Erin Morgenstern - The Night Circus

“Do what?” Marco asks.

“Look like that. It’s very good, but I can tell it’s not entirely genuine. It must be terribly annoying to keep it up constantly.”

Marco frowns, but then, very slowly, his face begins to change. The goatee fades and disappears. The chiseled features become softer and younger. His striking green eyes fade to a green-tinged grey.

The false face had been handsome, yes, but consciously so. As though he was too aware of his own attractiveness, something Celia found distinctly unappealing.

And there was something else, a hollowness that was likely the result of the illusion, an impression that he was not entirely present in the room.

But now, now there is a different person standing next to her, much more present, as if a barrier has been removed between them. He feels closer, though the distance between them has not changed, and his face is quite handsome, still.

The intensity of his stare increases with these eyes; looking at him now she can see deeper, without being distracted by the color.

Celia can feel the heat rising up her neck and manages to control it enough that the flush is not noticeable in the candlelight.

And then she realizes why there is something familiar there as well.

“I’ve seen you like this before,” she says, placing his true countenance in a location in her memory. “You’ve watched my show like that.”

“Do you remember all of your audiences?” Marco asks.

“Not all of them,” Celia says. “But I remember the people who look at me the way you do.”

“What way might that be?”

“As though they cannot decide if they are afraid of me or they want to kiss me.”

“I am not afraid of you,” Marco says.

They stare at each other in silence for a while, the candles flickering around them.

“It seems a great deal of effort for a rather subtle difference,” Celia says.

“It has its advantages.”

“I think you look better without it,” Celia says. Marco looks so surprised that she adds, “I said I would be honest, didn’t I?”

“You flatter me, Miss Bowen,” he says. “How many times have you been to this house?”

“At least a dozen,” Celia says.

“And yet, you have never had a tour.”

“I have never been offered one.”

“Chandresh does not believe in them. He prefers to let the house remain an enigma. If the guests do not know where the boundaries are, it gives the impression that the house itself goes on forever. It used to be two buildings, so it can be somewhat disorienting.”

“I did not know that,” Celia says.

“Two adjoining town houses, one a mirror of the other. He bought both and had them renovated into a single dwelling, with a number of enhancements. I do not believe we have the time for the full tour, but I could show you a few of the more obscure rooms, if you would like.”

“I would,” Celia says, placing her empty wineglass on the table next to his own. “Do you often give forbidden tours of your employer’s house?”

“Only once, and that was because Mr. Barris was quite persistent.”

FROM THE DINING ROOM, they cross under the shadow of the elephant-headed statue in the hall, passing into the library and stopping at the stained-glass sunset that stretches the height of one wall.

“This is the game room,” Marco says, pushing the glass and letting it swing open into the next room.

“How appropriate.”

Gaming is more theme than function for the room. There are several chessboards with missing pieces, and pieces without boards of their own lined up on windowsills and bookshelves. Dartboards without darts hang alongside backgammon games suspended in mid-play.

The billiard table in the center is covered in bloodred felt.

A selection of weaponry lines one wall, arranged in pairs. Sabres and pistols and fencing foils, each twinned with another, prepared for dozens of potential duels.

“Chandresh has a fondness for antique armament,” Marco explains as Celia regards them. “There are pieces in other rooms but this is the majority of the collection.”

He watches her closely as she walks around the room. She appears to be attempting not to smile as she looks over the gaming elements artfully arranged around them.

“You smile as though you have a secret,” he says.

“I have a lot of secrets,” Celia says, glancing at him over her shoulder before turning back to the wall. “When did you know I was your opponent?”

“I did not know until your audition. You were a mystery for years before that. And I’m certain you noticed that you caught me by surprise.” He pauses before adding, “I cannot say that it has truly been an advantage. How long have you known?”

“I knew in the rain in Prague, and you know perfectly well that was when I knew,” Celia says. “You could have let me go with an umbrella to puzzle over, but instead you chased me down. Why?”

“I wanted it back,” Marco says. “I’m quite fond of that umbrella. And I had grown weary of hiding from you.”

“I once suspected anyone and everyone,” Celia says. “Though I did think it was more likely someone in the circus proper. I should have known it was you.”

“And why is that?” Marco asks.

“Because you pretend to be less than you are,” she says. “That much is clear as day. I will admit, I never thought to charm my umbrella.”

“I have lived most of my life in London,” Marco says. “As soon as I learned to charm objects, it was one of the first things I did.”

He removes his jacket and tosses it over one of the leather chairs in the corner. He takes a deck of playing cards off of a shelf, unsure if she will be willing to humor him but too curious not to try.

“Do you want to play cards?” Celia asks.

“Not exactly,” Marco answers as he shuffles. When he is satisfied, he places the deck on the billiard table.

He flips over a card. The king of spades. He taps the surface and the king of spades becomes the king of hearts. He lifts his hand, pulling it back and unfurling his fingers over the card, welcoming her to make the next move.

Celia smiles. She unties the shawl from her shoulders and drapes it over his discarded jacket. Then she stands with her hands clasped behind her back.

The king of hearts flips up, balancing on its edge. It stands there for a moment before slowly and deliberately ripping in half. The two pieces stay standing, separate, for a moment before they fall, the patterned back facing up.

Mimicking Marco’s gesture, Celia taps the card and it snaps back together. She pulls her hand back and the card flips itself over. The queen of diamonds.

Then the entire deck hovers in the air for a moment before collapsing onto the table, cards scattering out over the red felt surface.

“You are better than I am at physical manipulation,” Marco admits.

“I have an advantage,” Celia says. “What my father calls a natural talent. I find it harder not to influence my surroundings, I was constantly breaking things as a child.”

“How much impact can you have on living things?” Marco asks.

“It depends on the thing in question,” Celia says. “Objects are easier. It took me years to master anything animate. And I work much better with my own birds than I could with any old pigeon taken off the street.”

“What could you do to me?”

“I might be able to change your hair, perhaps your voice,” Celia says. “No more than that without your full consent and awareness, and true consent is more difficult to give than you might think. I can’t repair injury. I rarely have much more than a temporary, superficial impact. It is easier with people I’m more familiar with, though it is never particularly easy.”