A Curious Beginning

Before I could respond, the professor had moved on, gesturing towards the tremendously obese woman. “This is our dear Tilly, the fattest lady in the land and the loveliest.” He blew her a kiss and she simpered. She did have a beautiful complexion and a charming set of dimples. She waggled her cream-covered fingers at me and I smiled in return.

“Next to her is her husband, Leopold the Lion-Faced Lord. He isn’t really a lord,” the professor added, sotto voce, “but, again, one must make allowances.”

The gentleman bowed—an elegant, almost regal gesture under the circumstances. “Welcome to our little family, Mrs. Stoker.” His voice was surprisingly melodious, deep and resonant.

“Thank you . . . er . . .”

“Please, call me Leopold. We do not stand on ceremony here,” he said kindly.

The professor spoke again. “This is Colosso,” he informed me, pointing out the enormous fellow, who put out a hand to shake mine. His was more than twice the size, and I felt like a child as he carefully enfolded my fingers.

“Welcome,” he said, his accent thick and unmistakably Italian. His greeting to me was cordial enough, but the look he gave Mr. Stoker was one of purest hatred.

Before I could determine why, another snippet of music began to play, a sinuous and inviting sound that coaxed and seduced, filling the ears with unseemly thoughts. The bells at the tent flap sounded softly, and a woman glided in. She wore a long silken robe of Oriental origin, its sleeves sweeping the ground as she moved. On her feet were tiny slippers of gilt leather, turned up at the toes. Her hair, black as my own, but woven into an intricate series of tiny braids, fell to her tightly sashed waist. Her eyes were dark and impenetrable, and her every gesture graceful. I felt very English at that particular moment, and deeply aware of the practicality of my own costume, becoming as it might be.

“Salome,” said the professor softly.

I realized then that Mr. Stoker had turned a most surprising shade of puce, and I wondered if he was about to have a fit. I stepped briskly forward and put out my hand.

“Veronica Stoker,” I said firmly.

A smile toyed with the corners of her mouth. She shook my hand gravely. “Yes, I heard that Stoker was returned to us. With a wife,” she added. It was masterfully done. With that one sentence she managed to convey curiosity and disbelief, but so elegantly that it was quite clear she considered the matter a tremendous joke.

Mr. Stoker’s hand closed tightly around my arm. “Salome,” he said shortly.

She came forward and kissed me on both cheeks, leaving the scent of her musky perfume behind. It reminded me of decayed flowers, ripe and sensual and deeply narcotic. “Welcome, my dear.”

A less clever woman would have kissed Mr. Stoker as well, but she did not. She merely darted him a glance to show that she had considered the gesture and dismissed it. Then she smiled brilliantly and withdrew, bowing gracefully at the tent flap. Stoker was perspiring freely.

“Our principal dancer,” the professor explained. “And now you must meet my brother, Otto.”

He waved a hand to the fellow conjoined to him, and again that soft, yearning line of melody he had played upon our arrival issued from the instrument in his hands. Otto left off playing then and gave me a polite bow from the neck. Then he resumed his instrument, moving into a pretty bit of Chopin.

I inclined my head. “How do you do, Otto?”

The professor made a gesture of impatience. “Pay him no attention, my dear. He is a singularly annoying fellow. He is a selective mute and communicates only through his music. You will learn to interpret it in time.”

He turned to Mr. Stoker, who had wiped his brow with a handkerchief and seemed to have recovered himself. “Now, I understand from your rather urgent telegram that you wish to return to the show. When last you came to us, these souvenirs of your trip to the Amazon were fresh,” he said with a graceful inclination of his head towards Stoker’s scars and eye patch. “I remember the tale. You were lucky to escape with your life,” the professor said softly. “I always said you had nine lives. How many do you have left? I wonder.”

Stoker swallowed hard, but his tone was deliberately casual. “By my reckoning, this is probably the last.”

The professor’s mouth split into a wide grin at Stoker’s display of bravado. “Then we had best make it count. You remember the rules. I keep only those who earn their way. If you do not work, you do not eat, and you most certainly do not stay. The last time you were with us, I was content to let you work as a conjuror.”

I stared at Mr. Stoker in surprise, but he merely nodded towards the professor. This development was clearly something he had anticipated. “That should not present any difficulties.”

“But this time I require something more,” the professor told him. “I am in need of someone to take Rizzolo’s place. He left us a few weeks ago, and the crowds since then have not been what they ought to be.”

Stoker hesitated only a heartbeat. “Fine.”

The professor’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time, I detected cruelty in the set of his mouth. “Are you certain? Perhaps your vision is impaired now.”