There are tents, I am certain, that I have not discovered in my many visits to the circus. Though I have seen a great deal of the sights, traveled a number of the available paths, there are always corners that remain unexplored, doors that remain unopened.
—FRIEDRICK THIESSEN, 1896
Technicalities
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1, 1901
Celia wishes she could freeze time as she listens to the steady beat of Marco’s heart against the ticking of the clock. To stay forever within this moment, curled in his arms, his hands softly stroking her back. To not have to leave.
She only succeeds in slowing Marco’s heartbeat enough that he falls deeply asleep.
She could wake him, but already the sky outside is brightening, and she dreads the thought of saying goodbye.
Instead, she kisses him gently on the lips and quietly dresses as he sleeps. She takes her ring from her finger and leaves it on the mantel, resting between the two hearts emblazoned on the playing card.
She pauses as she puts on her coat, looking at the books scattered across the desk.
Perhaps if she better understood his systems, she could use them to make the circus more independent. To take some of the weight off of herself. Allowing them to be together for more than a few stolen hours, without challenging the rules of the game.
It is the best gift she can think to give him, if they are unable to force a verdict from either of their instructors.
She picks up the volume filled with names. It seems a good place to start as she understands the basis of what it is meant to accomplish.
She takes it with her as she leaves.
Celia closes the door to Marco’s flat as quietly as she can after she slips out into the darkened hall, the leather-bound book tucked under her arm. The locks slide into place behind her with a series of soft, muffled clicks.
She does not notice the figure concealed in the nearby shadows until he speaks.
“You deceitful little slut,” her father says.
Celia shuts her eyes, attempting to concentrate, but it has always been difficult to push him away once he has grabbed ahold of her, and she cannot manage it.
“I’m surprised you waited in the hall to call me that, Papa,” she says.
“This place is so well protected it’s downright absurd,” Hector says, waving at the door. “Nothing could get in without that boy explicitly wanting it there.”
“Good,” Celia says. “You can stay away from him, and you can stay away from me.”
“What are you doing with that?” he asks, gesturing at the book under her arm.
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Celia says.
“You cannot interfere with his work,” Hector says.
“I know, interference is one of the very few things that is apparently against the rules. I do not intend to interfere, I intend to learn his systems so I can stop having to constantly manage so much of the circus.”
“His systems. Alexander’s systems are nothing you should be bothering with. You have no idea what you’re doing. I overestimated your ability to handle this challenge.”
“This is the game, isn’t it?” Celia asks. “It’s about how we deal with the repercussions of magic when placed in a public venue, in a world that does not believe in such things. It’s a test of stamina and control, not skill.”
“It is a test of strength,” Hector says. “And you are weak. Weaker than I’d thought.”
“Then let me lose,” she says. “I’m exhausted, Papa. I cannot do this any longer. It’s not as though you can gloat over a bottle of whiskey once a winner is declared.”
“A winner is not declared,” her father says. “The game is played out, not stopped. You should have figured that much out by now. You used to be somewhat clever.”
Celia glares at him, but at the same time she begins turning over his words in her mind, collecting the obscure non-answers about the rules he has given her over the years. Suddenly the shape of the elements he has always avoided becomes more distinct, the key unknown factor clear.