“Not particularly,” Bailey says.
“Have you ever wished for someone to come and take you away?”
“Did Widge tell you that?” Bailey asks, wondering if the thought is so strong that it sits on him, evident and readable.
“No,” Poppet says. “It was a guess. But Widge did ask me to give you this.” She pulls a tiny glass bottle from her pocket and hands it to him.
Bailey knows that though the bottle appears empty it is likely not, and he is too curious not to open it immediately. He pulls out the minuscule stopper, relieved that it remains attached to the bottle with a curl of wire.
The sensation inside is so familiar, so comforting and recognizable and real that Bailey can feel the roughness of the bark, the smell of the acorns, even the chattering of the squirrels.
“He wanted you to be able to keep your tree with you,” Poppet says. “If you decide to come with us.”
Bailey replaces the stopper in the bottle. Neither of them speaks for some time. The breeze tugs at Poppet’s hair.
“How long do I have to think about it?” Bailey asks quietly.
“We’re leaving when the circus closes tonight,” Poppet says. “The train will be ready before dawn, though it would be better if you could come earlier than that. Leaving can get a bit … complicated.”
“I’ll think about it,” Bailey says. “But I can’t promise anything.”
“Thank you, Bailey,” Poppet says. “Can you do me one favor, though? If you’re not going to come with us, could you just not come to the circus tonight at all? And let this be goodbye? I think it would be easier.”
Bailey stares at her blankly for a moment, her words not quite sinking in. This is even more horrible than the choice to leave. But he nods because it feels like the proper thing to do.
“All right,” he says. “I won’t come unless I’m going with you. I promise.”
“Thank you, Bailey,” Poppet says. She smiles, though he cannot tell if the smile is a happy one or not.
And before he can tell her to tell Widget goodbye for him if need be, she leans forward and kisses him, not on the cheek, as she has a handful of times before, but on the lips, and Bailey knows in that moment that he will follow her anywhere.
Poppet turns without a word and walks away. Bailey watches until he can no longer see her hair against the sky and then continues to stare after her, the tiny bottle clutched in his hand, still uncertain of how to feel or what to do and left with only hours to decide.
Behind him, the sheep, left to their own devices, decide to wander through the open gate into the field beyond.
Invitation
LONDON, OCTOBER 30, 1901
When the circus arrives in London, though Celia Bowen is tempted to go immediately to the address of Marco’s flat, which is printed on the card she keeps on her person at all times, she goes instead to the Midland Grand Hotel.
She does not make any inquiries at the desk.
She does not speak to anyone.
She stands in the middle of the lobby, going unnoticed by the staff and guests that pass her on their way to other locations, other appointments, and other temporary places.
After she has stood for more than an hour, as still as one of the circus statues, a man in a grey suit approaches her.
He listens without reaction as she speaks, and when she is finished, he only nods.
She executes a perfect curtsey, and then she turns and leaves.
The man in the grey suit stands alone, unnoticed, in the lobby for some time.
Intersections I: The Drop of a Hat
LONDON, OCTOBER 31–NOVEMBER 1, 1901
The circus is always particularly festive on All Hallows’ Eve. Round paper lanterns hang in the courtyard, the shadows dancing over their white surfaces like silently howling faces. Leather masks in white and black and silver with ribbon ties are set in baskets by the gates and around the circus for patrons to wear, should they wish. It is sometimes difficult to discern performer from patron.
It is an altogether different experience to wander through the circus anonymously. To blend in with the environment, becoming a part of the ambiance. Many patrons enjoy the experience immensely, while others find it disconcerting and prefer to wear their own faces.
Now the crowd has thinned considerably in these hours past midnight as the clock ticks its way into All Hallows’ proper.
The remaining masked patrons wander like ghosts.
The line for the fortune-teller has dwindled down to nothing in these hours. Most people seek their fortunes early in the evening. The late of the night is suited for less cerebral pursuits. Earlier the querents filed in almost nonstop, but as October fades into November there is no one waiting in the vestibule, no one waiting behind the beaded curtain to hear what secrets the cards have to tell.