The Night Circus: A Novel

Acclaim for Erin Morgenstern’s

THE NIGHT CIRCUS

"Get ready to be won over…. Part love story, part fable, and a knockout debut…. So sparklingly alive, you’ll swear the pages are breathing in your hands…. The Night Circus defies both genres and expectations."

—The Boston Globe

"A riveting debut. The Night Circus pulls you into a world as dark as it is dazzling, fully realized but still something out of a dream. You will not want to leave it."

—Téa Obreht, author of The Tiger’s Wife

"The Night Circus is the real deal, the kind of novel that will appeal to romantics, history buffs, circus aficionados, mystery fans, and lovers of a good story…. Steeped in circus lore, filled with evocative scenes of magic and illusion, enriched by characters as varied as the clockmaker who crafted the circus’s iconic timepiece…The Night Circus is worth staying up for."

—Bookreporter

One of the best books I have ever read.

—Brunonia Barry, author of The Lace Reader

[A] few pages in…and you know you are in the presence of an extraordinary storyteller.

—The Daily Beast

[A] dazzling foray into the dreamscape of illusion.

—Family Circle

"Echoing the immense pleasure of Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, The Night Circus presents a sprightly version of nineteenth-century English magic."

—The Washington Post

Dark and extravagantly imagined.

—People

Pure pleasure…. Erin Morgenstern is a gifted, classic storyteller, a tale teller, a spinner of the charmed and mesmerizing—I had many other things I was supposed to be doing, but the book kept drawing me back in and I tore through it. You can be certain this riveting debut will create a group of rêveurs all its own.

—Aimee Bender, author of The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake

[Morgenstern] employs her supple prose to conjure up a series of wonders: A maze made of clouds, a ship of books floating on a sea of ink, a tent that seems to contain a vast desert.

—Salon

Reading this novel is like having a marvelous dream, in which you are asleep enough to believe everything that is happening, but awake enough to relish the experience and understand that it is magical.

—Newsday

Morgenstern’s exquisitely realized world will have [you] wishing to run off and join the circus.

—USA Today

"A Victorian curio cabinet…. In The Night Circus, Morgenstern makes the artificial real, turning atmosphere into art."

—Kansas City Star

Morgenstern’s novel feels crafted from the fabric of a dream, and the circus itself never fails to astound. For me, the only real disappointment was that I couldn’t buy a ticket.

—Yvonne Zip, The Christian Science Monitor

Ladies and Gentlemen! Step right up and prepare to be enchanted…. [Will] make you sit right down on the floor of your library or bookstore to see what Morgenstern conjures up next.

—Minneapolis Star Tribune

"The Night Circus is a gorgeously imagined fable poised in the high latitudes of Hans Christian Andersen and Oscar Wilde, with a few degrees toward Hesse’s Steppenwolf for dangerous spice. The tale is masterfully written and invites allegorical interpretations even as its leisurely but persistent suspense gives it compelling charm. An enchanting read."

—Katherine Dunn, author of Geek Love

"The world of The Night Circus is elaborately designed, fantastically imagined and instantly intoxicating—as if the reader had downed a glass of absinthe and leapt into a hallucination."

—Rachel Syme, NPR

"Every once in a while you find a novel so magical that there is no escaping its spell. The Night Circus is one of these rarities—engrossing, beautifully written, and utterly enchanting. If you choose to read just one novel this year, this is it."

—Danielle Trussoni, author of Angelology

Also by Erin Morgenstern

The Starless Sea

ERIN MORGENSTERN

THE NIGHT CIRCUS

Erin Morgenstern is a writer and a multimedia artist who describes all her work as fairy tales in one way or another. She lives in Massachusetts.

erinmorgenstern.com

VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, JULY 2012

Copyright © 2011 by Night Circus, LLC

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 2011. Originally published in trade paperback by Anchor Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 2012.

Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the Doubleday edition as follows:

Morgenstern, Erin.

The night circus : a novel / Erin Morgenstern. –1st ed.

p. cm.

