Celia considers this while she sips her tea. Attempting to reconcile the fact that everything that has happened with the circus, with Marco, has been part of the game.
“Do you love him?” Tsukiko asks, watching her with thoughtful eyes and the hint of a smile that might be sympathetic, but Celia has always found Tsukiko’s expressions difficult to decipher.
Celia sighs. There seems no good reason to deny it.
“I do,” she says.
“Do you believe he loves you?”
Celia does not answer. The phrasing of the question bothers her. Only hours ago, she was certain. Now, sitting in this cave of lightly perfumed silk, what had seemed constant and unquestionable feels as delicate as the steam floating over her tea. As fragile as an illusion.
“Love is fickle and fleeting,” Tsukiko continues. “It is rarely a solid foundation for decisions to be made upon, in any game.”
Celia closes her eyes to keep her hands from shaking.
It takes longer for her to regain her control than she would like.
“Isobel once thought he loved her,” Tsukiko continues. “She was certain of it. That is why she came here, to assist him.”
“He does love me,” Celia says, though the words do not sound as strong when they fall from her lips as they did inside her head.
“Perhaps,” Tsukiko replies. “He is quite skilled at manipulation. Did you not once lie to people yourself, telling them only what they wished to hear?”
Celia is not certain which is worse. The knowledge that for the game to end, one of them will have to die, or the possibility that she means nothing to him. That she is only a piece across a board. Waiting to be toppled and checkmated.
“It is a matter of perspective, the difference between opponent and partner,” Tsukiko says. “You step to the side and the same person can be either or both or something else entirely. It is difficult to know which face is true. And you have a great many factors to deal with beyond your opponent.”
“Did you not?” Celia asks.
“My venue was not as grand. It involved fewer people, less movement. Without the challenge within it, there was nothing to salvage. Most of it is now a tea garden, I believe. I have not returned to that place since the challenge concluded.”
“The circus could continue, after this challenge is … concluded,” Celia says.
“That would be nice,” Tsukiko says. “A proper tribute to your Herr Thiessen. Though it would be complicated, making it completely independent from you and your opponent. You have taken on a great deal of responsibility for all of this. You are vital to its operation. If I stabbed a knife in your heart right now, this train would crash.”
Celia puts down her tea, watching as the smooth motion of the train sends soft ripples through the surface of the liquid. In her head, she calculates how long it would take to halt the train, how long she might be able to keep her heart beating. She decides it would likely depend on the knife.
“Possibly,” she says.
“If I were to extinguish the bonfire, or its keeper, that would also be problematic, yes?”
Celia nods.
“You have work to do if you expect this circus to endure,” Tsukiko says.
“Are you offering to help?” Celia asks, hoping she will be able to aid in translating Marco’s systems, as they shared the same instructor.
“No,” Tsukiko says with a polite shake of her head, her smile softening the harshness of the word. “If you are unable to manage it properly yourself, I will step in. This has gone on too long already, but I shall give you some time.”
“How much time?” Celia asks.
Tsukiko sips her tea.
“Time is something I cannot control,” she says. “We shall see.”
They sit in meditative silence for some of that uncontrollable time, the motion of the train gently billowing the silk curtains, the scent of ginger and cream enveloping them.
“What happened to your opponent?” Celia asks.
Tsukiko looks not at Celia but down at her tea as she responds.
“My opponent is now a pillar of ash standing in a field in Kyoto,” she says. “Unless wind and time have taken her away.”
Escapement
CONCORD AND BOSTON, OCTOBER 31, 1902
Bailey walks circles around the empty field for some time before he can convince himself that the circus is well and truly gone. There is nothing at all, not so much as a bent blade of grass, to indicate that anything had occupied the space hours before.
He sits down on the ground, holding his head in his hands and feeling utterly lost though he has played in these very fields ever since he was little.
He recalls Poppet mentioning a train.
A train would have to travel to Boston in order to reach any far-flung destination.
Within moments of the thought crossing his mind, Bailey is on his feet, running as fast as he can toward the depot.