“I thought it was an accident,” Celia says softly, looking down at the patterned tile on the table.

“No, before that. Her mistake was asking the wrong questions of the wrong people. It is not a mistake I plan on repeating.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“That is why I am here,” Lainie says. “How long have we known each other, Celia?”

“Over ten years.”

“Surely by now you can trust me enough to tell me what it is that’s really going on here. I doubt you’d dare to tell me it is nothing, or suggest I not trouble myself with such matters.”

Celia places her glass on its saucer. She explains as best she can. She keeps the details vague, covering only the basic concept of the challenge, and how the circus functions as the venue. How certain people know more than others on every level, though she chooses not to name each individual and makes it clear that even she does not have all the answers.

Lainie says nothing, she listens carefully and occasionally sips her tea.

“How long has Ethan known?” she asks when Celia has finished.

“A very long time,” Celia says.

Lainie nods and lifts her glass to her lips but instead of sipping her tea, she opens her fingers, releasing her grip.

The cup falls, crashing into the saucer below.

The glass shatters, the sound echoing through the room. The tea spills out over the tiles.

Before anyone turns at the noise, the cup has righted itself. The broken pieces re-form around the liquid and the glass sits intact, the tile surface of the table is dry.

Those who glanced over at their table at the noise assume it was their imagination, and return their attention to their own tea.

“Why didn’t you stop it before it broke?” Lainie asks.

“I don’t know,” Celia says.

“If you ever need anything from me, I would like you to ask,” Lainie says as she stands to leave. “I am tired of everyone keeping their secrets so well that they get other people killed. We are all involved in your game, and it seems we are not as easily repaired as teacups.”

Celia sits alone for some time after Lainie departs, both cups of tea growing cold.

Stormy Seas

DUBLIN, JUNE 1901

After the illusionist takes her bow and disappears before her rapt audience’s eyes, they clap, applauding the empty air. They rise from their seats and some of them chatter with their companions, marveling over this trick or that as they file out the door that has reappeared in the side of the striped tent.

One man, sitting in the outer circle of chairs, remains in his seat as they leave. His eyes, almost hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his bowler hat, are fixed on the space in the center of the circle that the illusionist occupied only moments before.

The rest of the audience departs.

The man continues to sit.

After a few minutes the door fades into the wall of the tent, invisible once more.

The man’s gaze does not waver. He does not so much as glance at the vanishing door.

A moment later, Celia Bowen is sitting in front of him, turned to the side and resting her arms on the back of the chair. She is dressed as she had been during her performance, in a white gown covered in a pattern of unassembled puzzle pieces, falling together into darkness along the hem.

“You came to visit me,” she says, unable to hide the pleasure in her voice.

“I had a few days,” Marco says. “And you haven’t been near London recently.”

“We’ll be in London in the autumn,” Celia says. “It’s become somewhat traditional.”

“I couldn’t wait that long to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, as well,” Celia says softly. She reaches out and straightens the brim of his hat.

“Do you like the Cloud Maze?” he asks. He takes her hand in his as she lowers it.

“I do,” she says, her breath catching as his fingers close over hers. “Did you persuade our Mr. Barris to help with that?”

“I did, indeed,” Marco says, running his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “I thought I could use some assistance in getting the balance right. Besides, you have your Carousel and we share the Labyrinth, I thought it only fair that I have a Barris original of my own.”

The intensity of his eyes and his touch rushes over Celia like a wave and she takes her hand from his before it pulls her under.

“Have you come to show me your own feats of illustrious illusion?” she asks.

“It was not on my agenda for the evening, but if you would like … ”

“You already watched me, it would only be fair.”

“I could watch you all night,” he says.

“You have,” Celia says. “You’ve been in every single audience this evening, I noticed.”

She stands and walks to the center of the circle, turning so her gown swirls around her.

“I can see every seat,” she says. “You are not hidden from me when you sit in the back row.”

“I thought I would be too tempted to touch you if I sat in the front,” Marco says, moving from his chair to stand at the edge of the circular performance space, just inside the first row of chairs.

“Am I close enough for your illusion?” she asks.

“If I say no, will you come closer?” he retaliates, not bothering to hide his grin.

In response, Celia takes another step toward him, the hem of her gown brushing over his shoes. Close enough for him to lift his arm and gently rest his hand on her waist.

“You didn’t have to touch me last time,” she remarks, but she does not protest.

“I thought I’d try something special,” Marco says.

“Should I close my eyes?” Celia asks playfully, but instead of answering, he spins her around so she faces away from him, keeping his hand on her waist.

“Watch,” he whispers in her ear.

The striped canvas sides of the tent stiffen, the soft surface hardening as the fabric changes to paper. Words appear over the walls, typeset letters overlapping handwritten text. Celia can make out snatches of Shakespearean sonnets and fragments of hymns to Greek goddesses as the poetry fills the tent. It covers the walls and the ceiling and spreads out over the floor.

And then the tent begins to open, the paper folding and tearing. The black stripes stretch out into empty space as their white counterparts brighten, reaching upward and breaking apart into branches.

“Do you like it?” Marco asks, once the movement settles and they stand within a darkened forest of softly glowing, poem-covered trees.

Celia can only nod.

He reluctantly releases her, following as she walks through the trees, reading bits of verse on branches and trunks.

“How do you come up with such images?” she asks, placing her hand over the layered paper bark of one of the trees. It is warm and solid beneath her fingers, illuminated from within like a lantern.

