Change of Plans

Marie dithered, trying to imagine where to start. Breaking down the circus was usually an event that required some forewarning and preparation, and naturally Colette's unrivaled talent at bossing people around and issuing orders. How would they even get off the ground, if the ringmaster didn't know they were supposed to be moving? She decided, for starts, that she ought to check on Colette, just in case the ringmaster were feeling a bit better...

“How's she doing?” she asked the stage hand who was leaning against the door.

He shrugged. “The crashing's mostly stopped. The yelling comes and goes. What's going on?”

“The policeman says that if we leave there'll be no one to get in trouble, but that means we need to leave.”

The stage hand groaned. “Packing up already, really?” He paused, thinking of the huge amounts of work that entailed, then smiled. “Hey, if Colette still needs watchin', I could just stay here...”

“Lazy,” Marie said, privately thinking wishing she'd thought of it herself. “I'll just go in and tell her.”

“Your funeral,” the stage hand smiled broadly and stepped aside with a dramatic gesture.

Marie rolled her eyes. When they stayed with the circus long enough, even the roustabouts got to thinking they were performers. She brushed past him and opened the door.

“Colette? Asmodeus has spoken with the police, and they decided that we ought to leave tonight, so we're going to...” She didn't finish; a tea cup soared past her head, and she ducked to narrowly avoid it and quickly shut the door again. Colette seemed to have an endless arsenal of the things.

Marie smoothed her skirt. “Well then.” she said. The stage hand sniggered, and she shot him her best death glare. “I'll just go round everyone else up, then. I guess you can stay put.”

He took up his spot leaning against the door again and fished a cigarette out of his pocket, looking infinitely pleased with himself. Marie scowled and took off.

Tom Sry was easy enough to find – he was already supervising the collapsing of the big tent, having caught on that it was time to go. The noise was spectacular; he saw Marie from his perch on top of a ladder and gave a thumbs up, and Marie decided that it was safe to assume that Tom was on top of things. She whispered a private prayer to any listening supernatural forces that she wasn't stuck pulling up stakes and coiling ropes, and set off to inform the rest of the circus.

She headed back to Alexandra's cabin first, letting herself in without bothering to knock. Alexandra was seated at her little table with a tea cup sitting in front of her, ignored in favor of the glass of absinthe in her hand. She looked rather the worse for wear after the morning's drama, and so did her cabin – the cards were still scattered everywhere, and Marie had to side step little bits of broken china. She settled with her hands on her hips, glaring disapprovingly at the fortune teller and her drink.

“Is everyone getting drunk this morning?” she snapped. “We're leaving today. I'm going around to tell everyone, and then I guess I'll come back and help clean this up.” She pivoted and walked out in a huff before Alexandra could get in a word in.

She continued darting around the circus, waking some of the late-sleeping other acts to let them in on the news. Tom Sry seemed to be on top of things – the big tent was still creaking steadily down, and some of the stable kids were rounding up the horses. Once she'd told the story, the performers all seemed glad to rouse themselves enough to pack. By the time she'd made the lap of the campground, there was only one cabin Marie hadn't visited, and the place was buzzing with activity as everyone got ready for the unexpected departure with minimal grumbling – for much of the Cirque, avoiding the attention of the law was worth changing their afternoon plans. But Marie still wasn't convinced they'd be able to get off the ground with Colette out of commission; her ship usually lead, and she didn't really seem to be of the inclination to take off any time soon.

She bit her lip, pondering the problem, when she knocked on Marguerite's door, put off til last out of long habit of avoidance. Marguerite opened the door after far fewer knocks than some of the other acts – she, apparently was not one to oversleep, despite an equally long night of playing nurse after the fight.

“Um... sorry to bother you, but...” Marie began, fidgeting before she settled into the story. “See, Jacques wanted the police to get us in trouble because of the fight, but Asmodeus has fixed it so that we can just leave tonight and have no trouble at all, but Colette's had something of a fit and doesn't really seem all that eager to leave. So I was wondering if perhaps you could, um, fix it so that we can get off the ground without her minding.” She blurted all of this in a rush, and then put on her best charming smile and fidgeted some more. It was fun to get to boss the other performers around, but Marie would have preferred pulling up tent stakes to asking a terrifying mad scientist to maybe drug her intimidating employer.

In Which Asmodeus Encounters an Old Friend

The light of day played across Asmodeus’ dusty cabin, reaching across the window sill, past the darkly upholstered settee, and onto the richly tapestried rugs. Slowly it crept across the old wooden floor boards to caress the cracked leather of the carven armchair, strategically positioned in the center of the room at the large oak worktable. A slight breeze whispered incessantly outside the cabin, punctuated by the songs of birds without and a soporific wheezing within.

