“I am try—” Celia starts, but Tsukiko cuts her off.
“You continue to overlook a simple fact,” she says. “You carry this circus within yourself. He uses the fire as a tool. You are the greater loss, but too selfish to admit it. You believe you could not live with the pain. Such pain is not lived with. It is only endured. I am sorry.”
“Kiko, please,” Celia says. “I need more time.”
Tsukiko shakes her head.
“I told you before,” she says, “time is not something I can control.”
Marco has not taken his eyes from Celia since she appeared in the courtyard, but now he turns away.
“Go ahead,” he says to Tsukiko, shouting over the growing din of the rain. “Do it! I would rather burn by her side than live without her.”
What might have been a simple cry of the word “No” is distorted into something greater by the wind as Celia screams. The agony in her voice cuts through Marco like every blade in Chandresh’s collection combined, but he keeps his attention on the contortionist.
“It will end the game, yes?” he asks. “It will end the game even if I am trapped in the fire and not dead.”
“You will be unable to continue,” Tsukiko says. “That is all that matters.”
“Then do it,” Marco says.
Tsukiko smiles at him. She places her palms together, curls of smoke from her cigarette rising over her fingers.
She gives him a low, respectful bow.
Neither of them are watching as Celia runs toward them through the rain.
Tsukiko flicks her still-glowing cigarette toward the fire.
It is still in the air when Marco cries out for Celia to stop.
It has barely touched the flickering white flames of the bonfire when she leaps into his arms.
Marco knows he does not have the time to push her away, so he pulls her close, burying his face in her hair, his bowler hat torn from his head by the wind.
And then the pain starts. Sharp, ripping pain as though he is being pulled apart.
“Trust me,” Celia whispers in his ear, and he stops fighting it, forgetting everything but her.
In the moment before the explosion, before the white light becomes too blinding to discern precisely what is happening, they dissolve into the air. One moment they are there, Celia’s dress fluttering in the wind and the rain, Marco’s hands pressed against her back, and the next they are only a blur of light and shadow.
Then both of them are gone and the circus is ablaze, flames licking against the tents, twisting up into the rain.
Alone in the courtyard, Tsukiko sighs. The flames pass by her without touching, swirling around in a vortex. Illuminating her with impossible brightness.
Then, as quickly as they came, the flames die down to nothing.
The bonfire’s curling cage sits empty, not even a smoldering ember remains. The rain patters in a hollow echo against the metal, drops evaporating into steam where the iron is still hot.
Tsukiko pulls another cigarette from her coat, flicking open her lighter with a lazy, practiced gesture.
The flame catches easily, despite the rain.
She watches the cauldron fill with water while she waits.
Transmutation
NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1, 1902
If Celia could open her mouth, she would scream.
But there is too much to control between the heat and the rain and Marco in her arms.
She focuses only on him, pulling everything that he is with her as she breaks herself apart. Holding to the memory of every touch of his skin against hers, every moment she has spent with him. Carrying him with her.
Suddenly, there is nothing. No rain. No fire. A stretch of calm white nothingness.
Somewhere in the nothingness, a clock begins to strike midnight.
Stop, she thinks.
The clock continues to chime, but she feels the stillness fall.
The breaking is the easy part, Celia realizes.
The pulling back together is the problem.
It is like healing her sliced-open fingertips as a child, taken to an extreme.
There is so much to balance, trying to find the edges again.
It would be so simple to let go.
It would be so much easier to let go.
So much less painful.
She fights against the temptation, against the pain and the chaos. Struggling for control with herself and her surroundings.
She picks a location to focus on, the most familiar place she can think of.
And slowly, agonizingly slowly, she pulls herself safely together.
Until she is standing in her own tent, in the center of a circle of empty chairs.
She feels lighter. Diluted. Slightly dizzy.
But she is not an echo of her former self. She is whole again, breathing. She can feel her heart beating, fast but steady. Even her gown feels the same as it did, cascading around her and no longer wet from the rain.
She spins in a circle and it flares out around her.
The dizziness begins to fade as she collects herself, still amazed at the accomplishment.
Then she notices that everything in the tent around her is transparent. The chairs, the lights hanging above her head, even the stripes on the walls seem insubstantial.
And she is alone.
*