“Only a handful of people on this train have any idea how integral I am to the running of the circus,” she says. “And as much as you two are amongst them and you are both extremely clever, you do not comprehend the scope of what goes on here and you wouldn’t particularly like it if you did. Now, tell me what you sort of saw.”

Poppet closes her eyes, trying to concentrate. “I don’t know,” she says. “It was bright, everything was on fire, and Bailey was there.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Celia says.

“I can’t,” Poppet says. “I haven’t seen anything clearly since before—”

“And that’s likely because you don’t want to see anything clearly after that, and I can’t say I blame you. But if you want me to do something to prevent whatever this is, I am going to need more information.”

She unclasps the long silver chain that hangs around her neck, checking the time on the pocket watch that hangs from it before she holds it up in front of Poppet’s eyes.

“Please, Poppet,” Celia says. “You don’t need the stars for this. Just focus. Even if you don’t want to.”

Poppet frowns, then turns her attention to the dangling silver watch as it sways in the warm light.

Her eyes narrow, focusing on the reflections in the curve of the watch, and then they soften, looking at something beyond the watch, beyond the train.

She starts to sway as her eyes flutter closed, and she falls backward. Widget leaps forward to catch her before she hits the floor.

Celia helps him move Poppet to one of the velvet benches by the table, while on a nearby shelf a cup of tea pours itself, steaming and brewing instantly in a flowered china cup.

Poppet blinks, looking up at the chandeliers as though seeing them for the first time, before turning back to Celia to accept the cup of tea.

“That hurt,” Poppet says.

“I’m sorry, dearest,” Celia says. “I think your sight is getting stronger, which makes it even more troublesome for you to be suppressing it.”

Poppet nods, rubbing her temples.

“Tell me everything you saw,” Celia says. “Everything. I don’t care if it doesn’t make any sense. Try to describe it.”

Poppet looks into her tea before she starts.

“There’s a fire,” she says. “It starts with the bonfire but … bigger and there’s nothing containing it. Like the whole courtyard is on fire, there’s a loud noise and this heat and … ” Poppet pauses, closing her eyes as she attempts to concentrate on the images in her head. She opens her eyes and looks back at Celia. “You’re there. You’re with someone else and I think it’s raining, and then you’re not there anymore but you still are, I can’t explain it. And then Bailey is there, not during the fire but after it, I think.”

“What did the someone else look like?” Celia asks.

“A man. He was tall. In a suit, with a bowler hat, I think. It was hard to tell.”

Celia rests her head in her hands for a moment before she speaks.

“If that is who I think it is, I know for a fact he is in London at the moment, so perhaps this is not as immediate as you think.”

“But it is, I’m sure of it,” Poppet protests.

“Timing has never been your strong point. You said yourself that this friend of yours is also present for this incident, and your first complaint was that he is not here. This might not happen for weeks or months or years, ’Pet.”

“But we have to do something,” Poppet says, slamming her teacup down on the table. The tea stops before it splashes onto an open book as though there is an invisible wall surrounding it. “To be prepared, like you said.”

“I will do what I can to prevent the circus from going up in smoke. I shall fireproof it as much as possible. Is that enough for now?”

After a moment, Poppet nods.

“Good,” Celia says. “We’ll be off the train in a matter of hours, we can discuss this more later.”

“Wait,” Widget says. He has been sitting on the back of one of the velvet benches, staying out of the conversation. Now he turns to Celia. “I have a question before you shoo us away.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“You said we don’t comprehend the scope of what goes on here,” he says.

“That was likely not the best choice of words.”

“It’s a game, isn’t it?” Widget asks.

Celia looks at him, a slow, sad smile tugging at her lips.

“It took you sixteen years to figure that one out,” she says. “I expected more from you, Widge.”

“I’d guessed as much for a while,” he says. “It’s not easy to see things you don’t want me to know, but I’ve been picking up bits of it lately. You haven’t been as guarded as usual.”

“A game?” Poppet asks, looking back and forth between her brother and Celia.

“Like a chess game,” Widget says. “The circus is the board.”

“Not exactly,” Celia says. “It’s not as straightforward as chess.”

“We’re all playing a game?” Poppet asks.

“Not us,” Widget says. “Her and someone else. The rest of us are, what, extra pieces?”

“It’s not like that,” Celia says.

“Then what is it like?” Widget asks.

In response, Celia only looks at him, staring directly into his eyes without wavering.

Widget returns her gaze silently for some time while Poppet watches them curiously. Eventually, Widget blinks, the surprise evident on his face. Then he looks down at his shoes.

Celia sighs, and when she speaks she addresses them both.

“If I have not been completely honest with you, it is only because I know a great deal of things that you do not want to know. I am going to ask that you trust me when I tell you I am trying to make things better. It is an extremely delicate balance and there are a great many factors involved. The best we can do right now is take everything as it comes, and not worry ourselves over things that have happened, or things that are to come. Agreed?”

Widget nods and Poppet reluctantly follows suit.

“Thank you,” Celia says. “Now please go and try to get some rest.”

Poppet gives her an embrace before slipping out the door back into the hall.

Widget lingers a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Celia tells him.

“I’m sorry anyway.”

He kisses her on the cheek before he leaves, not waiting for her to reply.

“What was that about?” Poppet asks when Widget joins her in the hall.

“She let me read her,” Widget says. “All of her, without concealing anything. She’s never done that before.” He refuses to elaborate as they walk quietly back down the length of the train.

“What do you think we should do?” Poppet asks once they have reached their car, a marmalade cat crawling onto her lap.

