The Night Circus(85)

“It’s like being in the acrobat tent,” Lainie remarks, looking up at the domes that line the ceiling, each one dotted with circles of turquoise-tinted glass.

“You have not been to the circus in far too long,” Celia says. “We have your costumes, if you would like to join the statues this evening.”

“Thank you, but no,” Lainie says. “I am not in the mood to stand so still.”

“You are welcome at any time,” Celia says.

“I know,” Lainie says. “Though truthfully, I am not here for the circus. I am here to speak with you.”

“What is it you would like to speak about?” Celia asks, a look of concern falling over her face.

“My sister was killed at St. Pancras Station, after a visit to the Midland Grand Hotel,” Lainie says. “Do you know why she went there?”

Celia’s grip on her tea glass tightens.

“I know who she went there to see,” she says, choosing her words carefully.

“I suppose Ethan told you that,” Lainie says.

Celia nods.

“Do you know why she wanted to see him?” Lainie asks.

“No, I do not.”

“Because she didn’t feel right,” Lainie says. “She knew down to her bones that her world had changed and she had received no explanation, nothing to grasp onto, to understand. I believe we have all felt similarly and we are all dealing with it in different ways. Ethan and Tante Padva both have their work to consume their time, to keep their minds occupied. I had not concerned myself with it at all for quite a while. I loved my sister dearly and I always will, but I think she made a mistake.”

“I thought it was an accident,” Celia says softly, looking down at the patterned tile on the table.

“No, before that. Her mistake was asking the wrong questions of the wrong people. It is not a mistake I plan on repeating.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“That is why I am here,” Lainie says. “How long have we known each other, Celia?”

“Over ten years.”

“Surely by now you can trust me enough to tell me what it is that’s really going on here. I doubt you’d dare to tell me it is nothing, or suggest I not trouble myself with such matters.”

Celia places her glass on its saucer. She explains as best she can. She keeps the details vague, covering only the basic concept of the challenge, and how the circus functions as the venue. How certain people know more than others on every level, though she chooses not to name each individual and makes it clear that even she does not have all the answers.

Lainie says nothing, she listens carefully and occasionally sips her tea.

“How long has Ethan known?” she asks when Celia has finished.

“A very long time,” Celia says.

Lainie nods and lifts her glass to her lips but instead of sipping her tea, she opens her fingers, releasing her grip.

The cup falls, crashing into the saucer below.

The glass shatters, the sound echoing through the room. The tea spills out over the tiles.

Before anyone turns at the noise, the cup has righted itself. The broken pieces re-form around the liquid and the glass sits intact, the tile surface of the table is dry.

Those who glanced over at their table at the noise assume it was their imagination, and return their attention to their own tea.

“Why didn’t you stop it before it broke?” Lainie asks.

“I don’t know,” Celia says.

“If you ever need anything from me, I would like you to ask,” Lainie says as she stands to leave. “I am tired of everyone keeping their secrets so well that they get other people killed. We are all involved in your game, and it seems we are not as easily repaired as teacups.”

Celia sits alone for some time after Lainie departs, both cups of tea growing cold.





Stormy Seas

DUBLIN, JUNE 1901




After the illusionist takes her bow and disappears before her rapt audience’s eyes, they clap, applauding the empty air. They rise from their seats and some of them chatter with their companions, marveling over this trick or that as they file out the door that has reappeared in the side of the striped tent.

One man, sitting in the outer circle of chairs, remains in his seat as they leave. His eyes, almost hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his bowler hat, are fixed on the space in the center of the circle that the illusionist occupied only moments before.

The rest of the audience departs.

The man continues to sit.

After a few minutes the door fades into the wall of the tent, invisible once more.

The man’s gaze does not waver. He does not so much as glance at the vanishing door.

A moment later, Celia Bowen is sitting in front of him, turned to the side and resting her arms on the back of the chair. She is dressed as she had been during her performance, in a white gown covered in a pattern of unassembled puzzle pieces, falling together into darkness along the hem.

“You came to visit me,” she says, unable to hide the pleasure in her voice.

“I had a few days,” Marco says. “And you haven’t been near London recently.”

“We’ll be in London in the autumn,” Celia says. “It’s become somewhat traditional.”