The rest of the audience departs.
The man continues to sit.
After a few minutes the door fades into the wall of the tent, invisible once more.
The man’s gaze does not waver. He does not so much as glance at the vanishing door.
A moment later, Celia Bowen is sitting in front of him, turned to the side and resting her arms on the back of the chair. She is dressed as she had been during her performance, in a white gown covered in a pattern of unassembled puzzle pieces, falling together into darkness along the hem.
“You came to visit me,” she says, unable to hide the pleasure in her voice.
“I had a few days,” Marco says. “And you haven’t been near London recently.”
“We’ll be in London in the autumn,” Celia says. “It’s become somewhat traditional.”
“I couldn’t wait that long to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, as well,” Celia says softly. She reaches out and straightens the brim of his hat.
“Do you like the Cloud Maze?” he asks. He takes her hand in his as she lowers it.
“I do,” she says, her breath catching as his fingers close over hers. “Did you persuade our Mr. Barris to help with that?”
“I did, indeed,” Marco says, running his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “I thought I could use some assistance in getting the balance right. Besides, you have your Carousel and we share the Labyrinth, I thought it only fair that I have a Barris original of my own.”
The intensity of his eyes and his touch rushes over Celia like a wave and she takes her hand from his before it pulls her under.
“Have you come to show me your own feats of illustrious illusion?” she asks.
“It was not on my agenda for the evening, but if you would like … ”
“You already watched me, it would only be fair.”
“I could watch you all night,” he says.
“You have,” Celia says. “You’ve been in every single audience this evening, I noticed.”
She stands and walks to the center of the circle, turning so her gown swirls around her.
“I can see every seat,” she says. “You are not hidden from me when you sit in the back row.”
“I thought I would be too tempted to touch you if I sat in the front,” Marco says, moving from his chair to stand at the edge of the circular performance space, just inside the first row of chairs.
“Am I close enough for your illusion?” she asks.
“If I say no, will you come closer?” he retaliates, not bothering to hide his grin.
In response, Celia takes another step toward him, the hem of her gown brushing over his shoes. Close enough for him to lift his arm and gently rest his hand on her waist.
“You didn’t have to touch me last time,” she remarks, but she does not protest.
“I thought I’d try something special,” Marco says.
“Should I close my eyes?” Celia asks playfully, but instead of answering, he spins her around so she faces away from him, keeping his hand on her waist.
“Watch,” he whispers in her ear.
The striped canvas sides of the tent stiffen, the soft surface hardening as the fabric changes to paper. Words appear over the walls, typeset letters overlapping handwritten text. Celia can make out snatches of Shakespearean sonnets and fragments of hymns to Greek goddesses as the poetry fills the tent. It covers the walls and the ceiling and spreads out over the floor.