He is astonished to find the woman he knows as the illusionist standing in his doorway.
She is unmistakable, though she wears a gown of dusty rose rather than the black-and-white creations he is accustomed to seeing her in. Her skin appears warmer, her hair softly curled, and her hat bears no resemblance to the distinctive silk top hat, but he would know her face anywhere.
“This is an honor,” he says by way of greeting.
“Most people don’t recognize me outside of the circus,” Celia says as he takes her hand.
“Then most people are fools,” he says, lifting her hand to his lips and lightly kissing the back of her glove. “Though I feel a fool myself for not knowing who you were all this time.”
“I should have told you,” Celia says. “I do apologize.”
“No apology is necessary. I should have guessed you were not merely a rêveur from the way you wrote about the circus. You know every corner, better than most.”
“I am familiar with a great deal of the corners. Not all of them.”
“There remain mysteries in the circus even for its own illusionist? That is impressive.”
Celia laughs, and Friedrick takes her on a tour of his workshop.
The workshop is organized so that the front is occupied mostly by blueprints and sketches, moving on to long tables covered in various parts and a great deal of sawdust, drawers full of gears and tools. Celia listens with rapt attention as he describes the entire process, asking questions about the technical aspects as well as the creative ones.
He is surprised to learn that she speaks fluent German, though they have only written each other in English.
“I speak languages with more ease than I read or write them,” she explains. “It is something in the feel of the sounds. I could attempt to put them on paper but I am sure the result would be appalling.”
Despite his greying hair, Friedrick looks younger when he smiles. Celia cannot keep her eyes from his hands as he shows her the delicate clockwork mechanisms. She pictures the same fingers inscribing each letter she has received and read so many times that she has committed them to memory, finding it strange that she feels shy with someone she knows so well.
He watches her with equal attentiveness as they traverse the shelves of timepieces in varying stages of construction.
“May I ask you something?” he says as she looks at a collection of detailed figurines waiting patiently amongst curls of wood to be housed in their proper clocks.
“Of course,” Celia says, though she fears he will ask her how she does her magic, and she dreads having to lie to him.
“You have been in the same city as I on so many occasions, and yet this is the first time you have asked to meet. Why is that?”
Celia looks back at the figurines on the table before she responds. Friedrick reaches out and rights a tiny ballerina that has fallen sideways, returning her to balance on her ribboned slippers.
“Before, I did not want you to know who I was,” Celia says. “I thought you might think of me differently if you did. But after so long I felt I was being dishonest. I had wanted to tell you the truth for some time, and I could not resist the chance to see your workshop. I hope you can forgive me.”
“You have nothing to be forgiven for,” Friedrick says. “A woman I should like to think I know rather well and a woman I had always considered a mystery are, in fact, the same person. It is surprising, but I do not mind a good surprise. Though I am curious as to why you wrote me that first letter.”
“I enjoyed your writings about the circus,” Celia says. “It is a perspective that I am not able to view it from properly, because I … understand it in a different way. I like being able to see it through your eyes.” When she looks up at him, his soft blue eyes are bright in the afternoon sunlight that shines through the windows, illuminating the speckles of sawdust in the air.
“Thank you, Miss Bowen,” Friedrick says.
“Celia,” she corrects.
He gives her a thoughtful nod before continuing the tour.
The back walls are covered with finished or nearly finished timepieces. Clocks waiting only for final coats of varnish or other minor details. The clocks closest to the windows are already in motion. Each moving in its unique way, but keeping the same harmonious rhythm, a symphony of carefully ordered ticking.
The one that attracts Celia’s attention rests on a table rather than hanging on the wall or sitting on a shelf.
It is a beautiful piece, more sculpture than clock. While many of the clocks are wood, this one is predominantly dark, oxidized metal. A large, round cage set on a wooden base that has been carved into swirling white flames. Within, there are overlapping metal hoops marked with numbers and symbols suspended from the top, hanging amongst the visible gears and a series of stars falling from the filigree cap at the top.
But the clock sits quiet, unmoving.
“This one reminds me of the bonfire,” Celia says. “Is it not finished?”