The cause of this noise was the current occupant of the armchair. A very rumpled Asmodeus lay sprawled across the seat, one leg stretched across the armrest, the other hooked over the chair’s back, with his head lolled back over the other armrest, the sun tickling his face, causing him to stir in his sleep; in his left hand, reaching down to rest upon the rug, an empty wine bottle.

A sharp rapping suddenly came from beyond the cabin door. It was a constant rapping; the kind of repetitive pounding that usually evokes images of angry mobs or relations. To Asmodeus, it evoked hundreds of mallets playing The Anvil Chorus, syncopated, in his skull. He awoke in this state with a start, rolling head first out of his seat, a close encounter with the table leg setting more empty bottles clattering against one another, tumbling and rolling to shatter upon the floor. The pounding continued.

Asmodeus dragged his body from the floor, one hand initially planted on the sturdy table for support, the other, decanter included, clutching his throbbing forehead. He staggered a few uneasy steps to the love seat, bracing himself upon its back. “Look, I’m coming. Lay off it!” he wanted to shout, though truthfully the best he could manage was some unintelligible mutterings.

Marie heard a crash, then a scuffing sound, accompanied with incoherent mumbling, gradually becoming louder and closer. The latch jiggled briefly, Asmodeus seeming to have an unusually difficult time mastering the complex operation of opening a door. Finally, the lock slid out of position, and the door swung slowly open with a hard ‘click’.

Marie retreated a step, grimacing in fright at the disheveled and haggard creature teetering before her. His clothes still bore the marks of blood, soil, and smoke as a testament to the night’s melee. His shirt, equally stained, was left open, flapping like a thing alive, looking to escape. Greasy hair reached out in several directions at once, crowning a drawn visage that peered out at her through bleary eyes squinting at the newfound sunshine. With one arm stretched out to push against the jamb, Asmodeus propped his back against the other side of the frame, looking down at the waif but not really seeing her. After blinking several times, and wetting his lips, he spoke. “Wassit, who?”

Marie recovered from her surprise, and cocked an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Mmm…”

“Asmodeus, we’re in a bit of a fix.”

Asmodeus head drooped, and he let out a long groan. “Why so early?”

“It’s almost noon,” Marie replied directly. She looked him over, and sighed. “You look worse for wear.”

Asmodeus shot her a grin, and tossed his head, the hair flailing about him, landing mostly in front of his face. “Am I pretty now?”

“Hardly, but that’s beside the point. You see, Colette’s been throwing things, and yelling, and Alexandra yelled back, and Tom picked her up, not Alexandra but Colette, he’s very strong, you know…” Asmodeus, at this point, rolled his eyes to the heavens and shuffled back to his table, Marie two steps behind him, slamming the door absentmindedly behind her, inducing a severe wince out of Asmodeus.

“…though he doesn’t look it, I guess that’s why the stagehands look up to him and all, but anyway a messenger boy came with a letter for the ringmaster…” Maybe more wine will help my head, thought Asmodeus, as he searched the intact bottles around the table, lifting this one and that with a firm shake, every time disappointed of his desire, tossing the useless bottles dejectedly aside.

“…which is Colette, and I know I shouldn’t have, but since she’s locked in her room, I tore it open and read it, and now the police chief’s coming, and we need someone to smooth things over with him, and I came to ask you, because you’re usually very good with people...”

Asmodeus’ eyes lit up as he plucked a bottle from the floor, its precious contents still intact, albeit in a diminished quantity. Marie raced around the table, hands braced, a look of intensity chiseled on her face as she stared up at Asmodeus. “Have you even heard a word I’ve said?!”

Asmodeus shut his eyes tight, motioning her to calm down. “Yes, yes, of course. Do you have to shout? What’s so important, what?”

It had been a hectic morning. Marie had run across the circus several times, been involved in stressful situations, and now was facing the one person she felt could rectify the situation… and he was incapacitated. It was too much, too fast.

Asmodeus tilted the bottle back towards his lips but it never made it there. Quick as thought, Marie snatched it from his grasp, draining what was left of the ruby liquid in a single draught before shoving it back into Asmodeus’ fumbling hands. He stared crestfallen at the now-empty vessel clutched in his fingers.

Marie’s eyes were alight, and every syllable dripped from her voice like a lead weight. “Now look. This is how it stands. It has been a very trying morning, and we have a serious problem, and I have come to the one person who I feel is, at present, capable of handling things. I will not allow anything to happen to this cirque; my friends and family. If your wit is half as nimble as those fingers of yours, then I suggest you clean yourself up and greet the chief of police when he arrives. Agreed?”

