Marco turns his attention to the bonfire. It illuminates the rain falling over it in such a way that the droplets of water sparkle like snow.
All of the versions of the Merlin story he knows involve the magician being imprisoned. In a tree or a cave or a rock.
Always as a punishment, the consequence of a foolish love.
He looks back at Tsukiko.
“You understand,” she says, before he can speak.
Marco nods.
“I knew you would,” she says. The light from the white flames brightens her smile through the rain.
“What are you doing, Tsukiko?” a voice calls from behind her. When Tsukiko turns, Marco can see Celia standing at the edge of the courtyard. Her moonlight gown is soaked to a dull grey, its crisscrossing ribbons stream out behind her in trails of black and white and charcoal, tangling with her hair in the wind.
“Go back to the party, dear,” Tsukiko says, tucking the silver cigarette holder in her pocket. “You will not want to be here for this.”
“For what?” Celia says, staring at Marco.
When Tsukiko speaks, she addresses them both.
“I have been surrounded by love letters you two have built each other for years, encased in tents. It reminds me of what it was to be with her. It is wonderful and it is terrible. I am not yet prepared to give it up, but you are letting it fade.”
“You told me love was fickle and fleeting,” Celia says, confused.
“I lied,” Tsukiko says, rolling her cigarette between her fingers. “I thought it might be easier if you doubted him. And I gave you a year to find a way for the circus to continue without you. You have not. I am stepping in.”
“I am try—” Celia starts, but Tsukiko cuts her off.
“You continue to overlook a simple fact,” she says. “You carry this circus within yourself. He uses the fire as a tool. You are the greater loss, but too selfish to admit it. You believe you could not live with the pain. Such pain is not lived with. It is only endured. I am sorry.”
“Kiko, please,” Celia says. “I need more time.”
Tsukiko shakes her head.
“I told you before,” she says, “time is not something I can control.”
Marco has not taken his eyes from Celia since she appeared in the courtyard, but now he turns away.
“Go ahead,” he says to Tsukiko, shouting over the growing din of the rain. “Do it! I would rather burn by her side than live without her.”
What might have been a simple cry of the word “No” is distorted into something greater by the wind as Celia screams. The agony in her voice cuts through Marco like every blade in Chandresh’s collection combined, but he keeps his attention on the contortionist.
“It will end the game, yes?” he asks. “It will end the game even if I am trapped in the fire and not dead.”
“You will be unable to continue,” Tsukiko says. “That is all that matters.”
“Then do it,” Marco says.
Tsukiko smiles at him. She places her palms together, curls of smoke from her cigarette rising over her fingers.
She gives him a low, respectful bow.
Neither of them are watching as Celia runs toward them through the r
ain.
Tsukiko flicks her still-glowing cigarette toward the fire.