Thousands of miles away, in a crowded theater that thunders with applause for the man onstage, hidden in the shadows formed between disused pieces of scenery backstage, Celia Bowen curls herself into a ball and cries.
It is destroying me that I cannot ask you to dance,” Marco whispers as she passes by him in the ballroom, the deep green of his suit seeping across her gown like moss.
There is a stag in the snow. Blink and he will vanish. Was he a stag at all or was he something else? Was he a sentiment hanging unspoken or a path not taken or a closed door left unopened?
Only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats upon is dark black ink. Tiny lights hang across the sky, like tightly packed stars bright as sun. “I thought something vast would be nice after all the talk of confined spaces,” Marco says. 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.
Every element of the circus blends together in a wonderful coalescence. Acts that have been training in separate countries on separate continents now perform in adjacent tents, each part melding seamlessly into a whole. Each costume, each gesture, each sign on each tent is more perfect than the last.
This is the precise flavor that the circus should be. Unusual yet beautiful. Provocative while remaining elegant.
Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that... there are many kinds of magic, after all.
There are many kinds of magic, after all.
A language you cannot speak yourself is not necessarily a god-awful mess,” Celia says, transcribing a line of symbols into her notebook.
Time is a peculiar thing. You’ll learn that eventually.
Dorian smiles and Zachary wonders how you can miss someone’s smile when you’ve only seen it once before.
He keeps notebooks full of symbols and glyphs, working through his old notes and finding new elements to consider. He carries smaller volumes with him at all times, transcribing them into larger ones once they are filled.
We lead strange lives, chasing our dreams around from place to place,” Elizabeth says quietly, looking out the window.
It’s funny how that works. How for so long a single year of difference matters and then after a certain point a year is nothing.
The stories of a place are not easily contained.
Besides,” Friedrick continues, “you must be asked such things constantly. I find I am more interested in learning about the woman than the magician. I hope that is acceptable.” “It’s perfect,” Celia says.
Perhaps she herself is a page that was torn from a story and folded into a star and thrown in the shadows to be forgotten. Perhaps she should not steal books from hidden archives only to rip out their pages and then, give them away. But it is too late to change any of that now. And a beloved book is still beloved even if it was stolen to begin with. And imperfect. And then lost.
How is it better?” Celia asks. “How is anything better than anything else here? How is one tent comparable to another? How can any of this possibly be judged?” “That is not your concern.” “How can I excel at a game when you refuse to tell me the rules?
Everything is lit with glowing chandeliers and copious candles, so that the light is not bright but deep and warm and bubbling.
The painter spends her time in solitude and contemplation categorizing losses and regrets trying to determine if there was ever anything she could have done to prevent any of them or if they simply passed through her life and out again like waves upon a shore.