The Night Circus(36)

Instead, Marco carves a series of symbols into the frost on the window of his flat that faces out to the street, using the columns of the museum beyond as a guide. Most of the symbols are indistinguishable unless the light hits them at precise angles, but they are collectively set into the shape of a large A.

The next day there is a knock at the door.

As always, the man in the grey suit refuses to enter the flat. He only stands in the hall and fixes Marco with a cool grey stare.

“What is it that you want?” he asks.

“I would like to know if I am doing well,” Marco says.

His instructor looks at him for a moment, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

“Your work has been sufficient,” he says.

“Is this how the challenge is going to proceed?” Marco asks. “Each of us manipulating the circus? How long will it go on?”

“You have been given a venue to work within,” his instructor says. “You present your skills to the best of your ability and your opponent does the same. You do not interfere with each other’s work. It shall continue in this manner until there is a victor. It is not that complex.”

“I’m not certain I understand the rules,” Marco says.

“You don’t need to understand the rules. You need to follow them. As I said, your work has been sufficient.”

He starts to leave, but then hesitates.

“Do not do that again,” he says, pointing over Marco’s shoulder at the frost-covered window.

Then he turns and walks away.

The symbols on the window melt into meaningless streaks.





*


IT IS THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY and the circus sleeps quietly, but Celia Bowen stands in front of the Carousel, watching as black and white and silver creatures file past, suspended on coordinating ribbons, riderless.

“I don’t like this thing,” a voice behind her says.

Hector Bowen is no more than an apparition in the dimly lit tent. His dark suit vanishes into the shadows. The shifting light catches and releases the brightness of his shirt, the grey of his hair, illuminating the disapproving glare on his face as he watches the Carousel over his daughter’s shoulder.

“Whyever not?” Celia responds without turning. “It’s extremely popular. And it was a great deal of work; that should count for something, Papa.”

His derisive scoff is only an echo of what it once was, and Celia is relieved that he cannot see her smile at the softness of the sound.

“You would not be so reckless were I not … ” His voice trails off with a wave of a transparent hand next to her arm.

“Don’t be cross with me about that,” Celia says. “You did it to yourself, it’s not my fault you cannot undo it. And I am hardly being reckless.”

“How much did you tell this architect of yours?” her father asks.

“I told him as much as I thought he needed to know,” Celia says as he drifts past her, moving to inspect the Carousel. “He’s fond of pushing boundaries, and I offered to help him push them further. Is Mr. Barris my opponent? That would be quite devious of him, building me a carousel to avoid suspicion.”

“He is not your opponent,” Hector says with a dismissive gesture, the lace cuff of his shirt fluttering like a moth. “Though such a thing could very well be considered cheating.”

“How is utilizing an engineer to execute an idea not working within the venue, Papa? I discussed it with him, he handled the design and construction, and I … embellished it. Would you like to ride it? It goes quite a bit farther than around and around.”

“Obviously,” Hector says, looking down at the darkened tunnel that the line of creatures disappears into. “I still don’t like it.”

Celia sighs, walking to the edge of the Carousel to pet the head of an oversized raven as it passes by.

“There are already countless elements in this circus that are collaborative,” she says. “Why can I not use that to my advantage? You keep insisting that I have to do more than just my performances, but I need to create opportunities in order to manage that. Mr. Barris is quite helpful in that capacity.”

“Working with others will only drag you down. These people are not your friends, they are inconsequential. And one of them is your opponent, don’t forget that.”

“You know who it is, don’t you?” Celia asks.

“I have my suspicions.”

“But you won’t tell me what those are.”

“The identity of your opponent does not matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Hector frowns, watching as she absently toys with the ring on her right hand.

“It shouldn’t,” he says.

“But my opponent knows who I am, yes?”

“Indeed, unless your opponent happens to be profoundly stupid. And it is unlike Alexander to choose a profoundly stupid student. But it doesn’t matter. It is better for you to do your own work without influence from your opponent, and without any of this collaborating as you call it.”

He waves an arm at the Carousel and the ribbons shudder, as though the softest of breezes has wandered into the tent.

“How is it better?” Celia asks. “How is anything better than anything else here? How is one tent comparable to another? How can any of this possibly be judged?”