.
She looks down at the hat in her hands.
White lace caressing black wool, ribbons intertwined. Inseparable.
Isobel tears at the ribbons with her fingers, pulling at the bows in a sudden fury.
The handkerchief floats down like a ghost, the initials C.N.B. legible amongst the embroidered vines.
The tarot card falls to the ground, landing faceup. The image of an angel is emblazoned on it, the word
Isobel stops, holding her breath. Expecting some repercussion, some result from the action. But everything is quiet. The candles flicker around her. The beaded curtain hangs still and calm. She suddenly feels silly and stupid, alone in her tent with a pile of tangled ribbon and an old hat. She thinks herself a fool for believing she could have any impact on such things. That anything she ever did mattered at all.
She reaches down to retrieve the fallen card, but her hand freezes just above it when she hears something. For a split second it sounds like the squealing brakes of a train.
It takes a moment for Isobel to realize that the noise coming from outside the tent is actually the sound of Poppet Murray screaming.
Darkest Before the Dawn
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 31, 1902
Poppet and Widget stand by the circus gates, just out of the way of the ticket booth, though the line for tickets has waned in the late hour. The star-filled tunnel has already been removed, replaced by a single striped curtain. The
“Wufju fay foo im?” he asks, with his mouth mostly full.
“I tried to explain as much as I could,” Poppet says. “I think I made an analogy about cake.”
“Well, that must have worked,” Widget says. “Who doesn’t like a good cake analogy?”
“I’m not sure I made any sense. I think he was most upset that I asked him not to come tonight if he wasn’t going to leave with us. I didn’t know what else to say, I just tried to make sure he understood it was important.” Poppet sighs, leaning against the iron fence. “And I kissed him,” she adds.
“I know,” Widget says.
Poppet glares at him, her face blushing almost as red as her hair.
“I didn’t mean to,” Widget says with a shrug. “You’re not hiding it well at all. You should practice more if you don’t want me to see things. Didn’t Celia teach you how to do that?”
“Why is your sight getting better and mine’s getting worse?” Poppet asks.
“Luck?”
Poppet rolls her eyes.
“Did you talk to Celia?” she asks.
“I did. I told her you said Bailey was supposed to come with us. All she said was that she wouldn’t do anything to prevent it.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“She’s distracted,” Widget says, shaking his bag of popcorn. “She won’t tell me anything, and she barely listened to me when I tried to explain what we were asking. I could have told her we wanted to bring a flying hippopotamus along to keep as a pet and she would have said that was fine. But Bailey’s not coming just for fun, is he?”
“I don’t know,” Poppet says.
“What do you know?”
Poppet looks up at the night sky. Dark clouds cover most of the stars but pockets of them slide into view, twinkling softly.
“Remember when we were on the Stargazer and I saw something bright but I couldn’t tell what it was?”
Widget nods.
“It was the courtyard. The entire courtyard, not just the bonfire. Bright and burning and hot. Then … I don’t know what happened but Bailey was there. That much I’m sure of.”
“And this is going to happen soon?” Widget asks.
“Very soon, I think.”
“Should we kidnap him?”
“Really, Widge.”
“No, really. We could do it. We can sneak into his house and hit him with something heavy and drag him back here as inconspicuously as possible. We can prop him up and people will think he’s a town drunk. He’ll be on the train before he’s conscious, and then he really won’t have a choice. Quick and painless. Well, painless for us. Save for the heavy lifting, that is.”
“I don’t think that’s really the best idea, Widge,” Poppet says.
“Oh, c’mon, it’ll be fun,” Widget says.
“I don’t think so. I think we already did whatever it was we were supposed to do, and now we have to wait.”
“Are you sure about that?” Widget asks.
“No,” Poppet says quietly.
After a while Widget goes off in search of something else to eat and Poppet waits by the gates alone, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to check the time on the clock behind her.
Intersections II: Scarlet Furies and Red Destinies
LONDON, OCTOBER 31–NOVEMBER 1, 1901
Though any night at the circus can rightfully be called magical,” Herr Friedrick Thiessen once wrote, “All Hallows’ Eve is something special. The air itself crackles with mystery.”
This particular Hallowe’en night is cold and crisp. The boisterous crowd is clothed in heavy coats and
