Poppet snaps open the briefcase on the desk, pulling out a dense pile of paper.
“I need you to do a favor for me, Chandresh,” she says.
“What might that be?”
“I would like you to sign over ownership of the circus.” Poppet finds a fountain pen amongst the clutter on the desk and tests it on a scrap of paper to see if it is properly inked.
“The circus was never mine to begin with,” Chandresh mutters.
“Of course it was,” Poppet says, drawing a swirling letter P. “It was your idea. But I know you don’t have time for it, and I thought it might be best if you relinquished your position as proprietor.”
Chandresh considers this for a moment, but then he nods and walks over to the desk to read through the contract.
“You have Ethan and Lainie listed here, but not Tante Padva,” he says as he peruses it.
“I’ve spoken with all of them already,” Poppet says. “Madame Padva wished not to be involved any longer, but she is confident that Miss Burgess can handle her responsibilities.”
“Who is this Mr. Clarke?” Chandresh asks.
“He is a very dear friend of mine,” Poppet says, a soft blush warming her cheeks. “And he will take excellent care of the circus.”
When Chandresh reaches the end of the document, she hands him the pen.
He signs his name with a wobbling flourish, letting the pen drop onto the desk.
“I appreciate this more than I can say.” Poppet blows on the ink to dry it before she returns the contract to the briefcase. Chandresh brushes her words away with a lazy wave of his hand, walking back to the window and staring at the expanse of blue papers hanging over it.
“What are the blueprints for?” Poppet asks after she closes the briefcase.
“I have all of these … plans from Ethan and I don’t know what to do with them,” Chandresh says, waving an arm around at the multitudes of paper.
Poppet removes her coat, leaving it draped over the back of the desk chair, and takes a closer look at the blueprints and sketches hanging from shelves and tacked to mirrors and paintings and windows. Some are complete rooms, others are bits of exterior architecture or elaborate archways and halls.
She stops when she reaches a dartboard with a silver knife embedded in the patterned cork, its blade marred with dark stains. The knife vanishes as Poppet continues walking, though Chandresh does not notice.
“They are meant to be renovations to the house,” he says as she tours the room, “but they do not fit together properly.”
“It’s a museum,” Poppet says, overlaying the pieces in her mind and seeing where they match up with the building she has already seen in the stars. They are completely out of order, but it is unmistakable. She pulls down a set of blueprints and switches it with another, arranging them story by story. “It’s not this building,” she explains as Chandresh watches her curiously. “It’s a new one.” She takes a series of doors, alternate versions of the same possible entrance, and lays them side by side along the floor, letting each lead to a different room.
Chandresh watches as she rearranges the plans, a grin spreading across his face as he begins to see what she is doing.
He makes adjustments to the flood of Prussian blue paper himself, responding to her arrangements, surrounding replicas of ancient Egyptian temples with columns of curving bookshelves. They sit together on the floor, combining rooms and halls and stairs.
Chandresh starts to call for Marco, but catches himself.
“I keep forgetting that he’s gone,” he says to Poppet. “Left one day and did not come back. Didn’t even leave a note. You would think someone who was constantly writing notes would leave one.”
“I believe his departure was unplanned,” Poppet says. “And I know he regrets not being able to properly settle his responsibilities here.”
“Do you know why he left?” Chandresh asks, looking up at her.
“He left to be with Celia Bowen,” Poppet says, unable to keep from smiling.
“Ha!” Chandresh exclaims. “Didn’t think he had it in him. Good for them. Let’s have a toast.”
“A toast?”
“You’re right, there’s no champagne,” Chandresh says, pushing aside a pile of empty brandy bottles as he lays out another string of sketches along the floor. “We’ll dedicate a room to them, which one do you think they would like?”