“This way I can help you.”
Marco hesitates, glancing down at his books. His thoughts remain preoccupied with the image of the girl from the theater.
“It will help you be closer to the circus,” Isobel continues, “and it will give me something to do for the duration of your challenge. When it’s done I can come back to London.”
“I’m not even certain how the challenge is going to work,” Marco says.
“But you’re certain that I can’t stay here during it?” she asks.
Marco sighs. They have discussed it before, not in any great detail, but enough to establish that when the game began, she would have to leave.
“I am already so busy working for Chandresh, and I will need to focus on the competition without … distraction,” he says, using his instructor’s choice of word, from an order disguised as a suggestion. He is not certain which option bothers him more: involving Isobel in the game or relinquishing the one relationship in his life that has not been dictated for him.
“This way I wouldn’t be a distraction, I’d be helping,” Isobel says. “And if you’re not supposed to have help, well, I’d only be writing you letters, what’s wrong with that? It seems like a perfect solution to me.”
“I could arrange for you to meet with Chandresh,” Marco suggests.
“You could … convince him to hire me, couldn’t you?” Isobel asks. “If he needs convincing?”
Marco nods, still not entirely certain about the idea but almost desperate for some kind of strategy. A tactic to use in dealing with his newly revealed opponent.
He turns her name over and over in his mind.
“What is Prospero’s daughter named?” Isobel asks, as though she can tell what he is thinking.
“Bowen,” Marco says. “Her name is Celia Bowen.”
“It’s a pretty name,” Isobel says. “Is something wrong with your hand?”
Marco looks down, surprised to find that he has been holding his right hand in his left, unconsciously stroking the empty space where a ring was once burned into his skin.
“No,” he says, picking up a notebook to occupy his hands. “It’s nothing.”
Isobel seems satisfied with the response, lifting a pile of fallen books from the floor and stacking them on the desk.
Marco is relieved that she does not have the skill to pull the memory of the ring from his mind.
You step into a bright, open courtyard surrounded by striped tents.
Curving pathways along the perimeter lead away from the courtyard, turning into unseen mysteries dotted with twinkling lights.
There are vendors traversing the crowd around you, selling refreshments and oddities, creations flavored with vanilla and honey, chocolate and cinnamon.
A contortionist in a sparkling black costume twists on a platform nearby, bending her body into impossible shapes.
A juggler tosses globes of black and white and silver high into the air, where they seem to hover before falling again into his hands, his attentive spectators applauding.
All bathed in glowing light.
The light emanates from a large bonfire in the center of the courtyard.
As you walk closer, you can see that it sits in a wide black iron cauldron, balanced on a number of clawed feet. Where the rim of a cauldron would be, it breaks into long strips of curling iron, as though it has been melted and pulled apart like taffy. The curling iron continues up until it curls back into itself, weaving in and out amongst the other curls, giving it the cage-like effect. The flames are visible in the gaps between and rising slightly above. They are obscured only at the bottom, so it is impossible to tell what is burning, if it is wood or coal or something else entirely.
The flames are not yellow or orange, but white as snow as they dance.
Hidden Things
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 1902
T he arguments over Bailey’s future began early and occur frequently, though at this point they often devolve into repetitive phrases and tense silences.
He blames Caroline
Marco hesitates, glancing down at his books. His thoughts remain preoccupied with the image of the girl from the theater.
“It will help you be closer to the circus,” Isobel continues, “and it will give me something to do for the duration of your challenge. When it’s done I can come back to London.”
“I’m not even certain how the challenge is going to work,” Marco says.
“But you’re certain that I can’t stay here during it?” she asks.
Marco sighs. They have discussed it before, not in any great detail, but enough to establish that when the game began, she would have to leave.
“I am already so busy working for Chandresh, and I will need to focus on the competition without … distraction,” he says, using his instructor’s choice of word, from an order disguised as a suggestion. He is not certain which option bothers him more: involving Isobel in the game or relinquishing the one relationship in his life that has not been dictated for him.
“This way I wouldn’t be a distraction, I’d be helping,” Isobel says. “And if you’re not supposed to have help, well, I’d only be writing you letters, what’s wrong with that? It seems like a perfect solution to me.”
“I could arrange for you to meet with Chandresh,” Marco suggests.
“You could … convince him to hire me, couldn’t you?” Isobel asks. “If he needs convincing?”
Marco nods, still not entirely certain about the idea but almost desperate for some kind of strategy. A tactic to use in dealing with his newly revealed opponent.
He turns her name over and over in his mind.
“What is Prospero’s daughter named?” Isobel asks, as though she can tell what he is thinking.
“Bowen,” Marco says. “Her name is Celia Bowen.”
“It’s a pretty name,” Isobel says. “Is something wrong with your hand?”
Marco looks down, surprised to find that he has been holding his right hand in his left, unconsciously stroking the empty space where a ring was once burned into his skin.
“No,” he says, picking up a notebook to occupy his hands. “It’s nothing.”
Isobel seems satisfied with the response, lifting a pile of fallen books from the floor and stacking them on the desk.
Marco is relieved that she does not have the skill to pull the memory of the ring from his mind.
You step into a bright, open courtyard surrounded by striped tents.
Curving pathways along the perimeter lead away from the courtyard, turning into unseen mysteries dotted with twinkling lights.
There are vendors traversing the crowd around you, selling refreshments and oddities, creations flavored with vanilla and honey, chocolate and cinnamon.
A contortionist in a sparkling black costume twists on a platform nearby, bending her body into impossible shapes.
A juggler tosses globes of black and white and silver high into the air, where they seem to hover before falling again into his hands, his attentive spectators applauding.
All bathed in glowing light.
The light emanates from a large bonfire in the center of the courtyard.
As you walk closer, you can see that it sits in a wide black iron cauldron, balanced on a number of clawed feet. Where the rim of a cauldron would be, it breaks into long strips of curling iron, as though it has been melted and pulled apart like taffy. The curling iron continues up until it curls back into itself, weaving in and out amongst the other curls, giving it the cage-like effect. The flames are visible in the gaps between and rising slightly above. They are obscured only at the bottom, so it is impossible to tell what is burning, if it is wood or coal or something else entirely.
The flames are not yellow or orange, but white as snow as they dance.
Hidden Things
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 1902
T he arguments over Bailey’s future began early and occur frequently, though at this point they often devolve into repetitive phrases and tense silences.
He blames Caroline
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