The Night Circus(113)

“Who?” Bailey asks, though the thought pops into his head that the contortionist might be referring to the circus itself.

“And of course,” she continues, “had you arrived earlier it might have played out differently. Timing is a sensitive thing.”

“Where’s Poppet?” Bailey asks.

“Miss Penelope is indisposed at the moment.”

“How can she not know that I’m here?” he asks.

“She might very well know you are here, but that does not change the fact that she is, as I have mentioned, indisposed at the moment.”

“Who are you?” Bailey asks. His shoulder is throbbing now and he cannot quite pinpoint when everything stopped making sense.

“You may call me Tsukiko,” the contortionist says. She takes a long drag on her cigarette.

Beyond her, the monstrous bowl of wrought-iron curls sits hollow and still. The ground around it, usually painted in a spiral pattern of black and white, is now nothing but darkness, as though it has been swallowed up by empty space.

“I thought the fire never went out,” Bailey says, walking closer to it.

“It never has before,” Tsukiko says.

Reaching the edge of the still-hot iron curls, Bailey stands on his toes to peer inside. It is almost filled with rainwater, the dark surface rippling in the breeze. The ground beneath his feet is black and muddy, and when he steps back he accidentally kicks a black bowler hat.

“What happened?” Bailey asks.

“That is somewhat difficult to explain,” Tsukiko answers. “It is a long and complicated story.”

“And you’re not going to tell it to me, are you?”

She tilts her head a bit, and Bailey can see the hint of a smile playing around her lips.

“No, I am not,” she says.

“Great,” Bailey mutters under his breath.

“I see you have taken up the banner,” Tsukiko says, pointing her cigarette at his red scarf. Bailey is unsure how to respond to this, but she continues without waiting for an answer. “I suppose you could call it an explosion.”

“The bonfire exploded? How?”

“Remember when I said it was difficult to explain? That has not changed.”

“Why didn’t the tents burn?” Bailey asks, looking around at the seemingly never-ending stripes. Some of the closer tents are splattered with mud, but none are burned despite the charred ground surrounding them.

“That was Miss Bowen’s doing,” Tsukiko says. “I suspect without that precaution there would have been more extensive damage.”

“Who is Miss Bowen?” Bailey asks.

“You ask a lot of questions,” Tsukiko responds.

“You don’t answer very many of them,” Bailey retaliates.

The smile appears in full then, curling up in a manner Bailey finds almost disturbingly friendly.

“I am only an emissary,” Tsukiko says. “I am here to act as convoy to escort you to a meeting, for a discussion of such matters, I suppose, because at the moment I am the only living person who has any idea of what has transpired, and why you are here. Your questions are better saved for someone else.”

“And who might that be?” Bailey asks.

“You shall see,” Tsukiko says. “Come this way.”

She beckons him forward, leading him around the bonfire to the other side of the courtyard. They walk a short way down an adjoining passageway, layers of mud sticking to Bailey’s formerly shiny shoes.

“Here we are.” Tsukiko stops at a tent entrance, and Bailey moves closer to check the sign, knowing which tent it is as soon as he glances at the words upon it.

Fearsome Beasts and Strange Creatures



Wonders in Paper and Mist



“Are you coming with me?” Bailey asks.

“No,” Tsukiko says. “Only an emissary, remember? I shall be in the courtyard if you need me.”

With that she gives him a polite nod and walks back the way they came, and as Bailey watches her go he notices that the mud is not sticking to her boots.

After she disappears around a corner, Bailey enters the tent.





Incendiary

NEW YORK, OCTOBER 31, 1902




Marco’s back slams against the ground as though he has been roughly pushed, leaving him coughing both from the impact and the cloud of black ash surrounding him.

A light rain is falling as he pulls himself up, and as the air around him clears he sees a row of tiny trees and stars, surrounded by silver gears and black-and-white chess pieces.

It takes him a moment to realize he is standing next to the Wunschtraum clock.

The clock is ticking toward midnight, the harlequin juggler at the top balancing eleven balls amongst the twinkling stars and moving pieces.

The sign announcing the circus’s closure due to inclement weather clatters in the wind. Though for the moment, the rain is not much more than a heavy mist.

Marco rubs the shimmering powder from his face, which has reverted to its true form and he is too disoriented to change it. He tries to get a better look at the dark ash on his suit but it is already fading away.

The striped curtain beyond the ticket booth hangs open, and through the haze, Marco can see a figure standing in the shadows, illuminated by the sharp spark of light from a cigarette lighter.