1. Magicians–Fiction. 2. Circus–Fiction. 3. Games–Fiction. 4. Circus performers–Fiction.

I. Title.

PS3613.O74875N54 2010

813'.6–dc22

2010050546

Vintage ISBN: 978-0-307-74443-2

eBook ISBN: 978-0-385-53464-2

vintagebooks.com

rh_3.1_148355210_c0_r8

Contents

Cover

Also by Erin Morgenstern

Title Page

Copyright

Anticipation

Part I: Primordium

Unexpected Post: New York, February 1873

A Gentlemen’s Wager: London, October 1873

Shades of Grey: London, January 1874

Magic Lessons: 1875–1880

Le Bateleur: London, May–June 1884

False Pretenses: July–November 1884

Target Practice: London, December 1884

Darkness and Stars

Truth or Dare: Concord, Massachusetts, September 1897

Associates and Conspirators: London, February 1885

Condolences: New York, March 1885

The Contortionist’s Tattoo: London, September 1885

Horology: Munich, 1885

Auditory: London, April 1886

Stratagem: London, April 1886

Fire and Light

Hidden Things: Concord, Massachusetts, October 1902

Part II: Illumination

Opening Night I: Inception: London, October 13 and 14, 1886

Opening Night II: Sparks: London, October 13 and 14, 1886

Opening Night III: Smoke and Mirrors: London, October 13 and 14, 1886

The Hanged Man

Oneiromancy: Concord, Massachusetts, October 1902

Rules of the Game: 1887–1889

Tasting: Lyon, September 1889

Chaperoned: Cairo, November 1890

Wishes and Desires: Paris, May 1891

Atmosphere: London, September 1891

Rêveurs: 1891–1892

Collaborations: September–December 1893

The Ticking of the Clock: Vienna, January 1894

The Magician’s Umbrella: Prague, March 1894

Reflections and Distortions

Cartomancy: Concord, Massachusetts, October 1902

The Wizard in the Tree: Barcelona, November 1894

Temporary Places: London, April 1895

Movement: Munich, April 1895

In Loving Memory of Tara Burgess: Glasgow, April 1895

Labyrinth

Ailuromancy: Concord, Massachusetts, October 1902

Tête-à-Tête: London, August 1896

Part III: Intersections

The Lovers

Thirteen: London, Friday, October 13, 1899

Bedtime Stories: Concord, Massachusetts, October 1902

Bookkeeping: London, March 1900

Three Cups of Tea with Lainie Burgess: London, Basel, and Constantinople, 1900

Stormy Seas: Dublin, June 1901

An Entreaty: Concord, Massachusetts, October 30, 1902

Invitation: London, October 30, 1901

Intersections I: The Drop of a Hat: London, October 31–November 1, 1901

Darkest Before the Dawn: Concord, Massachusetts, October 31, 1902

Intersections II: Scarlet Furies and Red Destinies: London, October 31–November 1, 1901

The Pool of Tears

Farewell: Concord, Massachusetts, October 30 and 31, 1902

Retrospect: London, November 1, 1901

Beautiful Pain: London, November 1, 1901

Part IV: Incendiary

Technicalities: London, November 1, 1901

Playing with Fire

Tsukiko: En Route from London to Munich, November 1, 1901

Escapement: Concord and Boston, October 31, 1902

Impasse: Montréal, August 1902

Visitations: September 1902

Charming but Deadly

Precognition: En Route from Boston to New York, October 31, 1902

Pursuit: En Route from Boston to New York, November 1, 1902

Old Ghosts: London, October 31, 1902

Aftermath: New York, November 1, 1902

Incendiary: New York, October 31, 1902

Transmutation: New York, November 1, 1902

Suspended: New York, November 1, 1902

The Second Lighting of the Bonfire: New York, November 1, 1902

Part V: Divination

Fates Foretold

Blueprints: London, December 1902

Stories: Paris, January 1903

Bons Rêves

Acknowledgments

_148355210_

The circus arrives without warning.

No announcements precede it, no paper notices on downtown posts and billboards, no mentions or advertisements in local newspapers. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.

The towering tents are striped in white and black, no golds and crimsons to be seen. No color at all, save for the neighboring trees and the grass of the surrounding fields. Black-and-white stripes on grey sky; countless tents of varying shapes and sizes, with an elaborate wrought-iron fence encasing them in a colorless world. Even what little ground is visible from outside is black or white, painted or powdered, or treated with some other circus trick.

But it is not open for business. Not just yet.

