The Night Circus(76)

His face changes, reverting to the one she recalls in perfect detail from the evening they spent in the same rooms three years ago under much more intimate circumstances. There has been little opportunity since then for anything more than too-brief stolen moments.

“Isn’t that a bit risky to wear in this company?” Celia asks.

“I’m only doing it for you,” Marco says. “The rest of them will see me as they always have.”

They stand watching each other in silence as a laughing group moves through the hall on the other side of the statue. The din echoes through the space though they stay far enough away that Celia and Marco escape any notice, and Celia’s gown remains mossy and green.

Marco lifts his hand to brush a stray curl away from Celia’s face, tucking it behind her ear and stroking her cheek with his fingertips. Her eyelids flutter closed and the rose petals around their feet begin to stir.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers softly.

The air between them is electric as he leans in, gently brushing his lips against her neck.

In the next room, the guests complain about the sudden increase in temperature. Fans are drawn from colorful bags, fluttering like tropical birds.

In the shadow of the elephant-headed statue, Celia pulls away suddenly. It is not immediately apparent why until the clouds of grey begin swirling through the green of her gown.

“Hello, Alexander,” she says, dipping her head in acknowledgment to the man who has appeared behind them without a sound, not even disturbing the rose petals strewn across the floor.

The man in the grey suit greets her with a polite nod. “Miss Bowen, I would like to speak with your companion privately for a moment, if you do not mind.”

“Of course,” Celia says. She leaves without even glancing at Marco, her gown shifting from grey dawn to violet sunset as she walks down the hall to where the Murray twins are tempting their marmalade kittens with shiny silver coffee spoons.

“I cannot say I find this behavior appropriate,” the man in the grey suit says to Marco.

“You know her,” Marco says quietly, his eyes still on Celia as she stops at the entrance to the ballroom, where her gown is cloaked in crimson as Herr Thiessen offers her a glass of champagne.

“I have met her. I cannot rightfully say that I know her in any particular fashion.”

“You knew exactly who she was before any of this started and you never thought to tell me?”

“I did not think it necessary.”

A bevy of guests wanders into the hall from the dining room, sending the cascade of rose petals adrift once more. Marco escorts the man in the grey suit through the library, sliding the stained glass open to access the empty game room and continue their conversation.

“Thirteen years with barely a word and now you wish to speak with me?” Marco asks.

“I did not have anything in particular to speak to you about. I simply wished to interrupt your … conversation with Miss Bowen.”

“She knows your name.”

“She clearly has a very good memory. What is it you would like to discuss?”

“I would like to know if I am doing well,” Marco says, his voice low and cold.

“Your progress has been sufficient,” his instructor says. “Your employment here is steady, you have a suitable position to work from.”

“And yet I cannot be myself. You teach me all these things and then you put me here to pretend to be something I am not, while she is center stage, doing exactly what she does.”

“But no one in that room believes it. They think she is deceiving them. They do not see what she is any more than they see what you are, she is simply more noticeable. This is not about having an audience. I am proving a point. You can do just as much as she does without passing it off as flamboyant spectacle and trickery. You can maintain your relative anonymity and equal her accomplishments. I suggest you keep your distance from her and concentrate on your own work.”

“I’m in love with her.”

Never before has anything Marco said or did elicited a visible response from the man in the grey suit, not even when he once accidentally set a table aflame during his lessons, but the expression that crosses the man’s face now is unmistakably sad.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he says. “It will make the challenge a great deal more difficult for you.”

“We have been playing at this for more than a decade, when does it end?”

“It ends when there is a victor.”

“And how long does that take?” Marco asks.

“It is difficult to say. The most recent previous challenge lasted thirty-seven years.”

“We cannot keep this circus running for thirty-seven years.”

“Then you will not have as long a time to wait. You were a fine student, you are a fine competitor.”

“How can you know?” Marco asks, his voice rising. “You have not even seen fit to speak to me for years. I have done nothing for you. Everything I have done, every change I have made to that circus, every impossible feat and astounding sight, I have done for her.”

“Your motives do not impact the game.”

“I am done with playing your game,” Marco says. “I quit.”

“You cannot quit,” his instructor replies. “You are bound to this. To her. The challenge will continue. One of you will lose. You have no choice in the matter.”