The Night Circus(71)

Celia puts her hand to her lips to muffle her gasp. The entire scene, from the scent of the roses to the warmth radiating from the lanterns, is astounding. She can hear a fountain bubbling nearby and turns down the now grass-covered path to find it.

Marco follows her as she explores, taking turn after turn through the twisting pathways.

The fountain in the center cascades down a carved stone wall, flowing into a round pond full of koi. Their scales glow in the moonlight, bright splashes of white and orange in the dark water.

Celia puts her hand out, letting the water from the fountain rush over her fingers as she presses against the cold stone below.

“You’re doing this in my mind, aren’t you?” she asks when she hears Marco behind her.

“You’re letting me,” he says.

“I could probably stop it, you know,” Celia says, turning around to face him. He leans against one of the stone archways, watching her.

“I’m certain you could. If you resisted at all it would not work as well, and it can be blocked almost entirely. And of course, proximity is key for the immersion.”

“You cannot do this with the circus,” Celia says.

Marco shrugs his shoulders.

“There is too much distance, unfortunately,” he says. “It is one of my specialties, yet there is little opportunity to use it. I am not adept at creating this type of illusion to be viewed by more than one person at a time.”

“It’s amazing,” Celia says, watching the koi swimming at her feet. “I could never manage something so intricate, even though they call me the illusionist. You’d wear that title better than I.”

“I suppose ‘The Beautiful Woman Who Can Manipulate the World with Her Mind’ is too unwieldy.”

“I don’t think that would fit on the sign outside my tent.”

His laugh is low and warm and Celia turns away to hide her smile, keeping her attention on the swirling water.

“There is no use for one of my specialties, as well,” she says. “I am very good at manipulating fabric, but it seems so unnecessary given what Madame Padva can do.” She twirls in her gown, the silver catching the light so she glows as brightly as the lanterns.

“I think she’s a witch,” Marco says. “And I mean that in the most complimentary manner.”

“I think she would take that as a compliment, indeed,” Celia says. “You are seeing all this as well, exactly as I see it?”

“More or less,” Marco says. “The nuances are richer the closer I am to the viewer.”

Celia circles to the opposite side of the pond, nearer to where he stands. She examines the carvings on the stone and the vines twining around them, but her gaze keeps returning to Marco. Any attempt at subtlety is ruined when he repeatedly catches her eyes with his own. Looking away again becomes more difficult each time.

“It was clever of you to use the bonfire as a stimulus,” she says, trying to keep her attention on a tiny glowing lantern.

“I’m not surprised you figured that out,” Marco says. “I had to come up with some way of staying connected since I am not able to travel with the circus. The lighting seemed a perfect opportunity to establish a lasting hold. I didn’t want you to have too much control, after all.”

“It had repercussions,” Celia says.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say there is more that is remarkable about the Murray twins than their hair.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what that is, are you?” Marco asks.

“A lady cannot reveal all of her secrets,” Celia says. She pulls a rose down from a hanging branch, closing her eyes as she inhales the scent, the petals velvet soft against her skin. The sensory details of the illusion are so luscious, it is almost dizzying. “Who thought to sink the garden?” she asks.

“Chandresh. It’s inspired by another room in the house, I can show you that one if you’d like.”

Celia nods and they retrace their steps through the garden. She stays closer to him as they walk, close enough to touch though he keeps his hands clasped behind his back. When they reach the terrace, Celia glances back at the garden, where the roses and lanterns have reverted to dirt and stone.





*


INSIDE, MARCO LEADS CELIA across the ballroom. He stops at the far wall and slides one of the dark-wood panels open to reveal a curving stairway spiraling downward.

“Is it a dungeon?” Celia asks as they descend.

“Not precisely,” Marco says. When they reach the gilded door at the end of the stairs, he opens it for her. “Mind your step.”

The room is small but the ceiling is high, a golden chandelier draped with crystals suspended in the center. The rounded walls and ceiling are painted a deep, vibrant blue and ornamented with stars.

A path wraps around the edge of the room like a ledge, though the majority of the floor is sunken and filled with large cushions covered in a rainbow of embellished silk.

“Chandresh claims it is modeled after a room belonging to a courtesan in Bombay,” Marco says. “I find it marvelous for reading, myself.”

Celia laughs and a curl of her hair falls across her cheek.

Marco tentatively moves to brush it off her face, but before his fingers reach her, she pushes herself off the ledge, her silver gown a billowing cloud as she falls onto the pile of jewel-toned cushions.