Within hours everyone in town has heard about it. By afternoon the news has spread several towns over. Word of mouth is a more effective method of advertisement than typeset words and exclamation points on paper pamphlets or posters. It is impressive and unusual news, the sudden appearance of a mysterious circus. People marvel at the staggering height of the tallest tents. They stare at the clock that sits just inside the gates that no one can properly describe.

And the black sign painted in white letters that hangs upon the gates, the one that reads:

Opens at Nightfall

Closes at Dawn

What kind of circus is only open at night? people ask. No one has a proper answer, yet as dusk approaches there is a substantial crowd of spectators gathering outside the gates.

You are amongst them, of course. Your curiosity got the better of you, as curiosity is wont to do. You stand in the fading light, the scarf around your neck pulled up against the chilly evening breeze, waiting to see for yourself exactly what kind of circus only opens once the sun sets.

The ticket booth clearly visible behind the gates is closed and barred. The tents are still, save for when they ripple ever so slightly in the wind. The only movement within the circus is the clock that ticks by the passing minutes, if such a wonder of sculpture can even be called a clock.

The circus looks abandoned and empty. But you think perhaps you can smell caramel wafting through the evening breeze, beneath the crisp scent of the autumn leaves. A subtle sweetness at the edges of the cold.

The sun disappears completely beyond the horizon, and the remaining luminosity shifts from dusk to twilight. The people around you are growing restless from waiting, a sea of shuffling feet, murmuring about abandoning the endeavor in search of someplace warmer to pass the evening. You yourself are debating departing when it happens.

First, there is a popping sound. It is barely audible over the wind and conversation. A soft noise like a kettle about to boil for tea. Then comes the light.

All over the tents, small lights begin to flicker, as though the entirety of the circus is covered in particularly bright fireflies. The waiting crowd quiets as it watches this display of illumination. Someone near you gasps. A small child claps his hands with glee at the sight.

When the tents are all aglow, sparkling against the night sky, the sign appears.

Stretched across the top of the gates, hidden in curls of iron, more firefly-like lights flicker to life. They pop as they brighten, some accompanied by a shower of glowing white sparks and a bit of smoke. The people nearest to the gates take a few steps back.

At first, it is only a random pattern of lights. But as more of them ignite, it becomes clear that they are aligned in scripted letters. First a C is distinguishable, followed by more letters. A q, oddly, and several e’s. When the final bulb pops alight, and the smoke and sparks dissipate, it is finally legible, this elaborate incandescent sign. Leaning to your left to gain a better view, you can see that it reads:

Le Cirque des Rêves

Some in the crowd smile knowingly, while others frown and look questioningly at their neighbors. A child near you tugs on her mother’s sleeve, begging to know what it says.

The Circus of Dreams, comes the reply. The girl smiles delightedly.

Then the iron gates shudder and unlock, seemingly by their own volition. They swing outward, inviting the crowd inside.

Now the circus is open.

Now you may enter.

Part I

PRIMORDIUM

The whole of Le Cirque des Rêves is formed by series of circles. Perhaps it is a tribute to the origin of the word circus, deriving from the Greek kirkos meaning circle, or ring. There are many such nods to the phenomenon of the circus in a historical sense, though it is hardly a traditional circus. Rather than a single tent with rings enclosed within, this circus contains clusters of tents like pyramids, some large and others quite small. They are set within circular paths, contained within a circular fence. Looping and continuous.

—FRIEDRICK THIESSEN, 1892

A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.

—OSCAR WILDE, 1888

Unexpected Post

NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 1873

The man billed as Prospero the Enchanter receives a fair amount of correspondence via the theater office, but this is the first envelope addressed to him that contains a suicide note, and it is also the first to arrive carefully pinned to the coat of a five-year-old girl.

The lawyer who escorts her to the theater refuses to explain despite the manager’s protestations, abandoning her as quickly as he can with no more than a shrug and the tip of a hat.

The theater manager does not need to read the envelope to know who the girl is for. The bright eyes peering out from under a cloud of unruly brown curls are smaller, wider versions of the magician’s own.

He takes her by the hand, her small fingers hanging limp within his. She refuses to remove her coat despite the warmth of the theater, giving only an adamant shake of her head when he asks her why.

