Widget nods and Poppet reluctantly follows suit.
“Thank you,” Celia says. “Now please go and try to get some rest.”
Poppet gives her an embrace before slipping out the door back into the hall.
Widget lingers a moment.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Celia tells him.
“I’m sorry anyway.”
He kisses her on the cheek before he leaves, not waiting for her to reply.
“What was that about?” Poppet asks when Widget joins her in the hall.
“She let me read her,” Widget says. “All of her, without concealing anything. She’s never done that before.” He refuses to elaborate as they walk quietly back down the length of the train.
“What do you think we should do?” Poppet asks once they have reached their car, a marmalade cat crawling onto her lap.
“I think we should wait,” Widget says. “I think that’s all we can do right now.”
*
ALONE IN HER BOOK-FILLED CHAMBER, Celia begins tearing her handkerchief into strips. One at a time she drops each scrap of silk and lace into an empty teacup and lights it on fire. She repeats this process over and over, working until the cloth burns without charring, remaining bright and white within the flame.
Pursuit
EN ROUTE FROM BOSTON TO NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1, 1902
It is a cold morning, and Bailey’s faded grey coat does not look particularly elegant paired with his new charcoal suit, and he is not entirely certain the two shades are complementary, but the streets and the train station are too busy for him to worry much about his appearance.
There are other rêveurs headed to New York, but they end up getting tickets for a later train, so there is a round of farewells and the confusion of sorting dozens of bags before they manage to board.
The journey is slow, and Bailey sits staring out the window at the changing landscape, absently gnawing at his fingernails.
Victor comes to sit by him, a red leather-bound book in his hands.
“I thought you might like something to read to pass the time,” he says as he gives the book to Bailey.
Bailey opens the cover and glances through the book, which he is surprised to see is a meticulously organized scrapbook. Most of the black pages are filled with articles clipped from newspapers, but there are also handwritten letters, the dates ranging from only a few years previous to more than a decade ago.
“Not all of it is in English,” Victor explains, “but you should be able to read most of the articles, at least.”
“Thank you,” Bailey says.
Victor nods and returns to his seat across the car.
As the train chugs on, Bailey forgets the landscape entirely. He reads and rereads the words of Herr Friedrick Thiessen, finding them both familiar and entrancing.
“I have never seen you take such a sudden interest in a new rêveur,” he overhears Lorena remark to her brother. “Especially not to the point of sharing your books.”
“He reminds me of Friedrick” is Victor’s only reply.
They are almost to New York when Elizabeth takes the empty seat opposite him. Bailey notes his place in the middle of an article that is comparing the interplay of light and shadow in a particular tent to Indonesian puppet theater before putting the book down.
“We lead strange lives, chasing our dreams around from place to place,” Elizabeth says quietly, looking out the window. “I have never met so young a rêveur who clearly feels as strongly toward the circus as those of us who have been following it for years. I want you to have this.”