The Night Circus(114)

“Bonsoir,” Tsukiko says cheerfully as he approaches, tucking her lighter back in her pocket as she balances her cigarette in its long silver holder. A rush of wind howls across the space, rattling the circus gates.

“How … how did she do this?” Marco asks.

“Isobel, you mean?” Tsukiko replies. “I taught her that particular trick. I do not think she understood the nuances of it, but it appears she performed fine regardless. Do you feel unsteady at all?”

“I’m fine,” Marco says, though his back is aching from the fall and his eyes still sting. He watches Tsukiko curiously. He has never spoken at any great length with the contortionist, and her presence is almost as confusing as the fact that moments ago he had been somewhere else entirely.

“Here, come out of the wind at least.” Tsukiko motions him into the curtained tunnel with her cigarette-free hand. “That is a better face than the other one,” she says, scrutinizing his appearance through mist and smoke. “It suits you.” She lets the curtain fall once he has entered, leaving them enclosed in darkness studded with dimly sparkling lights, the glowing tip of her cigarette the one spot of color amongst the dots of white.

“Where is everyone?” Marco asks, shaking the rain from his bowler hat.

“Inclement-weather party,” Tsukiko explains. “Traditionally held in the acrobats’ tent, as it is the largest. But you would not know that, as you are not truly a member of the company, are you?”

He cannot see her expression well enough to read it, though he can tell that she is grinning brightly.

“No, I suppose I am not,” he says. He follows her as she walks through the mazelike tunnel, moving deeper into the circus. “Why am I here?” he asks.

“We will get to that in due time,” she says. “How much did Isobel tell you?”

The conversation with Isobel outside his building is almost lost in Marco’s memory, despite occurring only moments ago. He recalls fleeting pieces of it. Nothing coherent enough to articulate.

“No matter,” Tsukiko says when he does not respond immediately. “It is sometimes difficult to gather one’s senses after such a journey. Did she tell you that we have something in common?”

Marco recalls Isobel mentioning Celia and someone else, but not who, exactly.

“No,” he says.

“We are both former students of the same instructor,” Tsukiko says. The end of her cigarette glows brighter as she inhales in the near darkness. “Temporary cover only, I am afraid,” she adds as they reach another curtain. She pulls it back and the space is flooded with glowing light from the courtyard. She gestures for Marco to step out into the rain, taking a drag from her cigarette as he obediently walks through the open curtain, trying to make sense of her last statement.

The lights that adorn the tents are dark, but in the center of the courtyard the bonfire burns brightly, glowing and white. The soft rain falling around it glistens.

“It is lovely,” Tsukiko says, stepping into the courtyard with him. “I will grant you that.”

“You were a former student of Alexander’s?” Marco asks, not certain he has understood.

Tsukiko nods.

“I tired of writing things in books, so I began inscribing them on my body instead. I am not fond of getting my hands dirty,” she says, indicating his ink-stained fingers. “I am surprised he agreed to such an open venue for this challenge. He always preferred seclusion. I suspect he is not pleased with the way it has progressed.”

As he listens to her, Marco notices that the contortionist is completely dry. Every drop of rain that falls on her evaporates instantly, sizzling into steam as soon as it touches her.

“You won the last game,” he says.

“I survived the last game,” Tsukiko corrects.

“When?” Marco asks as they walk toward the bonfire.

“It ended eighty-three years, six months, and twenty-one days ago. It was a cherry-blossom day.”

Tsukiko takes a long drag from her cigarette before she continues.

“Our instructors do not understand how it is,” she says. “To be bound to someone in such a way. They are too old, too out of touch with their emotions. They no longer remember what it is to live and breathe within the world. They think it simple to pit any two people against each other. It is never simple. The other person becomes how you define your life, how you define yourself. They become as necessary as breathing. Then they expect the victor to continue on without that. It would be like pulling the Murray twins apart and expecting them to be the same. They would be whole but not complete. You love her, do you not?”

“More than anything in the world,” Marco says.

Tsukiko nods thoughtfully.

“My opponent’s name was Hinata,” she says. “Her skin smelled of ginger and cream. I loved her more than anything in the world, as well. On that cherry-blossom day, she set herself on fire. Ignited a pillar of flame and stepped into it as though it were water.”

“I’m sorry,” Marco says.

“Thank you,” Tsukiko says, with a shadow of her normally bright smile. “It is what Miss Bowen is planning to do for you. To let you win.”

“I know.”

“I would not wish such pain on anyone. To be the victor. Hinata would have adored this,” she says as they reach the bonfire, watching the flames dance in the increasing rain. “She was quite fond of fire. Water was always my element. Before.”