The manager takes the girl to his office, not knowing what else to do with her. She sits quietly on an uncomfortable chair beneath a line of framed posters advertising past productions, surrounded by boxes of tickets and receipts. The manager brings her a cup of tea with an extra lump of sugar, but it remains on the desk, untouched, and grows cold.

The girl does not move, does not fidget in her seat. She stays perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap. Her gaze is fixed downward, focused on her boots that do not quite touch the floor. There is a small scuff on one toe, but the laces are knotted in perfect bows.

The sealed envelope hangs from the second topmost button of her coat, until Prospero arrives.

She hears him before the door opens, his footsteps heavy and echoing in the hall, unlike the measured pace of the manager who has come and gone several times, quiet as a cat.

There is also a  …  package for you, sir, the manager says as he opens the door, ushering the magician into the cramped office before slipping off to attend to other theater matters, having no desire to witness what might become of this encounter.

The magician scans the office, a stack of letters in one hand, a black velvet cape lined with shockingly white silk cascading behind him, expecting a paper-wrapped box or crate. Only when the girl looks up at him with his own eyes does he realize what the theater manager was referring to.

Prospero the Enchanter’s immediate reaction upon meeting his daughter is a simple declaration of: Well, fuck.

The girl returns her attention to her boots.

The magician closes the door behind him, dropping the stack of letters on the desk next to the teacup as he looks at the girl.

He rips the envelope from her coat, leaving the pin clinging steadfastly to its button.

While the writing on the front bears his stage name and the theater address, the letter inside greets him with his given name, Hector Bowen.

He skims over the contents, any emotional impact desired by the author failing miserably and finally. He pauses at the only fact he deems relevant: that this girl now left in his custody is, obviously, his own daughter and that her name is Celia.

She should have named you Miranda, the man called Prospero the Enchanter says to the girl with a chuckle. I suppose she was not clever enough to think of it.

The girl looks up at him again. Dark eyes narrow beneath her curls.

The teacup on the desk begins to shake. Ripples disrupt the calm surface as cracks tremble across the glaze, and then it collapses in shards of flowered porcelain. Cold tea pools in the saucer and drips onto the floor, leaving sticky trails along the polished wood.

The magician’s smile vanishes. He glances back at the desk with a frown, and the spilled tea begins seeping back up from the floor. The cracked and broken pieces stand and re-form themselves around the liquid until the cup sits complete once more, soft swirls of steam rising into the air.

The girl stares at the teacup, her eyes wide.

Hector Bowen takes his daughter’s face in his gloved hand, scrutinizing her expression for a moment before releasing her, his fingers leaving long red marks across her cheeks.

You might be interesting, he says.

The girl does not reply.

He makes several attempts to rename her in the following weeks, but she refuses to respond to anything but Celia.

*

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER, once he decides she is ready, the magician writes a letter of his own. He includes no address, but it reaches its destination across the ocean nonetheless.

A Gentlemen’s Wager

LONDON, OCTOBER 1873

Tonight is the final performance of a very limited engagement. Prospero the Enchanter has not graced the London stage in some time, and the booking is for a single week of performances, with no matinees.

Tickets, though exorbitantly priced, sold out quite quickly, and the theater is so packed, many of the women keep their fans at hand to flutter against their décolletage, warding off the heavy heat that permeates the air despite the autumnal chill outside.

At one point in the evening, each of those fans suddenly becomes a small bird, until flocks of them loop the theater to uproarious applause. When each bird returns, falling into neatly folded fans on their respective owners’ laps, the applause only grows, though some are too stunned to clap, turning fans of feathers and lace over in their hands in wonder, no longer at all concerned about the heat.

The man in the grey suit sitting in the stage-left box does not applaud. Not for this, nor for a single trick throughout the evening. He watches the man upon the stage with a steady, scrutinizing gaze that never wavers through the entire duration of the performance. Not once does he raise his gloved hands to clap. He does not even lift an eyebrow at feats that elicit applause or gasps, or the occasional shriek of surprise, from the rest of the rapt audience.

After the performance has concluded, the man in the grey suit navigates the crush of patrons in the theater lobby with ease. He slips through a curtained door leading to the backstage dressing rooms unnoticed. Stagehands and dressers never so much as glance at him.