Asmodeus set the bottle down on his work table, and rubbed a pensive hand across his chin. They were a sort of family, after all. “Well, if that’s how you feel abou… wait, what chief of police?”

Marie let out an exasperated sigh. “I already told you. The Paris police department sent a letter. The police chief is coming here today, and he wants to meet with Colette.”

Asmodeus rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was far too early for this. “Okay, then. Where’s Colette?”

“In her cabin.”

“Why doesn’t she meet with the authorities?”

Marie threw herself into the armchair. “Trust me, we do not want that.”

“Oh?”

“Jacque will be there.”

Suddenly Asmodeus understood. “Oh.” He slid down into a nearby chair. “I’m really wishing you’d let me have that drink.”

Marie hopped up and, taking his hands, dragged Asmodeus from his seat. “No time for that now. You’ve got to make yourself presentable. In the meantime, I’ll keep watch for this police chief.” And she skipped out the door, letting it slam shut behind her, leaving Asmodeus to cringe in pain in solitude.
****
A very rumpled suit laid spread out on the bed of the ship’s cabin when Asmodeus walked out onto the deck, fastening his second cuff link in place. A sharp whistle caught his attention and his head whirled around to see Marie, perched not too far away on a nearby ship’s rigging. She hung upside down, legs wrapped up in the ropes of the balloon, her arms free to wave frantically about, which they did. She pointed insistently across the field to a pair of figures making their way hastily across the grounds. One was in a long frock, spectacles gleaming from beneath the brim of a bowler; Jacque had returned. He had one arm around a large man in a crisp dark uniform, the epaulettes identifying him as the head of police in Paris, the other arm pointing straight at Colette’s cabin. Asmodeus snatched his cane from where it leant against the railing, and hopped down to intercept the two.

The first thing he noticed was a thick Irish brogue, reminiscent of a time long past. “Well, sir, which cabin is it again?”

Jacque’s arm pointed again to Colette’s dwelling. “It’s that one right there,” he sneered, and his footsteps hastened as he steered the officer in the direction of his outstretched finger.

He had only gone two steps when an elbow seemed to materialize from the air, taking his breath and his balance. As Jacque toppled to the grass, clutching his ribs, Asmodeus slid into his place, simultaneously throwing his arm about the chief’s shoulders, steering him in a full one-eighty before he knew it. “Ah, the voice of a fellow countryman. Bless me but it’s pleasing to hear your voice, constable.”

The big man frowned, marked only by the contraction of his thick eyebrows and the sudden droop of his bushy red moustache, which threatened to consume, not just his mouth, but the entire lower half of his care-worn face. The moustache wriggled as a sound, like stones grating together, emanated from it. “Sir, you have me mistaken, to call me countryman. The Empire had no love for me; didn’t want me. I have no love for it.”

Asmodeus’ lips cracked into his typically mischievous grin, as he replied, “Well, then, what do you suppose I’m doing here myself?”

Jacque had recovered his composure, and his upright stance, and catching up to the two, interjected, “Causing trouble, that’s what these hooligans are doing!” A second jab of the mighty elbow cut short any further outburst.

“So constable,” Asmodeus continued, jovially, “what brings you to our lovely shanty town? Come for tea? We have this fortuneteller, brews up the most amazing tea you’ve ever tasted. And then she can tell you how you’ll die after you drink it!”

“Well, actually…”

Jacque’s head floated in between those of Asmodeus and the chief, and chimed in, “The prevote and I were on our way to discuss certain damages, and repayments…” His comment dissolved into a look of anguish. Jacque had deftly avoided the infamous elbow, but received a well placed foot quite squarely. Asmodeus continued.

“Repayments? For our hospitality? Certainly! How about I buy you a drink?”

“Um…”

“My treat; no arguments. Bet you can hold your own at the pub, eh constable?” Asmodeus nudged the giant playfully in the side, augmented by a sly wink.

The police chief glowered, and rose to his full height, if it’s possible to imagine the Colossus of Rhodes getting bigger. “Sir, I don’t know why you insist on calling me constable, but I am Patrick O’Brady, the prevote for the Prefecture of Police of the city of Paris, second only to the prefect himself. I am here on official business, and I must speak with your ringmaster. Immediately.”

This last word was spoken with such insistence that Asmodeus shuddered in spite of himself. He would have been nervous being stared down by such an imposing figure, but something about the man’s name struck a bell in his memory. Asmodeus decided to take a chance, and asked, “You seem like a man who knows how to handle himself. I’m guessing you’ve spent time in Her Majesty’s armed forces?”