“I think we should wait,” Widget says. “I think that’s all we can do right now.”

*

ALONE IN HER BOOK-FILLED CHAMBER, Celia begins tearing her handkerchief into strips. One at a time she drops each scrap of silk and lace into an empty teacup and lights it on fire. She repeats this process over and over, working until the cloth burns without charring, remaining bright and white within the flame.

Pursuit

EN ROUTE FROM BOSTON TO NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1, 1902

It is a cold morning, and Bailey’s faded grey coat does not look particularly elegant paired with his new charcoal suit, and he is not entirely certain the two shades are complementary, but the streets and the train station are too busy for him to worry much about his appearance.

There are other rêveurs headed to New York, but they end up getting tickets for a later train, so there is a round of farewells and the confusion of sorting dozens of bags before they manage to board.

The journey is slow, and Bailey sits staring out the window at the changing landscape, absently gnawing at his fingernails.

Victor comes to sit by him, a red leather-bound book in his hands.

“I thought you might like something to read to pass the time,” he says as he gives the book to Bailey.

Bailey opens the cover and glances through the book, which he is surprised to see is a meticulously organized scrapbook. Most of the black pages are filled with articles clipped from newspapers, but there are also handwritten letters, the dates ranging from only a few years previous to more than a decade ago.

“Not all of it is in English,” Victor explains, “but you should be able to read most of the articles, at least.”

“Thank you,” Bailey says.

Victor nods and returns to his seat across the car.

As the train chugs on, Bailey forgets the landscape entirely. He reads and rereads the words of Herr Friedrick Thiessen, finding them both familiar and entrancing.

“I have never seen you take such a sudden interest in a new rêveur,” he overhears Lorena remark to her brother. “Especially not to the point of sharing your books.”

“He reminds me of Friedrick” is Victor’s only reply.

They are almost to New York when Elizabeth takes the empty seat opposite him. Bailey notes his place in the middle of an article that is comparing the interplay of light and shadow in a particular tent to Indonesian puppet theater before putting the book down.

“We lead strange lives, chasing our dreams around from place to place,” Elizabeth says quietly, looking out the window. “I have never met so young a rêveur who clearly feels as strongly toward the circus as those of us who have been following it for years. I want you to have this.”

She hands him a red wool scarf, the one she has been knitting on and off. It is longer than Bailey expected from watching her knit, with intricate patterns of knotted cables at each end.

“I can’t accept this,” he says, part of him deeply honored and the other part wishing people would stop giving him things.

“Nonsense,” Elizabeth says. “I make them all the time, I am at no loss for yarn. I started this one with no particular rêveur in mind to wear it, so clearly it is meant for you.”

“Thank you,” Bailey says, wrapping the scarf around his neck despite the warmth of the train.

“You are quite welcome,” Elizabeth says. “We should be arriving soon enough, and then it will only be a matter of waiting for the sun to set.”

She leaves him in his seat by the window. Bailey stares out at the grey sky with a mixture of comfort and excitement and nervousness that he cannot reconcile.

When they arrive in New York, Bailey is immediately struck by how strange everything looks. Though it is not that different from Boston, Boston had some passing familiarity. Now, without the comforting lull of the train, it strikes him how very far he is from home.

Victor and Lorena seem equally discombobulated, but Elizabeth is on familiar ground. She ushers them through intersections and herds them onto streetcars until Bailey begins to feel like one of his sheep. But it does not take long for them to reach their destination, a spot outside the city proper where they are to meet up with another local rêveur named August, the same whose room Bailey had inherited in Boston, who has graciously invited them to stay with him at his home until they can find rooms elsewhere.

August turns out to be a pleasant, heavyset fellow and Bailey’s first impression is that he resembles his house: a squat sort of building with a porch wrapping around the front, warm and welcoming. He practically lifts Elizabeth off the ground in greeting and shakes hands so enthusiastically while being introduced to Bailey that his fingers are sore afterward.

“I have good news and bad news,” August says as he helps them lift their bags onto the porch. “Which should come first?”

“The good,” Elizabeth answers before Bailey has time to consider which would be preferable. “We have traveled too long to be met with bad news straight off.”

“The good news,” August says, “is that I was indeed correct in predicting the exact location and Le Cirque has set up less than a mile away. You can see the tents from the end of the porch if you lean properly.” He points down the left side of the porch from where he stands on the stairs.

Bailey rushes to the end of the porch with Lorena close on his heels. The tops of the striped tents are visible through the trees some distance away, a bright punch of white against grey sky and brown trees.

“Wonderful,” Elizabeth says, laughing at Lorena and Bailey as they lean over the railing. “And what is the bad news, then?”

“I’m not certain it is bad news, precisely,” August says, as though he is not sure how to explain. “Perhaps more disappointing, really. Regarding the circus.”

Bailey steps down from the railing and turns back to the conversation, all the elation he had felt moments before draining away.

“Disappointing?” Victor asks.

“Well, the weather is not ideal, as I’m certain you’ve noticed,” August says, gesturing up at the heavy grey clouds. “We had quite a storm last night. The circus was closed, of course, which was odd to begin with as in all my time I have never seen it set up only to be closed the first night for inclement weather. Regardless, there was some sort of, I don’t even know what to call it, a noise of some sort around midnight. A crashing sound that practically shook the house. I thought perhaps something had been struck by lightning. There was a great deal of smoke over the circus, and one of the neighbors swears he saw a flash of light bright as day. I took a walk down there this morning and nothing appears to be amiss, though the closure sign is still up on the gates.”