Tsukiko nods.
“I tired of writing things in books, so I began inscribing them on my body instead. I am not fond of getting my hands dirty,” she says, indicating his ink-stained fingers. “I am surprised he agreed to such an open venue for this challenge. He always preferred seclusion. I suspect he is not pleased with the way it has progressed.”
As he listens to her, Marco notices that the contortionist is completely dry. Every drop of rain that falls on her evaporates instantly, sizzling into steam as soon as it touches her.
“You won the last game,” he says.
“I survived the last game,” Tsukiko corrects.
“When?” Marco asks as they walk toward the bonfire.
“It ended eighty-three years, six months, and twenty-one days ago. It was a cherry-blossom day.”
Tsukiko takes a long drag from her cigarette before she continues.
“Our instructors do not understand how it is,” she says. “To be bound to someone in such a way. They are too old, too out of touch with their emotions. They no longer remember what it is to live and breathe within the world. They think it simple to pit any two people against each other. It is never simple. The other person becomes how you define your life, how you define yourself. They become as necessary as breathing. Then they expect the victor to continue on without that. It would be like pulling the Murray twins apart and expecting them to be the same. They would be whole but not complete. You love her, do you not?”
“More than anything in the world,” Marco says.
Tsukiko nods thoughtfully.
“My opponent’s name was Hinata,” she says. “Her skin smelled of ginger and cream. I loved her more than anything in the world, as well. On that cherry-blossom day, she set herself on fire. Ignited a pillar of flame and stepped into it as though it were water.”
“I’m sorry,” Marco says.
“Thank you,” Tsukiko says, with a shadow of her normally bright smile. “It is what Miss Bowen is planning to do for you. To let you win.”
“I know.”
“I would not wish such pain on anyone. To be the victor. Hinata would have adored this,” she says as they reach the bonfire, watching the flames dance in the increasing rain. “She was quite fond of fire. Water was always my element. Before.”
She holds out her hand and watches as the raindrops refuse to reach her skin.
“Do you know the story of the wizard in the tree?” she asks.
“The Merlin story?” Marco asks. “I know several versions.”
“There are many,” Tsukiko says with a nod. “Old stories have a habit of being told and retold and changed. Each subsequent storyteller puts his or her mark upon it. Whatever truth the story once had is buried in bias and embellishment. The reasons do not matter as much as the story itself.”
The rain continues to increase, falling heavily as she continues.
“Sometimes it is a cave, but I like the version with the tree. Perhaps a tree is more romantic.”
She takes the still-glowing cigarette from its holder, balancing it gently between her graceful fingers.
“While there are a number of trees here that could be used for this purpose,” she says, “I thought this might be more appropriate.”
Marco turns his attention to the bonfire. It illuminates the rain falling over it in such a way that the droplets of water sparkle like snow.
All of the versions of the Merlin story he knows involve the magician being imprisoned. In a tree or a cave or a rock.
Always as a punishment, the consequence of a foolish love.
He looks back at Tsukiko.
“You understand,” she says, before he can speak.
Marco nods.
“I knew you would,” she says. The light from the white flames brightens her smile through the rain.
“What are you doing, Tsukiko?” a voice calls from behind her. When Tsukiko turns, Marco can see Celia standing at the edge of the courtyard. Her moonlight gown is soaked to a dull grey, its crisscrossing ribbons stream out behind her in trails of black and white and charcoal, tangling with her hair in the wind.
“Go back to the party, dear,” Tsukiko says, tucking the silver cigarette holder in her pocket. “You will not want to be here for this.”
“For what?” Celia says, staring at Marco.
When Tsukiko speaks, she addresses them both.
“I have been surrounded by love letters you two have built each other for years, encased in tents. It reminds me of what it was to be with her. It is wonderful and it is terrible. I am not yet prepared to give it up, but you are letting it fade.”
“You told me love was fickle and fleeting,” Celia says, confused.
“I lied,” Tsukiko says, rolling her cigarette between her fingers. “I thought it might be easier if you doubted him. And I gave you a year to find a way for the circus to continue without you. You have not. I am stepping in.”