“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.