Erin Morgenstern - The Night Circus

Mme. Ana Padva’s studio is a remarkable space situated near Highgate Cemetery, with floor-to-ceiling windows providing a panoramic view of London. Dress forms displaying elaborate gowns stand in groups and pairs, giving the impression of a party with a great many headless guests.

Lainie Burgess wanders through a gathering of black-and-white gowns as she waits for Mme. Padva, pausing to admire one in ivory satin delicately covered with black velvet fretwork, like wrought iron in long scrolling lines and curves.

“I can make that in a color if you would like it for yourself,” Mme. Padva says as she enters the room, her cane accompanying her with a steady beat against the tile floor.

“It is too grand for me, Tante Padva,” Lainie says.

“They are difficult to balance without color,” Mme. Padva says, turning the form around and regarding the train with a narrowed eye. “Too much white and people assume they are wedding gowns, too much black and they become heavy and dour. This one may need more black, I think. I would add more of a sleeve but Celia cannot abide them.”

Mme. Padva shows Lainie around the rest of her latest work, including a wall of recent sketches, before they sit down for tea at a table by one of the windows.

“You have a new assistant every time I visit,” Lainie remarks, after the latest version brings a tray with their tea and quickly disappears again.

“They get bored of waiting for me to die and then they flit off to work for someone else, once they decide shoving me out a window and hoping I might roll down the hill into a mausoleum is too much trouble. I am an old woman with a lot of money and no heir; they are well-coiffed vultures. This one will not last more than a month.”

“I had always assumed you would leave everything to Chandresh,” Lainie says.

“Chandresh is not in need of any of this financially, and I do not think he would be able to manage the business end of things the way I would prefer. He does not have the eye for it. Not that he has the eye for much of anything, these days.”

“Is he that unwell?” Lainie asks, stirring her tea.

“He has lost something of himself,” Mme. Padva says. “I have seen him become preoccupied with projects before, but nothing to this degree. It has rendered him a ghost of what he was, though in Chandresh’s case, a ghost of his former self is more vibrant than most people. I do what I can. I find avant-garde ballet companies to occupy his theaters. I prop him up at the opera when he should be doing the same for me.” She takes a sip of her tea before adding, “And not to bring up a delicate subject, my dear, but I keep him far away from trains.”

“That is likely wise,” Lainie says.

“I have known him since he was a child, it is the least I can do.”

Lainie nods. She has other questions but she decides they are best saved for someone else to whom she has been meaning to pay a visit. For the rest of the afternoon, they discuss no more than fashion and art movements. Mme. Padva insists on making her a less formal version of the ivory-and-black gown in peach and cream, finishing a sketch in a matter of minutes.

“When I do retire, this is all going to you, my dear,” Mme. Padva says before Lainie leaves. “I would not trust anyone else with it.”

THE OFFICE IS LARGE BUT LOOKS SMALLER than it is due to the volume of its contents. While a great deal of its walls are composed of frosted glass, most of it is obscured by cabinets and shelves. The drafting table by the windows is all but hidden in the meticulously ordered chaos of papers and diagrams and blueprints. The bespectacled man seated behind it is almost invisible, blending in with his surroundings. The sound of his pencil scratching against paper is as methodical and precise as the ticking of the clock in the corner.

It is identical to an office that occupied a similar space in London, and then another in Vienna, before it was moved here to Basel.

Mr. Barris puts his pencil down and pours himself a cup of tea. He nearly drops it when he looks up and sees Lainie Burgess standing in his doorway.

“Your assistant appears to be out at the moment,” she says. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“That’s quite all right,” Mr. Barris says, putting his teacup down on the desk before rising from his chair. “I was not expecting you until later this evening.”

“I took an earlier train,” Lainie says. “And I wanted to see you.”

“More time spent with you is always a pleasure,” Mr. Barris says. “Tea?”

Lainie nods as she navigates her way around the crowded office to the chair on the other side of the desk.

“What is it that you discussed when Tara visited you in Vienna?” she asks before she has even taken her seat.

“I thought you knew,” he says without looking at her, keeping his attention on the teapot as he pours.

“We are two different people, Ethan. Just because you could never decide which one of us you were in love with does not make us interchangeable.”

He puts down the pot and prepares her tea, knowing how she takes it without having to ask.

“I asked you to marry me and you never gave me an answer,” he says as he stirs.

“You asked me after she died,” Lainie says. “How could I ever be certain that was a choice you made or one that was made for you?”

He hands her the cup of tea, resting his hand over hers as she takes it.

“I love you,” he says. “I loved her as well but it was never the same. You are as dear as family to me, all of you. More dear, in some cases.”

He returns to his chair, removing his spectacles to wipe them with his handkerchief.

“I don’t know why I wear these things,” he says, looking down at them. “I haven’t needed them for years.”

“You wear them because they suit you,” Lainie says.

“Thank you,” he says as he replaces them, watching her as she sips her tea. “That offer still stands.”

“I know,” Lainie says. “I am considering it.”

“Take your time,” Mr. Barris says. “We appear to have a great deal of it.”

Lainie nods, placing her teacup on the desk.

“Tara was always the rational, sensible one,” she says. “We balanced each other, that was one of the reasons we excelled at whatever we did. She grounded my imaginative ideas. I saw in details while she saw in scope. Not seeing the scope is why I am here and she is not. I took each element separately and never looked to see that they did not fit together properly.”

The clock ticks heavily through the pause that follows.

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” Mr. Barris says once the ticking becomes insufferable. “I didn’t want to have it with her then and I do not want to have it with you now.”

“You know what’s going on here, don’t you?” Lainie asks.

Mr. Barris straightens a pile of papers on his desk while he considers his response.

“Yes,” he says after a moment. “I do.”

“Did you tell my sister?”

“No.”

“Then tell me,” Lainie says.

“I cannot. To explain would involve breaking a trust and I am not willing to do that, not even for you.”

“How many times have you lied to me?” Lainie asks, rising from her chair.

“I have never lied,” Mr. Barris counters, standing as well. “I do not share what I am not at liberty to say. I gave my word and I intend to keep it but I have never lied to you. You never even asked me, you assumed I knew nothing.”

“Tara asked you,” Lainie says.

“Indirectly,” Mr. Barris says. “I do not think she knew what to ask and I would not have answered if she did. I was concerned about her and I suggested that she speak with Alexander if she wanted answers. I assume that was why she was at the station. I do not know if she ever spoke to him. I have not asked.”