“I see things in my mind,” Marco says. “In my dreams. I imagine what you might like.”

“I don’t think you’re meant to be imagining how to please your opponent,” Celia says.

“I have never fully grasped the rules of the game, so I am following my instincts instead,” Marco says.

“My father is still purposefully vague about the rules,” Celia says as they walk through the trees. “Particularly when I inquire as to when or how the verdict will be determined.”

“Alexander also neglected to provide that information.”

“I hope he does not pester you as much as my father does me,” Celia says. “Though of course, my father has nothing better to do.”

“I have hardly seen him in years,” Marco says. “He has always been … distant and not terribly forthcoming, but he is the closest thing to family I have. And yet he tells me nothing.”

“I’m rather jealous,” Celia says. “My father constantly tells me what a disappointment I am.”

“I refuse to believe you could ever disappoint anyone,” Marco says.

“You never had the pleasure of meeting my father.”

“Would you tell me what really happened to him?” Marco asks. “I’m quite curious.”

Celia sighs before she begins, pausing beside a tree etched with words of love and longing. She has never told anyone this story, never been given the opportunity to relate it to anyone who would understand.

“My father was always somewhat overambitious,” she starts. “What he meant to do, he did not accomplish, not as he intended. He wanted to remove himself from the physical world.”

“How would that be possible?” Marco asks. Celia appreciates that he does not immediately dismiss the idea. She can see him trying to work it out in his mind and she struggles with the best way to explain it.

“Suppose I had a glass of wine,” she says. A glass of red wine appears in her hand. “Thank you. If I took this wine and poured it into a basin of water, or a lake or even the ocean, would the wine itself be gone?”

“No, it would only be diluted,” Marco says.

“Precisely,” Celia says. “My father figured out a way to remove his glass.” As she speaks, the glass in her hand fades, but the wine remains, floating in the air. “But he went straight for the ocean rather than a basin or even a larger glass. He has trouble pulling himself back together again. He can do it, of course, but with difficulty. Had he been content to haunt a single location, he would likely be more comfortable. Instead, the process left him adrift. He has to cling to things now. He haunts his town house in New York. Theaters he performed in often. He holds to me when he can, though I have learned how to avoid him when I wish to. He hates that, particularly because I am simply amplifying one of his own shielding techniques.”

“Could it be done?” Marco asks. “What he was attempting? Properly, I mean.”

Celia looks at the wine hovering without its glass. She raises a hand to touch it and it quivers, dividing into droplets and then coming back together.

“I believe it could,” she says, “under the right circumstances. It would require a touchstone. A place, a tree, a physical element to hold on to. Something to prevent drifting. I suspect my father simply wanted the world at large to function as his, but I believe it would have to be more localized. To function as a glass but leave more flexibility to move within.”

She touches the hovering wine again, pushing it toward the tree she stands beside. The liquid seeps into the paper, slowly saturating it until the entire tree glows a rich crimson in a forest of white.

“You’re manipulating my illusion,” Marco says, looking curiously at the wine-soaked tree.

“You’re letting me,” Celia says. “I wasn’t certain I’d be able to.”

“Could you do it?” Marco asks. “What he was attempting?”

Celia regards the tree thoughtfully for a moment before replying.

“If I had reason to, I think I could,” she says. “But I am rather fond of the physical world. I think my father was feeling his age, which was much more advanced than it appeared, and did not relish the idea of rotting in the ground. He may have also wished to control his own destiny, but I cannot be certain, as he did not consult me before he attempted it. Left me with a lot of questions to answer and a funeral to fake. Which is easier than you might suppose.”

“But he speaks with you?” Marco asks.

“He does, though not as often as he once did. He looks the same; I think it is an echo, his consciousness retaining the semblance of a physical form. But he lacks solidity and it vexes him terribly. He might have been able to stay more tangible had he done it differently. Though I’m not certain I’d want to be stuck in a tree for the rest of eternity, myself, would you?”

“I think that would depend on the tree,” Marco says.

He turns to the crimson tree and it glows brighter, the red of embers shifting to the bright warmth of fire.

The surrounding trees follow suit.

As the light from the trees increases, it becomes so bright that Celia closes her eyes.

The ground beneath her feet shifts, suddenly unsteady, but Marco puts a hand on her waist to keep her upright.

When she opens her eyes, they are standing on the quarterdeck of a ship in the middle of the ocean.

Only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats upon is dark black ink.

Tiny lights hang across the sky, like tightly packed stars bright as sun.

“I thought something vast would be nice after all the talk of confined spaces,” Marco says.

Celia walks to the edge of the deck, running her hands along the spines of the books that form the rail. A soft breeze plays with her hair, bringing with it the mingling scent of dusty tomes and damp, rich ink.

Marco comes and stands next to her as she looks at the midnight sea that stretches out into a clear horizon with no land in sight.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

She glances down at his right hand resting on the rail, frowning as she regards his bare, unmarked fingers.

“Are you looking for this?” he asks, moving his hand with a flourish. The skin shifts, revealing the scar that wraps around his ring finger. “It was made by a ring when I was fourteen. It said something in Latin, but I don’t know what it was.”

“Esse quam videri,” Celia says. “To be, rather than to seem. It’s the Bowen family motto. My father was very fond of engraving it on things. I’m not entirely sure he appreciated the irony. That ring was likely something like this one.”

She places her right hand next to his, along the adjoining books. The silver band on her finger is engraved with what Marco had thought was an intricate filigree, but is the same phrase in a looping script.