He raps on the door at the end of the hall with the silver tip of his cane.

The door swings open of its own accord, revealing a cluttered dressing room lined with mirrors, each reflecting a different view of Prospero.

His tailcoat has been tossed lazily over a velvet armchair, and his waistcoat hangs unbuttoned over his lace-edged shirt. The top hat which featured prominently in his performance sits on a hatstand nearby.

The man appeared younger on the stage, his age buried under the glare of the footlights and layers of makeup. The face in the mirrors is lined, the hair significantly greying. But there is something youthful in the grin that appears as he catches sight of the man standing in the doorway.

You hated it, didn’t you? he asks without turning away from the mirror, addressing the ghostly grey reflection. He wipes a thick residue of powder from his face with a handkerchief that might once have been white.

It is a pleasure to see you too, Hector, the man in the grey suit says, closing the door quietly behind him.

You despised every minute, I can tell, Hector Bowen says with a laugh. I was watching you, don’t try to deny it.

He turns and extends a hand the man in the grey suit does not accept. In response, Hector shrugs and waves his fingers dramatically in the direction of the opposite wall. The velvet armchair slides forward from a corner packed with trunks and scarves while the tailcoat floats up from it like a shadow, obediently hanging itself in a wardrobe.

Sit, please, Hector says. It’s not as comfortable as the ones upstairs, I’m afraid.

I cannot say I approve of such exhibitions, the man in the grey suit says, taking off his gloves and dusting the chair with them before he sits. Passing off manipulations as tricks and illusion. Charging admission.

Hector tosses the powder-covered handkerchief onto a table littered with brushes and tins of greasepaint.

Not a single person in that audience believes for a second that what I do up there is real, he says, gesturing in the general direction of the stage. "That’s the beauty of it. Have you seen the contraptions these magicians build to accomplish the most mundane feats? They are a bunch of fish covered in feathers trying to convince the public they can fly, and I am simply a bird in their midst. The audience cannot tell the difference beyond knowing that I am better at it."

That does not make it any less frivolous an endeavor.

These people line up to be mystified, Hector says. I can mystify them easier than most. Seems a waste to let the opportunity pass by. Pays better than you might think, as well. Can I get you a drink? There are bottles hidden around here somewhere, though I’m not entirely sure there are glasses. He attempts to sort through the contents of a table, pushing aside piles of newspapers and a birdless birdcage.

No, thank you, the man in the grey suit says, shifting in his chair and resting his hands on the handle of his cane. I found your performance curious, and the reaction of your audience somewhat perplexing. You were lacking in precision.

Can’t be too good if I want them to believe I’m as fake as the rest of them, Hector says with a laugh. I thank you for coming and suffering through my show. I’m surprised you even turned up, I was beginning to give up hope. I’ve had that box reserved for you the entire week.

I do not often decline invitations. Your letter said you had a proposition for me.

I do, indeed! Hector says, striking his hands together in a single sharp clap. I was hoping you might be up for a game. It has been far too long since we’ve played. Though first, you must meet my new project.

I was under the impression that you had given up on teaching.

I had, but this was a singular opportunity I could not resist. Hector walks over to a door mostly hidden by a long, standing mirror. Celia, dearest, he calls into the adjoining room before returning to his chair.

A moment later a small girl appears in the doorway, dressed too nicely for the chaotic shabbiness of the surroundings. All ribbons and lace, perfect as a shop-fresh doll save for a few unruly curls escaping her braids. She hesitates, hovering on the threshold, when she sees that her father is not alone.

It’s all right, dearest. Come in, come in, Hector says, beckoning her forward with a wave of his hand. This is an associate of mine, no need to be shy.

She takes a few steps closer and executes a perfect curtsey, the lace-trimmed hem of her dress sweeping over the worn floorboards.

This is my daughter, Celia, Hector says to the man in the grey suit, placing his hand on the girl’s head. Celia, this is Alexander.

Pleased to meet you, she says. Her voice is barely more than a whisper, and pitched lower than might be expected from a girl her size.

The man in the grey suit gives her a polite nod.

I would like you to show this gentleman what you can do, Hector says. He pulls a silver pocket watch on a long chain from his waistcoat and puts it on the table. Go ahead.

The girl’s eyes widen.