Patrick threw him a side-long glance, and merely grunted a reply, as if to affirm Asmodeus’ suspicion. Asmodeus persisted in his interrogation. “You’ve no doubt been involved in the Moorish invasions of India, defending Kashmir?”

At this quite specific insight, O’Brady’s brows lurched up onto his forehead. “How did you know that?”

“Do you remember a certain night, when your regiment rendezvoused with Godwin’s Light Horse Regiment in a small café outside of town? It was a pretty crazy evening, so you might have some trouble recalling it.”

Patrick’s eyes grew wide, and his scowl dissolved into a beaming smile. “Asmodeus,” he cried, embracing him in a vice grip that would have injured a lesser man. “You old bastard, how the hell are you? I thought for sure you’d be dead by now.”

“Still very much alive, though not for Fate’s attempting.”

Jacque stood a few paces off, arms crossed. “This reunion is touching, but we really do need to speak with Colette. Don’t we, Prevote?”

Patrick frowned slightly and sighed. “He’s right. I have a duty to perform.”

“Well,” Asmodeus responed, “maybe I can assist you in that endeavor. For you see, I am currently the spokesman for our cirque.”

Jacque arched an eyebrow. “You? What of Colette? I’d really rather speak with her.”

“She is currently indisposed. In the meantime, you will be dealing with me. That is, Prevote, if that is acceptable with you?”

Patrick shrugged his shoulders, hands spread before him. “I have no qualms. Let’s get to business. We’re…”

“Here because of allegations of violence voiced by a certain shady performer standing near at hand?” Asmodeus interrupted, glancing at Jacque.

“You have it precisely. Further, he says he has witnesses.”

I’ll bet he does, the snake, Asmodeus mused to himself. Aloud, he commented, “Patrick, I know you have a job to do; keeping the streets of Paris safe. I wish for no less. I’ll only say that this man has been instigating the encounters, beginning by disobeying an unwritten code of honor among our kind.”

Patrick stiffened at the word ‘honor’. He was a man who lived by his code of honor, as was Asmodeus to an extent. He understood what it meant when another breaches these ethics; what measures were required. “I see. And you, too, have witnesses?”

“Naturally, and my word, as a gentleman, a man of action, and your friend that we did only what was necessary.”

O’Brady scratched his head in indecision. “Well, you know I believe you, but I’m afraid there are still the allegations. There needs to be an investigation, a report; there’s a procedure I can not violate.”

Asmodeus reached into his waistcoat pocket, drew forth a small bundle of bills, and laid it in the Prevote’s palm. “Perhaps this will help you find a way past the bureaucracy?”

Jacque’s jaw hung slack, mind groping to put thought to word. After a moment’s sputtering, he exclaimed, “But, Prevote, that money rightfully belongs to me and my circus. These people are thieves!”

A wicked grin briefly stole across Asmodeus’ face at the mention of ‘thieves’, but was replaced with a look of solemnity just as fast. “If you check our bookkeeping, you will see everything is in order. This money was honestly earned by last night’s sales. This is my share, and should help to cover any damages and inconveniences we have caused, with a little extra for you, Patrick.”

O’Brady looked at the bribe in his hand, weighing it both physically and mentally. He looked at Jacque, seeing a look of hungry anticipation as to the Prevote’s response. At length, he took a deep breath, and said, “You know, Asmodeus, if there’s no circus to investigate, there’s no investigation.”

Asmodeus gave him a knowing look, and extended his hand. “That seems like sound logic. It was good to see you again.”

Patrick took his old friend’s hand and shook it heartily. “Maybe we’ll have that drink one day, under better circumstances.” The Prevote turned and left, Jacque trailing after, spouting protestations to deaf ears.

Asmodeus stood amidst the bustle of the cirque for a moment, watching the two leave, then turned around and almost tripped over Marie, who had crept up unnoticed during the preceding discussion. She peeked past Asmodeus. “You never told me you were in India.”

Asmodeus tousled her hair as he walked past, which he did often. “You never asked.”

Marie fell in step with him. “I guess that explains a few things. Still, giving away money like that isn’t like you.”

“True enough, but he’s a friend. Also, I neglected to mention how I found twice that amount in the pockets and purses of the show’s attendants.” At that, he merely smiled and patted his other waistcoat pockets. He continued, “I guess you heard how it is?”

Marie nodded. “Do we really have to leave already?”

“I’m afraid so. Go spread the news to the others.”

Asmodeus’ footsteps steered him toward his ship to begin preparations for departure.

