The Night Circus: Part III

The members of the ensemble that plays odd but melodic and danceable tunes in the ballroom are bedecked in suits of red velvet.

Mme. Padva attends, after some coercion by Chandresh, gloriously adorned in golden silks embroidered with red filigree, crimson feathers in her white hair.

Their mother admonishes that the content of said tales may not be entirely appropriate for a pair of just barely thirteen-year-olds, but Mme. Padva continues on unfazed, glossing over only the most sordid of details that Widget can read in the sparkle of her eyes even if she does not speak them aloud.

Their mother admonishes that the content of said tales may not be entirely appropriate for a pair of just barely thirteen-year-olds, but Mme. Padva continues on unfazed, glossing over only the most sordid of details that Widget can read in the sparkle of her eyes even if she does not speak them aloud.

Mr. A. H— moves along the periphery, going mostly unnoticed and speaking with only a few of the other guests, including Mr. Barris, who introduces him to Herr Thiessen.

Several people pester Celia to perform. While at first she refuses, late in the evening she relents, pulling a bemused Tsukiko to the middle of the dance floor and making her disappear in the blink of an eye despite the crowd around them.

Guests move in flocks of color from the ballroom through the halls and the library, a constantly shifting rainbow punctuated with laughter and chatter. The mood remains boisterous and bright even into the earliest hours.

A bevy of guests wanders into the hall from the dining room, sending the cascade of rose petals adrift once more.

Bailey spends much of the early part of this evening with Poppet and Widget exploring the Labyrinth. A dizzying network of chambers, interspersed with hallways containing mismatched doors.

Bedtime Stories
Eventide Rhapsodies

Anthologies of Memory

“Let’s play hide-and-seek,” Poppet suggests, and Bailey agrees before she unbuttons her coat and leaves it on a frozen bench, her white costume rendering her all but invisible.

Flames burn low in the gilded fireplace, the tall bookcases stuffed with curios and relics loom in shadow.

He is mildly surprised that there is no discernible filing system. No labels on boxes. The contents of the office are orderly, but not clearly organized.

Chandresh cannot decipher any of it, cannot even tell if the marks are broken into words or simply continuous strings of motifs.

The pages of the book are covered with similar markings, though predominantly they hold other things. Bits of paper culled from other documents.

The later pages hold the names of the original conspirators, though one name is conspicuously absent, and another has been removed.

“I will not let you do this to me,” Chandresh says, picking up the brandy bottle from the desk and brandishing it in front of him.

I must remain here, and I must continue with this nonsense, as you so aptly put it.

Before he leaves for the night, arms laden with suitcases and rolls of blueprints, Marco places a full bottle of brandy and a glass on the table next to Chandresh’s chair.

Thoughts that might have drifted away on waves of brandy otherwise remain intact in his head, confirmed and secured by a diaphanous magician.

Too much white and people assume they are wedding gowns, too much black and they become heavy and dour.

I am an old woman with a lot of money and no heir; they are well- coiffed vultures.

I find avant-garde ballet companies to occupy his theaters.

The drafting table by the windows is all but hidden in the meticulously ordered chaos of papers and diagrams and blueprints.

He looks the same; I think it is an echo, his consciousness retaining the semblance of a physical form. But he lacks solidity and it vexes him terribly.

He looks the same; I think it is an echo, his consciousness retaining the semblance of a physical form. But he lacks solidity and it vexes him terribly.

Celia walks to the edge of the deck, running her hands along the spines of the books that form the rail. A soft breeze plays with her hair, bringing with it the mingling scent of dusty tomes and damp, rich ink.

The sound of his name on her tongue is even more intoxicating than he had imagined, and he leans in to taste it.

The pain ebbs slightly when Celia kneels next to him and takes his hand.

And then he tells her stories. Myths he learned from his instructor. Fantasies he created himself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines.

Bailey sits next to her, still facing the field and the incorrigible sheep.

She had laughed through her lessons, much preferring her cards. They seemed so straightforward in comparison, despite their myriad meanings.

“The smallest charms can be the most effective,” Isobel says, taken aback when her voice catches, almost on the brink of tears.

Isobel stops, holding her breath. Expecting some repercussion, some result from the action.

He walks leisurely, with a calm, almost lazy gait.

The kitten that leaps through the air from Poppet’s hands to her brother’s suddenly twists in the air, landing on its back rather than its feet and rolling toward Widget with an indignant howl.

“I don’t care if you don’t understand that. Staying here won’t make me happy. It will make you happy because you are insipid and boring, and an insipid, boring life is enough for you. It’s not enough for me. It will never be enough for me. So I’m leaving. Do me a favor and marry someone who will take decent care of the sheep.”

“Did you not use enough of your concealment techniques, even after ingratiating yourself with Chandresh to control the venue?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, repeating it in a litany over her sobs until she calms, the tension easing in her shoulders as she relaxes into his arms.

She finishes her tentative tour around the room and rejoins Marco in the doorway, pulling the door closed softly behind her.