“Who?” Bailey asks, though the thought pops into his head that the contortionist might be referring to the circus itself.
“And of course,” she continues, “had you arrived earlier it might have played out differently. Timing is a sensitive thing.”
“Where’s Poppet?” Bailey asks.
“Miss Penelope is indisposed at the moment.”
“How can she not know that I’m here?” he asks.
“She might very well know you are here, but that does not change the fact that she is, as I have mentioned, indisposed at the moment.”
“Who are you?” Bailey asks. His shoulder is throbbing now and he cannot quite pinpoint when everything stopped making sense.
“You may call me Tsukiko,” the contortionist says. She takes a long drag on her cigarette.
Beyond her, the monstrous bowl of wrought-iron curls sits hollow and still. The ground around it, usually painted in a spiral pattern of black and white, is now nothing but darkness, as though it has been swallowed up by empty space.
“I thought the fire never went out,” Bailey says, walking closer to it.
“It never has before,” Tsukiko says.
Reaching the edge of the still-hot iron curls, Bailey stands on his toes to peer inside. It is almost filled with rainwater, the dark surface rippling in the breeze. The ground beneath his feet is black and muddy, and when he steps back he accidentally kicks a black bowler hat.
“What happened?” Bailey asks.
“That is somewhat difficult to explain,” Tsukiko answers. “It is a long and complicated story.”
“And you’re not going to tell it to me, are you?”
She tilts her head a bit, and Bailey can see the hint of a smile playing around her lips.
“No, I am not,” she says.
“Great,” Bailey mutters under his breath.
“I see you have taken up the banner,” Tsukiko says, pointing her cigarette at his red scarf. Bailey is unsure how to respond to this, but she continues without waiting for an answer. “I suppose you could call it an explosion.”
“The bonfire exploded? How?”
“Remember when I said it was difficult to explain? That has not changed.”
“Why didn’t the tents burn?” Bailey asks, looking around at the seemingly never-ending stripes. Some of the closer tents are splattered with mud, but none are burned despite the charred ground surrounding them.
“That was Miss Bowen’s doing,” Tsukiko says. “I suspect without that precaution there would have been more extensive damage.”
“Who is Miss Bowen?” Bailey asks.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Tsukiko responds.
“You don’t answer very many of them,” Bailey retaliates.
The smile appears in full then, curling up in a manner Bailey finds almost disturbingly friendly.
“I am only an emissary,” Tsukiko says. “I am here to act as convoy to escort you to a meeting, for a discussion of such matters, I suppose, because at the moment I am the only living person who has any idea of what has transpired, and why you are here. Your questions are better saved for someone else.”
“And who might that be?” Bailey asks.
“You shall see,” Tsukiko says. “Come this way.”