It is still in the air when Marco cries out for Celia to stop.
It has barely touched the flickering white flames of the bonfire when she leaps into his arms.
Marco knows he does not have the time to push her away, so he pulls her close, burying his face in her hair, his bowler hat torn from his head by the wind.
And then the pain starts. Sharp, ripping pain as though he is being pulled apart.
“Trust me,” Celia whispers in his ear, and he stops fighting it, forgetting everything but her.
In the moment before the explosion, before the white light becomes too blinding to discern precisely what is happening, they dissolve into the air. One moment they are there, Celia’s dress fluttering in the wind and the rain, Marco’s hands pressed against her back, and the next they are only a blur of light and shadow.
Then both of them are gone and the circus is ablaze, flames licking against the tents, twisting up into the rain.
Alone in the courtyard, Tsukiko sighs. The flames pass by her without touching, swirling around in a vortex. Illuminating her with impossible brightness.
Then, as quickly as they came, the flames die down to nothing.
The bonfire’s curling cage sits empty, not even a smoldering ember remains. The rain patters in a hollow echo against the metal, drops evaporating into steam where the iron is still hot.
Tsukiko pulls another cigarette from her coat, flicking open her lighter with a lazy, practiced gesture.
The flame catches easily, despite the rain.
She watches the cauldron fill with water while she waits.
Transmutation
NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1, 1902
If Celia could open her mouth, she would scream.
But there is too much to control between the heat and the rain and Marco in her arms.
She focuses only on him, pulling everything that he is with her as she breaks herself apart. Holding to the memory of every touch of his skin against hers, every moment she has spent with him. Carrying him with her.
Suddenly, there is nothing. No rain. No fire. A stretch of calm white nothingness.
Somewhere in the nothingness, a clock begins to strike midnight.
Stop, she thinks.
The clock continues to chime, but she feels the stillness fall.
The breaking is the easy part, Celia realizes.
The pulling back together is the problem.
It is like healing her sliced-open fingertips as a child, taken to an extreme.
There is so much to balance, trying to find the edges again.
It would be so simple to let go.
It would be so much easier to let go.
So much less painful.
She fights against the temptation, against the pain and the chaos. Struggling for control with herself and her surroundings.