to take one with you as you enter.
Inside, the tent is dark, the ceiling covered with open black umbrellas, the curving handles hanging down like icicles.
In the center of the room there is a pool. A pond enclosed within a black stone wall that is surrounded by white gravel.
The air carries the salty tinge of the ocean.
You walk over to the edge to look inside. The gravel crunches beneath your feet.
It is shallow, but it is glowing. A shimmering, shifting light cascades up through the surface of the water. A soft radiance, enough to illuminate the pool and the stones that sit at the bottom. Hundreds of stones, each identical to the one you hold in your hand. The light beneath filters through the spaces between the stones.
Reflections ripple around the room, making it appear as though the entire tent is underwater.
You sit on the wall, turning your black stone over and over in your fingers.
The stillness of the tent becomes a quiet melancholy.
Memories begin to creep forward from hidden corners of your mind. Passing disappointments. Lost chances and lost causes. Heartbreaks and pain and desolate, horrible loneliness.
Sorrows you thought long forgotten mingle with still-fresh wounds.
The stone feels heavier in your hand.
When you drop it in the pool to join the rest of the stones, you feel lighter. As though you have released something more than a smooth polished piece of rock.
Farewell
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 30 AND 31, 1902
Bailey climbs the oak tree to retrieve his hidden box before sunset, gazing down at the circus that sits bathed in deep orange light, casting long pointed shadows across the field. But when he opens it, he does not find anything he truly wishes to take with him.
He removes only Poppet’s white glove, placing it in his coat pocket, and returns the box to the tree.
At home, he counts out his life savings, which is a higher amount than he had expected, and packs a change of clothes and an extra sweater. He considers packing a spare pair of shoes but decides he can likely borrow some from Widget if need be. He shoves everything into a worn leather satchel and waits for his parents and Caroline to go to bed.
While he waits, he unpacks his bag and then packs it again, second-guessing his choices of what to bring and what to leave behind.
He waits an hour after he is certain everyone is asleep, and then another hour for good measure. Though he has become rather proficient at slipping in at abnormal hours, sneaking out is a different matter.
When he finally creeps down the hallway, he is surprised how late it is. His hand is on the door, ready to leave, when he turns around, putting his bag down and quietly searching for a piece of paper.
Once he locates one, he sits down at the table in the kitchen to write a note to his parents. He explains as best he can his reasons for going and hopes they will understand. He does not mention Harvard or anything about the future of the farm.
He remembers when he was very small his mother once said she wished happiness and adventure for him. If this does not count as adventure, he is not sure what does.
“What are you doing?” a voice behind him asks.
Bailey turns to find Caroline standing in the doorway in her nightgown, her hair piled on her head in a spiky mess of pin curls and a knitted blanket pulled around her shoulders.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he says, turning back to his writing. He signs the letter and folds it, leaving it propped upright in the center of the table, next to a wooden bowl full of apples. “Make sure they read that.”
“Are you running away?” Caroline asks, glancing at his bag.
“Something like that.”
“You can’t possibly be serious,” she says with a yawn.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I’ll write when I can. Tell them not to worry about me.”
“Bailey, go back to bed.”
“Why don’t you go back to bed, Caroline? You look like you could use some more beauty rest.”
In response, Caroline only twists her face up in a sneer.
“Besides,” Bailey continues, “when have you ever cared what I do?”
“You have been acting like a baby all week,” Caroline says, raising her voice but keeping it a hissing whisper. “Playing at that stupid circus, staying out all night. Grow up,
“That is precisely what I’m doing,” Bailey says. “I don’t care if you don’t understand that. Staying here won’t make me happy. It will make you happy because you are insipid and boring, and an insipid, boring life is enough for you. It’s not enough for me. It will never be enough for me. So I’m leaving. Do me a favor and marry someone who will take decent care of the sheep.”
He takes an apple from the bowl and tosses it in the air, catching it and tucking it in his bag before he bids Caroline goodbye with a cheerful wave and nothing more.
He leaves her standing by the table with her mouth opening and closing in silent rage as he closes the door quietly behind him.
Bailey walks away from the house buzzing with energy. He almost expects Caroline to come after him, or to immediately wake their parents and alert them to his departure. But with each step he takes away from the house it becomes more clear that he is truly leaving, with nothing left to stop him.
The walk feels longer in the stillness of the night, no crowds of people heading to the circus along his route as there have been every other evening, when he raced to arrive before the opening of the gates.
The stars are still out when Bailey reaches his oak tree, his bag slung over his shoulder. He is later than he’d wanted to be, though dawn is some time away.
But beneath the starry sky, the field that stretches out below his tree is empty, as though nothing has ever occupied the space but grass and leaves and fog.
Retrospect
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1, 1901
The man in the grey suit slips easily through the crowd of circus patrons. They step out of the way without even considering the movement, parting like water as he heads toward the gates.
The figure that blocks his path near the edge of the courtyard is transparent, appearing like a mirage in the glow of the bonfire and the gently swaying paper lanterns. The man in the grey suit halts, though he could easily continue on through his colleague’s apparition unimpeded.
“Interesting evening, isn’t it?” Hector asks him, drawing curious stares from the nearby patrons.
The man in the grey suit subtly moves the fingers of one gloved hand, as though turning the page of a book, and the staring ceases, curious eyes becoming unfocused, their attention drawn to other sights.
The crowd continues by, moving to and from the gates without noticing either gentleman.
“It’s not worth the bother,” Hector scoffs. “Half these people expect to see a ghost around every corner.”
“This has gotten out of hand,” the man in the grey suit says. “This venue was always too exposed.”
“That’s what makes it
