After a few minutes the door fades into the wall of the tent, invisible once more.
The man’s gaze does not waver. He does not so much as glance at the vanishing door.
A moment later, Celia Bowen is sitting in front of him, turned to the side and resting her arms on the back of the chair. She is dressed as she had been during her performance, in a white gown covered in a pattern of unassembled puzzle pieces, falling together into darkness along the hem.
“You came to visit me,” she says, unable to hide the pleasure in her voice.
“I had a few days,” Marco says. “And you haven’t been near London recently.”
“We’ll be in London in the autumn,” Celia says. “It’s become somewhat traditional.”
“I couldn’t wait that long to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, as well,” Celia says softly. She reaches out and straightens the brim of his hat.
“Do you like the Cloud Maze?” he asks. He takes her hand in his as she lowers it.
“I do,” she says, her breath catching as his fingers close over hers. “Did you persuade our Mr. Barris to help with that?”
“I did, indeed,” Marco says, running his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “I thought I could use some assistance in getting the balance right. Besides, you have your Carousel and we share the Labyrinth, I thought it only fair that I have a Barris original of my own.”
The intensity of his eyes and his touch rushes over Celia like a wave and she takes her hand from his before it pulls her under.
“Have you come to show me your own feats of illustrious illusion?” she asks.
“It was not on my agenda for the evening, but if you would like … ”
“You already watched me, it would only be fair.”
“I could watch you all night,” he says.
“You have,” Celia says. “You’ve been in every single audience this evening, I noticed.”
She stands and walks to the center of the circle, turning so her gown swirls around her.
“I can see every seat,” she says. “You are not hidden from me when you sit in the back row.”
“I thought I would be too tempted to touch you if I sat in the front,” Marco says, moving from his chair to stand at the edge of the circular performance space, just inside the first row of chairs.
“Am I close enough for your illusion?” she asks.
“If I say no, will you come closer?” he retaliates, not bothering to hide his grin.
In response, Celia takes another step toward him, the hem of her gown brushing over his shoes. Close enough for him to lift his arm and gently rest his hand on her waist.
“You didn’t have to touch me last time,” she remarks, but she does not protest.
“I thought I’d try something special,” Marco says.
“Should I close my eyes?” Celia asks playfully, but instead of answering, he spins her around so she faces away from him, keeping his hand on her waist.
“Watch,” he whispers in her ear.
The striped canvas sides of the tent stiffen, the soft surface hardening as the fabric changes to paper. Words appear over the walls, typeset letters overlapping handwritten text. Celia can make out snatches of Shakespearean sonnets and fragments of hymns to Greek goddesses as the poetry fills the tent. It covers the walls and the ceiling and spreads out over the floor.
And then the tent begins to open, the paper folding and tearing. The black stripes stretch out into empty space as their white counterparts brighten, reaching upward and breaking apart into branches.
“Do you like it?” Marco asks, once the movement settles and they stand within a darkened forest of softly glowing, poem-covered trees.
Celia can only nod.
He reluctantly releases her, following as she walks through the trees, reading bits of verse on branches and trunks.
“How do you come up with such images?” she asks, placing her hand over the layered paper bark of one of the trees. It is warm and solid beneath her fingers, illuminated from within like a lantern.
“I see things in my mind,” Marco says. “In my dreams. I imagine what you might like.”
“I don’t think you’re meant to be imagining how to please your opponent,” Celia says.
“I have never fully grasped the rules of the game, so I am following my instincts instead,” Marco says.
“My father is still purposefully vague about the rules,” Celia says as they walk through the trees. “Particularly when I inquire as to when or how the verdict will be determined.”
“Alexander also neglected to provide that information.”
“I hope he does not pester you as much as my father does me,” Celia says. “Though of course, my father has nothing better to do.”
“I have hardly seen him in years,” Marco says. “He has always been … distant and not terribly forthcoming, but he is the closest thing to family I have. And yet he tells me nothing.”
“I’m rather jealous,” Celia says. “My father constantly tells me what a disappointment I am.”
“I refuse to believe you could ever disappoint anyone,” Marco says.