The Night Circus(37)
“That is not your concern.”
“How can I excel at a game when you refuse to tell me the rules?”
The suspended creatures turn their heads in the direction of the ghost in their midst. Gryphons and foxes and wyverns stare at him with glossy black eyes.
“Stop that,” Hector snaps at his daughter. The creatures return to their forward-facing gazes, but one of the wolves growls as it settles back into its frozen state. “You are not taking this as seriously as you should.”
“It’s a circus,” Celia says. “It’s difficult to take it seriously.”
“The circus is only a venue.”
“Then this is not a game or a challenge, it’s an exhibition.”
“It’s more than that.”
“How?” Celia demands, but her father only shakes his head.
“I have told you all the rules you need to know. You push the bounds of what your skills can do using this circus as a showplace. You prove yourself better and stronger. You do everything you can to outshine your opponent.”
“And when do you determine which of us is shinier?”
“I do not determine anything,” Hector says. “Stop asking questions. Do more. And stop collaborating.”
Before she can respond, he vanishes, leaving her standing alone in the sparkling light from the Carousel.
*
AT FIRST, the letters Marco receives from Isobel arrive frequently, but as the circus travels to far-flung cities and countries, weeks and sometimes months stretch wordlessly between each missive.
When a new letter finally arrives, he does not even take off his coat before ripping open the envelope.
He skims the opening pages that are filled with polite inquiries into his own days in London, remarks about how she misses the city, misses him.
The goings-on of the circus are dutifully reported, but with such matter-of-fact precision that he cannot picture it in the richness of detail that he desires. She glazes over things she considers mundane, the traveling and the train, though Marco is certain they cannot be moving solely by train.
The distance of the circus feels more pronounced despite the tenuous contact through paper and ink.
And there is so little about her. Isobel does not even inscribe her name upon the pages, referring to her in passing only as the illusionist, a precaution he advised himself and now regrets.
He wants to know everything about her.
How she spends her time when not performing.
How she interacts with her audiences.
How she takes her tea.
He cannot bring himself to ask Isobel these things.
When he writes her in return, he requests that she continue to write as often as possible. He emphasizes how much her letters mean to him.
He takes the pages inscribed with her handwriting, descriptions of striped tents and star-speckled skies, and folds them into birds, letting them fly around the empty flat.
*
IT IS SO RARE to have a new tent appear that Celia considers canceling her performances entirely in order to spend the evening investigating it.
Instead she waits, executing her standard number of shows, finishing the last a few hours before dawn. Only then does she navigate her way through nearly empty pathways to find the latest addition to the circus.
The sign proclaims something called the Ice Garden, and Celia smiles at the addendum below which contains an apology for any thermal inconvenience.
Despite the name, she is not prepared for what awaits her inside the tent.
It is exactly what the sign described. But it is so much more than that.
There are no stripes visible on the walls, everything is sparkling and white. She cannot tell how far it stretches, the size of the tent obscured by cascading willows and twisting vines.
The air itself is magical. Crisp and sweet in her lungs as she breathes, sending a shiver down to her toes that is caused by more than the forewarned drop in temperature.
There are no patrons in the tent as she explores, circling alone around trellises covered in pale roses and a softly bubbling, elaborately carved fountain.
And everything, save for occasional lengths of white silk ribbon strung like garlands, is made of ice.
Curious, Celia picks a frosted peony from its branch, the stem breaking easily.
But the layered petals shatter, falling from her fingers to the ground, disappearing in the blades of ivory grass below.
When she looks back at the branch, an identical bloom has already appeared.
Celia cannot imagine how much power and skill it would take not only to construct such a thing but to maintain it as well.
And she longs to know how her opponent came up with the idea. Aware that each perfectly structured topiary, every detail down to the stones that line the paths like pearls, must have been planned.
It would be so taxing to manage something similar, she feels fatigued even considering it. She almost wishes her father were there, as she is beginning to understand why he had always been so adamant about building up her strength and control.
Though she is not entirely certain she wants to thank him for it.
And she likes having the space to herself, the stillness and the calm sweetened with the subdued scent of frozen flowers.
Celia remains in the Ice Garden long after the sun rises outside, and the gates have been closed for the day.