The show went on like this, with Esben managing a series of incredible feats in an all-too-sentient way, as if he contained an intelligence uncommon among his species. While the audience crowed and shouted their amazement at the sight, however, Prue and Curtis watched the bear perform with a knowing recognition. He was a Woodian, all right. No doubt about it.
The show ended with an incredible sequence of death-defying stunt work from the bear, featuring a stack of overturned chairs, balanced one on top of the other; a fiery hoop; and a wire that extended from the ceiling of the tent to the ground. Climbing the chairs, Esben fixed his hooks to the wire and slid at a breathtaking speed down from the ceiling to emerge, safely, on the other side of the flaming hoop, to the spectacular shouts of the now half-filled house. The success of the routine allowed the audience to forgive the ringleader his previous failures; Esben had saved the show. The cast bowed to raucous applause—even Esben, much to the crowd’s delight—before turning and jogging back through the tent flaps in the rear. The overhead lights came on; the ticket taker appeared and began to usher people from the tent.
They knew what they needed to do next.
The same man was idling by the gate that led to the backstage area. He saw the two kids with the pet rat approach and smiled. His front teeth were knobby little stumps.
“Well, if it ain’t the two bear cubs, come to see their ol’ dad.”
Curtis scowled. “We’re just really big fans.”
“Will you let us go back and see him?” asked Prue, trying on her persuasive charm.
“They’re packin’ up,” said the man. “Off to Pendleton. Or some such place. They ain’t got time to chat with fans right now.”
Prue, despite herself, said aloud, “He can’t go!”
“It’s really important that we see him,” said Curtis, becoming very impatient. “It’s a life-or-death situation.”
“Lemme get this straight,” said the man, eyeing his fingernails casually. “You need to see a bear. A circus bear. Because it’s a life-or-death situation.”
“It’s a long story,” added Prue. “But, yes.”
“Please?” pleaded Curtis.
The man looked at them both, his eyes moving from one to the other. The tired and slack look on his face had been replaced by one of bewildered pity. “No,” he said finally.
They walked away, despondent. The sounds of the carnival were dying away into the frigid night air as the barkers and the vendors closed up their stalls. A few raindrops had begun to fall. They landed noisily on the muddy, melting clumps of snow that still lay here and there among the dirt and tire ruts of the circus grounds. A few men could be heard shouting terse directions from within the big top tent. In a matter of moments, the peak of the tent tilted sideways, and the big top began to droop like a deflated balloon. A gaggle of riggers, greasy with sweat, attended to its disassembly, swearing and spitting with equal profusion. Prue threw her hood over her head and frowned.
“The whole thing, it’s doomed,” she mourned. “We’re going to lose one of the makers.” She was following Curtis, her face downcast, as he walked the length of the fence. She almost ran into his back when he suddenly stopped.
“Wait,” he said. “Where’s Septimus?”
The rat had been at his shoulder the entire evening; only now did he notice that Septimus’s ever-present claws were no longer gripping to his coat.
A scream alerted them to his presence. Looking over, they saw the backstage guard they’d just been speaking to give out a quaking holler and begin dancing across the sandy ground like a puppet under the control of a caffeine-riddled handler. Curtis recognized the dance instantly: the top-hatted Henry had cut identical steps, the week before, in his escape from the captured stagecoach.
“There he is,” said Curtis.
By the time they’d returned to the backstage entrance, the man was gone, having loped, screaming, all the way to the men’s bathroom to try and remove whatever demonic ferret had snuck into his mackintosh. The way was wide open. Curtis gave a surveying glance at their surroundings before ushering Prue through the unguarded gate.
“Thank you, Septimus,” she whispered.
A city of cages and crates made a kind of maze in the backstage area, all awash with the movement of frenzied crew members in black coveralls and work boots, tearing down and packing up the show’s gear. So frenzied, in fact, that the activities of two twelve-year-olds in their midst never warranted a second glance.
They walked with a deliberate confidence, assuming that two kids crouching low and tiptoeing were more likely to be detected. The twin cages of the obstinate monkeys let them know they were nearing the animal pens. Turning a corner by a wooden-slatted crate holding a flock of jabbering peacocks, they saw, standing alone, a black metal cage with the word ESBEN written on a placard above the bars.
Arriving there, they peered into the cage. It was completely dark.
“Esben?” whispered Prue. She was mindful to not get caught trying to talk to a circus bear. Not only would that likely get them kicked out, but they ran the risk of being committed to some loony bin too.
Curtis elbowed her ribs and pointed into the back of the cage. There, in the darkness, two small eyes caught the light of the backstage floodlights. Glowing yellow, they stared straight ahead at the two kids. A small movement of the bear’s arms created a glitter of reflection from his two hook prosthetics.
Prue shared a quick look with Curtis before turning back to the figure in the dark. “We know who you are. We know that you’re one of the makers that the Governess hired to make Alexei. We know that you were exiled to the underground; it’s super important that you come with us.”
The bear, for his part, said nothing. The blackness of his fur camouflaged him to the dark. It was as if the shine of his eyes and the glint of his hooks hovered in the shadows in the back of the cage.
Curtis stepped in. “Lon