Erin Morgenstern - The Night Circus

The circus knows of them, and appreciates them. Often someone approaching the ticket booth in a black coat with a red scarf will be waved in without paying admission, or given a mug of cider or bag of popcorn gratis. Performers spotting them in the audience will bring out their best tricks. Some of the rêveurs wander the circus continuously, methodically visiting every tent, watching each performance. Others have their favorite spots which they rarely leave, choosing to pass the entire night in the Menagerie or the Hall of Mirrors. They are the ones who stay the latest, through the small hours when most visitors have gone to seek their beds.

Often, just before dawn, there is no color to be seen in Le Cirque des Rêves save for their small splashes of scarlet.

HERR THIESSEN RECEIVES DOZENS OF LETTERS from other rêveurs , and he responds to each. While some remain single letters, content with their onetime replies, others evolve into longer exchanges, collections of ongoing conversations.

Today he is replying to a letter he finds particularly intriguing. The author writes about the circus with stunning specificity. And the letter is more personal than most, delving into thoughts on his own writings, observations about his Wunschtraum clock containing a level of detail that would require observing it for hours on end. He reads the letter three times before he sits at his desk to compose his reply.

The postmark is from New York, but he does not recognize the signature as belonging to any of the rêveurs he has met in passing in that or any other city.

Dear Miss Bowen , he begins.

He hopes that he will receive another letter in turn.

Marco arrives at Mr. Barris’s London office only a few minutes before his scheduled appointment, surprised to find the normally well-ordered space in near bedlam, full of half-packed crates and stacks of boxes. The desk is nowhere to be seen, buried beneath the chaos.

“Is it that late already?” Mr. Barris asks when Marco knocks on the open door, unable to step inside due to a lack of available floor. “I should have left the clock out, it’s in one of those crates.” He waves at a line of large wooden crates along the wall, though if one of them is ticking it is impossible to tell. “And I meant to clear a path, as well,” he adds, pushing boxes aside and picking up piles of rolled blueprints.

“Sorry to intrude,” Marco says. “I wanted to speak with you before you left the city. I would have waited until you were settled again, but I thought it best to discuss the matter in person.”

“Of course,” Mr. Barris says. “I wanted to give you the spare copies of the circus plans. They are around here somewhere.” He sifts through the pile of blueprints, checking labels and dates.

The office door closes quietly, untouched.

“May I ask you a question, Mr. Barris?” Marco inquires.

“Certainly,” Mr. Barris says, still sorting through rolls of paper.

“How much do you know?”

Mr. Barris puts down the blueprint in his hand and turns, pushing his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose to better regard Marco’s expression.

“How much do I know about what?” he asks after the pause has gone on too long.

“How much has Miss Bowen told you?” Marco asks in response.

Mr. Barris looks at him curiously for a moment before he speaks.

“You’re her opponent,” he says, a smile spreading across his face when Marco nods. “I never would have guessed.”

“She told you about the competition,” Marco says.

“Only in the most basic of terms,” Mr. Barris says. “She came to me several years ago and asked what I might say if she were to tell me that everything she does is real. I told her that I would have to take her at her word or think her a liar, and I would never dream such a lovely lady to be a liar. And then she asked what I might design if I did not have such constraints as gravity to concern myself with. That was the beginning of the Carousel, but I imagine you knew that already.”

“I assumed as much,” Marco says. “Though I was not certain to what degree you were knowingly involved.”

“I am in the position to be quite useful, as I see it. I believe stage magicians employ engineers to make their tricks appear to be something they are not. In this case, I provide the opposite service, helping actual magic appear to be clever construction. Miss Bowen refers to it as grounding, making the unbelievable believable.”

“Did she have anything to do with the Stargazer?” Marco asks.

“No, the Stargazer is purely mechanical,” Mr. Barris says. “I can show you the structural plans if I can locate them in this mess. It was inspired by a trip to the Columbian Exposition in Chicago earlier this year. Miss Bowen insisted there was no way to improve it, though I think she may have something to do with keeping it running properly.”

“Then you are a magician in your own right, sir,” Marco says.

“Perhaps we simply do similar things in different ways,” Mr. Barris says. “I had thought, knowing Miss Bowen had an opponent lurking somewhere, that whomever you might be, you were not in need of any assistance. The paper animals are astonishing, for example.”

“Thank you,” Marco says. “I have improvised quite a bit trying to come up with tents that did not require blueprints.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Mr. Barris asks. “For something of the blueprint variety?”

“Primarily, I wanted to be certain about your awareness of the game,” Marco says. “I could make you forget this entire conversation, you know.”

“Oh, there is no need for such precaution,” Mr. Barris says with a vehement shake of his head. “I assure you, I am capable of remaining neutral. I am not fond of taking sides. I will assist either you or Miss Bowen as much or as little as you would each prefer and I shall reveal nothing to the other that you or she tell me in confidence. I will not say a word to anyone else about the matter. You can trust me.”

Marco rights a toppling pile of boxes while he considers the matter.

“All right,” he says. “Though I must admit, Mr. Barris, I am surprised at how accepting you are of all this.”

Mr. Barris chuckles in response.

“I admit that of the lot of us, I seem the least likely,” he says. “The world is a more interesting place than I had ever imagined when I came to that first Midnight Dinner. Is that because Miss Bowen can animate a solid wooden creature on a carousel or because you could manipulate my memory, or because the circus itself pushed the boundaries of what I dreamed was possible, even before I entertained the thought of actual magic? I cannot say. But I would not trade it for anything.”

“And you will keep my identity from Miss Bowen?”

“I shall not tell her,” Mr. Barris says. “You have my word.”

“In that case,” Marco says, “I would appreciate your assistance with something.”

WHEN THE LETTER ARRIVES, Mr. Barris fears for a moment that Miss Bowen will be upset with the turn of events, or inquire as to who her opponent is, as she will have easily figured out that he is now aware of that fact himself.

But when he opens the envelope, the enclosed note reads only: May I make additions to it?

He writes back to inform her that it has been specifically designed to be manipulated by either side, so she may add whatever she wishes.

CELIA WALKS THROUGH a hallway full of snow, sparkling flakes of it catching in her hair and clinging to the hem of her gown. She holds out her hand, smiling as the crystals dissolve over her skin.