The Night Circus: Part I

Then the iron gates shudder and unlock, seemingly by their own volition.

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.

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.

“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.”

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

She wonders each night if perhaps he will not return, but he always stumbles in at unseemly hours, sometimes petting her gently on the head while she pretends to be asleep, other times ignoring her entirely.

Celia’s shoulders fall, releasing the tension that has knotted in them, her relief palpable as she draws herself safely together.

One afternoon, he returns to his old town house, thinking perhaps it would not be an imposition to call on his instructor for something as simple as tea, but the building is abandoned, the windows boarded.

“Some readers do not like other people touching their cards,” Marco explains, recalling details from his divination lessons as he gently lifts the deck.

“And I would not want to be presumptuous.”

Only after she genuinely faints during a session, rather than perfectly executing the choreographed dramatic swoon, does he relent to a respite at their home in New York.

The dartboard hangs precariously on a wall in the study, between tall bookcases and ornately framed oil paintings.

A single sentence, that reads thusly: “M. Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre continues to push the boundaries of the modern stage, dazzling his audiences with spectacle that is almost transcendent.”

Additional copies have been filed elsewhere for posterity and safekeeping, as the desk copies often meet such gruesome fates while Chandresh agonizes over every word.

Bailey turns right at the end of the passage, and finds himself in a row of tents, each with a door and a sign advertising its contents, FLIGHTS OF FANCY, reads one; ETHEREAL ENIGMAS, another.

Bailey turns right at the end of the passage, and finds himself in a row of tents, each with a door and a sign advertising its contents, FLIGHTS OF FANCY, reads one; ETHEREAL ENIGMAS, another.

The decor in the dining room (or rooms, depending on the size of the event) is as extraordinary as it is in the rest of the house, in sumptuous reds and golds with art and artifacts from across the globe displayed on every available surface.

Everything is lit with glowing chandeliers and copious candles, so that the light is not bright but deep and warm and bubbling.

She is a fiend for aesthetics with an eye for fashion that is both unique and coveted, and provides her with a sizable income since her retirement from the ballet.

However, it is a business matter, and I find those to be best discussed on a full stomach, so we shall save the official discourse for after dessert.

They show only fragments of ideas: a ring of tents, a central promenade.

Mr. A. H— does not move, his expression inscrutable and unchanged.

It is merely in conceptual stages, and that is why I ask you all here now, for the inception and development.

What it needs is style, panache. Ingenuity in its engineering and structure. To be infused with the mesmerizing, and perhaps a touch of mystery.

There are long, earnest letters filled with genuine despair.

Those in particular Celia crumples into balls, placing the crushed missives on her open palm one by one and concentrating until they burst into flame, leaving nothing but cinders on her hand that she brushes away into nothingness.

It is a flowing waterfall of alchemical and astrological symbols, ancient marks for planets and elements all emblazoned in black ink upon her fair skin.

Tsukiko is a consummate performer. She adds the perfect flourishes, holds positions and pauses for the ideal amounts of time.

Although she twists her body into unimaginable and painful-looking positions, her beatific smile remains in place.

“This is the precise flavor that the circus should be. Unusual yet beautiful. Provocative while remaining elegant. This is kismet, her coming here tonight. We simply have to have her, I will not accept anything less. Marco, get this lady a chair.”

Some constraints as to size (but still rather large), and it is to be painted solely in black and white and shades of grey. Beyond that, the construction and embellishment is up to him. Artistic license, Mr. Barris says.

The letter is accompanied by another exorbitant amount of money, enough for Herr Thiessen to retire comfortably if he wished.

“Number twenty-three,” he says, before descending a small set of stairs near the proscenium and hovering by the edge of the front row, pen poised over his open notebook.

“After all of your pontificating about the contortionist?”

No need to see a bunch of suits with capes when we’ve already found something far more interesting. Quite attractive, too, I should think, if one’s predilections run in that direction.

“Indeed, sir,” Marco says, a blush creeping into his pallor.

The arguments over Bailey’s future began early and occur frequently, though at this point they often devolve into repetitive phrases and tense silences.

It was one of their grandmother’s requests disguised as a suggestion, one which seemed innocuous enough, that Caroline attend Radcliffe College.

Concentrating on that comforting fact, he climbs up past the bottom branches he was relegated to years ago, past the branches claimed by his sister and her friends.