“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.
He watches her for a moment before copying her action himself, sinking into the center of the room alongside her.
They lie staring up at the chandelier, the light reflecting over the crystals turning it into the night sky without need of any illusion.
“How often are you able to visit the circus?” Celia asks.
“Not as often as I’d like. Whenever it is near London, of course. I try to reach it elsewhere in Europe if I can escape from Chandresh for sufficient periods of time. I sometimes feel like I have one foot on both sides. I am intimately familiar with so much of it, and yet it is always surprising.”
“Which is your favorite tent?”
“Truthfully? Yours.”
“Why?” she asks, turning to look at him.
“It appeals to my personal taste, I suppose. You do in public things I have been taught in secret. Perhaps I appreciate it on a differ
ent level than most. I also very much enjoy the Labyrinth. I had been unsure whether or not you would be willing to collaborate on it.”
“I got quite the lecture about that particular collaboration,” Celia says. “My father called it debauched juxtaposition, he must have worked for days to come up with a worthy insult. He sees something tawdry in the combining of skills, I have never understood why. I adore the Labyrinth, I have had far too much fun adding rooms. I particularly love that hallway you made where it snows, so you can see the footprints left by other people navigating their way around.”
“I had not thought of it in such a lascivious manner before,” Marco says. “I look forward to visiting it again with that in mind. Though I had been under the impression that your father was not in the position to be commenting on such matters.”
“He’s not dead,” Celia says, turning back to the ceiling. “It is rather difficult to explain.”
Marco decides against asking her to try, returning to the subject of the circus instead.
“Which tent is your favorite?” he asks.
“The Ice Garden,” Celia answers, without even pausing to consider.
“Why is that?” Marco asks.