“You could have made me forget, taken it out of my memory as easily as you did with everyone else at the party.”
“That was not particularly easy,” Marco says. “And I did not want you to forget it.”
“I couldn’t,” Celia says. “How are you feeling?”
“Miserable. But the pain itself is fading. I told Alexander I wanted to quit that night. I must not have meant it. I only wanted a reaction from him.”
“It is likely meant to make us think we are not caged,” Celia says. “We cannot feel the bars unless we push against them. My father says it would be easier if we did not concern ourselves so with each other. Perhaps he is right.”
“I’ve tried,” Marco says, cupping her face in his hands. “I have tried to let you go and I cannot. I cannot stop thinking of you. I cannot stop dreaming about you. Do you not feel the same for me?”
“I do,” Celia says. “I have you here, all around me. I sit in the Ice Garden to get a hint of this, this way that you make me feel. I felt it even before I knew who you were, and every time I think it could not possibly get any stronger, it does.”
“Then what is stopping us from being together now?” he asks. He slides his hands down from her face, following the neckline of her gown.
“I want to,” Celia says, gasping as his hands move lower. “Believe me, I want to. This is not only about you and me. There are so many people tangled up in this game. It’s becoming more and more difficult to keep everything in order. And this”—she rests her hands over his—“this is extremely distracting. I worry what might happen if I lose my concentration.”
“You don’t have a power source,” he says. She looks at him, confused.
“A power source?” she repeats.
“The way I use the bonfire, as a conduit. Borrowing energy from the fire. You don’t have anything like that, you work only with yourself?”
“I don’t know any other way,” Celia says.
“You are constantly controlling the circus?” Marco asks.
Celia nods. “I am accustomed to it. Most of the time it is manageable.”
“I can’t imagine how exhausting that must be.”
He kisses her softly on the forehead before letting her go, staying as close to her as he can without touching.
And then he tells her stories. Myths he learned from his instructor. Fantasies he created himself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines. Circus concepts that would not fit in tents.
She responds with tales from her childhood spent in back rooms of theaters. Adventures in far-flung cities the circus has visited. She recounts events from her spiritualist days, delighted when he finds the endeavor as absurd as she had at the time.
They sit and talk until just before dawn, and he leaves her only when the circus is about to close.
Marco holds Celia to his chest for a moment before he stands, pulling her up with him.
He takes a card from his pocket that contains only the letter M and an address.
“I have been spending less time at Chandresh’s residence,” he says, handing her the card. “When I am not there, this is where you’ll find me. You are welcome any time, day or night. Should you ever be in the mood for a distraction.”
“Thank you,” Celia says. She turns the card over in her fingers and it vanishes.
“When all of this is over, no matter which one of us wins, I will not let you go so easily. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Marco takes her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the silver ring that conceals her scar.
Celia traces the line of his jaw with her fingertips. Then she turns, disappearing before he can reach out to pull her back.
An Entreaty
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 30, 1902