You said I was not to do that in front of anyone, she says. You made me promise.

This gentleman is not just anyone, Hector replies with a laugh.

You said no exceptions, Celia protests.

Her father’s smile fades. He takes her by the shoulders and looks her sternly in the eye.

This is a very special case, he says. Please show this man what you can do, just like in your lessons. He pushes her toward the table with the watch.

The girl nods gravely and shifts her attention to the watch, her hands clasped behind her back.

After a moment, the watch begins to rotate slowly, turning in circles on the surface of the table, trailing its chain behind in a spiral.

Then the watch lifts from the table, floating into the air and hovering as though it were suspended in water.

Hector looks to the man in the grey suit for a reaction.

Impressive, the man says. But quite basic.

Celia’s brow furrows over her dark eyes and the watch shatters, gears spilling out into the air.

Celia, her father says.

She blushes at the sharpness of his tone and mumbles an apology. The gears float back to the watch, settling into place until the watch is complete again, hands ticking the seconds forward as though nothing had happened.

Now that is a bit more impressive, the man in the grey suit admits. But she has a temper.

She’s young, Hector says, patting the top of Celia’s head and ignoring her frown. This is with not even a year of study, by the time she’s grown she will be incomparable.

I could take any child off the street and teach them as much. Incomparable is a matter of your personal opinion, and easily disproved.

Ha! Hector exclaims. Then you are willing to play.

The man in the grey suit hesitates only a moment before he nods.

Something a bit more complex than last time, and yes, I may be interested, he says. Possibly.

Of course it will be more complex! Hector says. "I have a natural talent to play with. I’m not wagering that for anything simple."

Natural talent is a questionable phenomenon. Inclination perhaps, but innate ability is extremely rare.

She’s my own child, of course she has innate ability.

You admit she has had lessons, the man in the grey suit says. How can you be certain?

Celia, when did you start your lessons? Hector asks, without looking at her.

March, she answers.

What year, dearest? Hector adds.

This year, she says, as though this is a particularly stupid question.

Eight months of lessons, Hector clarifies. At barely six years of age. If I recall correctly, you sometimes start your own students a bit younger than that. Celia is clearly more advanced than she would be if she did not have natural ability. She could levitate that watch on her first try.

The man in the grey suit turns his attention to Celia.

You broke that by accident, did you not? he asks, nodding at the watch sitting on the table.

Celia frowns and gives him the tiniest of nods.

She has remarkable control for one so young, he remarks to Hector. But such a temper is always an unfortunate variable. It can lead to impulsive behavior.

She’ll either grow out of it or learn to control it. It’s a minor issue.

The man in the grey suit keeps his eyes on the girl, but addresses Hector when he speaks. To Celia’s ears, the sounds no longer resolve into words, and she frowns as her father’s responses take on the same muddled quality.

You would wager your own child?

She won’t lose, Hector says. I suggest you find a student you can tolerate parting with, if you do not already have one to spare.

I assume her mother has no opinion on the matter?

You assume correctly.

The man in the grey suit considers the girl for some time before he speaks again, and still, she does not comprehend the words.

I understand your confidence in her ability, though I encourage you to at least consider the possibility that she could be lost, should the competition not play out in her favor. I will find a player to truly challenge her. Otherwise there is no reason for me to agree to participate. Her victory cannot be guaranteed.

That is a risk I am willing to take, Hector says without even glancing at his daughter. If you would like to make it official here and now, go right ahead.

The man in the grey suit looks back at Celia, and when he speaks she understands the words once more.

Very well, he says with a nod.

He made me not hear right, Celia whispers when her father turns to her.

I know, dearest, and it wasn’t very polite, Hector says as he guides her closer to the chair, where the man scrutinizes her with eyes that are almost as light and grey as his suit.

Have you always been able to do such things? he asks her, looking back at the watch again.

Celia nods.

My  …  my momma said I was the devil’s child, she says quietly.

The man in the grey suit leans forward and whispers something in her ear, too low for her father to overhear. A small smile brightens her face.

Hold out your right hand, he says, leaning back in his chair. Celia immediately puts out her hand, palm up, unsure of what to expect. But the man in the grey suit does not place anything in her open palm. Instead, he turns her hand over and removes a silver ring from his pinkie. He slides it onto her ring finger, though it is too loose for her slim fingers, keeping his other hand around her wrist.

