“What did you do?” Marco asks. He is still not entirely certain he understands what has happened.
“I used the circus as a touchstone,” Celia says. “I didn’t know if it would work but I couldn’t let you go, I had to try. I tried to take you with me and then I couldn’t find you and I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m here,” Marco says, stroking her hair. “I’m here.”
It is not what he expected, being liberated from the world and reinstated in a confined location. He does not feel confined, only separate, as though he and Celia are overlapping the circus, rather than contained within it.
He looks around at the trees, the long frosted willow branches cascading down, the topiaries that line the nearby path like ghosts.
Only then does he notice that the garden is melting.
“The bonfire went out,” Marco says. He can feel it now, the emptiness. He can feel the circus all around him, as though it hangs on him like mist, like he could reach out and touch the iron fence despite the distance from it. Detecting the fence, how far it is in every direction, where every tent sits, even the darkened courtyard and Tsukiko standing within it, is almost effortless. He can feel the entirety of the circus as easily as feeling his shirt against his skin.
And the only thing burning brightly within it is Celia.
But it is a flickering brightness. As fragile as a candle flame.
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“You’re holding the circus together,” he says.
Celia nods. It is only beginning to weigh on her, but it is much more difficult to manage without the bonfire. She cannot focus enough to keep the details intact. Elements are already slipping away, dripping like the flowers around them.
And she knows that if it breaks, she will not be able to put it back together again.
She is shaking, and though she steadies when Marco holds her tighter, she continues to tremble in his arms.
“Let go of it, Celia.”
“I can’t,” she says. “If I let go it will collapse.”
“What will happen to us if it collapses?” Marco asks.
“I don’t know,” Celia says. “I suspended it. It can’t be self-sufficient without us. It needs a caretaker.”
Suspended
NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1, 1902
The last time Bailey entered this particular tent, Poppet was with him, and it was filled with a dense white fog.
Then, and Bailey has difficulty believing it was only days ago, the tent had seemed endless. But now without the cover of mist, Bailey can see the white walls of the tent and all the creatures within it, but none of them are moving.
Birds and bats and butterflies hang throughout the space as if held by strings, completely still. No rustling of paper wings. No motion at all.
Other creatures sit on the ground near Bailey’s feet, including a black cat crouched pre-pounce near a silver-tipped white fox. There are larger animals, as well. A zebra with perfectly contrasting stripes. A reclining lion with a snowy mane. A white stag with tall antlers.
Standing next to the stag is a man in a dark suit.
He is almost transparent, like a ghost, or a reflection in glass. Parts of his suit are no more than shadows. Bailey can see the stag clearly through the sleeve of his jacket.
Bailey is debating whether or not it is a figment of his imagination when the man looks over at him, his eyes surprisingly bright, though Bailey cannot discern their color.
“I asked her not to send you this way,” he says. “Though it is the most direct.”
“Who are you?” Bailey asks.
“My name is Marco,” the man says. “You must be Bailey.”