She is opening her mouth to state the obvious fact that the ring, though very pretty, does not fit, when she realizes that it is shrinking on her hand.

Her momentary glee at the adjustment is crushed by the pain that follows as the ring continues to close around her finger, the metal burning into her skin. She tries to pull away but the man in the grey suit keeps his hand firmly around her wrist.

The ring thins and fades, leaving only a bright red scar around Celia’s finger.

The man in the grey suit releases her wrist and she steps back, retreating into a corner and staring at her hand.

Good girl, her father says.

I will require some time to prepare a player of my own, the man in the grey suit says.

Of course, Hector says. Take all the time you need. He pulls a gold band from his own hand and puts it on the table. For when you find yours.

You prefer not to do the honors yourself?

I trust you.

The man in the grey suit nods and pulls a handkerchief from his coat, picking up the ring without touching it and placing it in his pocket.

I do hope you are not doing this because my player won the last challenge.

Of course not, Hector says. I am doing this because I have a player that can beat anyone you choose to put against her, and because times have changed enough to make it interesting. Besides, I believe the overall record leans in my favor.

The man in the grey suit does not contest this point, he only watches Celia with the same scrutinizing gaze. She attempts to step out of his line of sight but the room is too small.

I suppose you already have a venue in mind? he asks.

Not precisely, Hector says. I thought it might be more fun to leave a bit of leeway as far as venue is concerned. An element of surprise, if you will. I am acquainted with a theatrical producer here in London who should be game for staging the unusual. I shall drop a few hints when the time comes, and I am certain he will come up with something appropriate. Better to have it on neutral ground, though I thought you might appreciate starting things on your side of the pond.

This gentleman’s name?

Lefèvre. Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre. They say he’s the illegitimate son of an Indian prince or something like that. Mother was some tramp of a ballerina. I have his card somewhere in this mess. You’ll like him, he’s quite forward-thinking. Wealthy, eccentric. A bit obsessive, somewhat unpredictable, but I suppose that is part and parcel of having an artistic temperament. The pile of papers on a nearby desk shifts and shuffles until a single business card finds its way to the surface and sails across the room. Hector catches it in his hand and reads it before handing it to the man in the grey suit. He throws wonderful parties.

The man in the grey suit puts it in his pocket without so much as glancing at it.

I have not heard of him, he says. And I am not fond of public settings for such matters. I will take it under consideration.

Nonsense, the public setting is half the fun! It brings in so many restrictions, so many challenging parameters to work around.

The man in the grey suit considers this for a moment before he nods.

Do we have a disclosure clause? It would be fair, given my awareness of your choice of player.

Let’s have no clauses at all beyond the basic rules of interference and see what happens, Hector says. I want to push boundaries with this one. No time limits, either. I’ll even give you first move.

Very well. We have an agreement. I shall be in touch. The man in the grey suit stands, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Celia.

Celia bobs another perfect curtsey, all the while regarding him with wary eyes.

The man in the grey suit tips his hat to Prospero and slips out the door and then out of the theater, moving like a shadow onto the busy street.

*

IN HIS DRESSING ROOM, Hector Bowen chuckles to himself while his daughter stands quietly in a corner, looking at the scar on her hand. The pain fades as quickly as the ring itself, but the raw red mark remains.

Hector takes the silver pocket watch from the table, comparing the time to the clock on the wall. He winds the watch slowly, regarding the hands intently as they swirl around the face.

Celia, he says without looking up at her, why do we wind our watch?

Because everything requires energy, she recites obediently, eyes still focused on her hand. We must put effort and energy into anything we wish to change.

Very good. He shakes the watch gently and replaces it in his pocket.

Why did you call that man Alexander? Celia asks.

That’s a silly question.

It’s not his name.

Now, how might you know that? Hector asks his daughter, lifting her chin to face him and weighing the look in her dark eyes with his own.

Celia stares back at him, unsure how to explain. She plays over in her mind the impression of the man in his grey suit with his pale eyes and harsh features, trying to figure out why the name does not fit on him properly.

It’s not a real name, she says. "Not one that he’s carried with him always. It’s one he wears like his hat. So he can take it off