Tom Sry Picks Up Colette

Marie didn't need telling twice; she scrambled to her feet and took off without even thinking to stop and figure out where Tom might be. Fortunately, the stage manager was never hard to find; this early in the morning, he was in the dining tent having breakfast with the other stage hands, sprawled back in his seat in the way he did when he was pondering just where to start giving orders the moment everyone finished their toast and coffee.

He looked up when Marie burst into the tent, and was on his feet before she reached him.

"Alexandra needs help," Marie gasped. "I think Colette's gone mad, she's throwing teacups everywhere."

It was an incomplete summary, but Marie figured it best not to mention plots of murder over the breakfast table - Lord knew how fast THAT gossip would spread, and she knew not a few stage hands who would think it a great plan - and Tom didn't seem to need more information. "Come on then," he said, and started jogging back across the circus grounds with Marie dashing to keep up behind him.

The commotion in Alexandra's cabin hadn't settled at all, though the sound of shattering objects had been by and large replaced with Alexandra yelling at Colette to calm down and Colette just yelling. Tom opened the door and strolled inside as casually as though he were going in for tea. "Now there, sir, what's this?" he said.

Colette spun on him and opened her mouth to answer, probably at ear-breaking decibels, but before she could Tom picked her up about the waist and swung her over his shoulder. He was a rather big young man, and lifting irate ringmasters was hardly the worse he'd dealt with in his years with the cirque. Colette twisted and threatened physical harm and unemployment if he didn't let her go that very instant, but Tom seemed unbothered; he tipped his hat to Alexandra and to Marie, hovering in the doorway, and started for Colette's cabin.

"Marie, go fetch one of the other lads," he instructed. Marie ran off back to the dining tent.

By the time she had run off to the dining hall, grabbed the nearest stage hand and talked him away from his coffee, Tom had returned Colette to her cabin, and was leaning against the door, apparently blissfully undisturbed by the pounding sound from the other side.

"She'll wear herself out, but it can't hurt to have someone keepin' an eye," Tom said, nodding at the other stage hand, who raised an eyebrow for further explanation, and sighed and took up a spot by the door when none was forthcoming.

"Now then," Tom said, steering Marie away from Colette's cabin. "Let's go check on Miss Arista, and on the way you can tell me what happened."

Before Marie could explain, however, they were interrupted by a kid in a messenger's uniform, who walked past them, whistling, on his way to Colette's cabin. Marie hurried over to slide in front of him.

"Good morning!" she chirped, as pleasantly as she could manage on hardly any sleep and an early-morning crisis. "Can I help you?"

"Message from the chief of police," the boy said importantly, holding out a folded piece of paper. "For the ringmaster."

"I can take it for her," Marie said, snapping it out of his hands before he could protest. He narrowed his eyes skeptically, then shrugged and tipped his hat, heading on his way.

"Should you be doin' that...?" Tom Sry started to ask, but Marie had already ripped the envelope open. She couldn't read terribly well, but it didn't take very much at all for her to catch the gist that it was not good news. She folded it back up and dithered a moment. "Tom, go check on Alexandra," she said, and hurried off towards Asmodeus's cabin. The door was locked; it only occurred to her to start knocking after she'd checked, and she did so enthusiastically, pounding on the door.

The Truth is in the Cards

A shrill whistling broke the peace of the clear morning. Alexandra, wrapped in a patchwork silk robe, uncurled herself from the large winged arm chair she was sitting in. She ambled over to a brass contraption that sat next to her small furnace. It looked like an hourglass, with the two bulbs separated by a thick disk of fine mesh and metal. She removed the lid from the device and swung a pipe from the water reservoir of the furnace to the top glass bulb above. She turned the dial and steaming water poured from the pipe and into the bulb. Once it was filled, Alexandra turned off the water, pushed the pipe back to the wall and put the lid back on her contraption. The metal disc held a mesh basket of tea that she had prepared the night before. And when the tea had steeped for the appropriate amount of time, Alexandra turned a knob on the side of the metal disc and the bottom plate shifted to open holes that allowed the tea to flow into the bottom bulb. Taking a heavy stoneware mug from a cabinet, she placed it under a spout at the base of the bulb, turned the handle and let it fill the mug full of steaming, strong black tea.

Alexandra sighed, breathing in the steam and allowing it to ease the slight tension in her head from a hint of a hangover from the party the night before. When her eyes fell on the overflowing basket of pile of mending her sigh of relaxation shifted to one of resignation. The show from the night before had been terribly damaging to the costumes and every single one in the basket was singed or scorched. Dragging the basket to her overstuffed armchair, Alexandra once again curled up in it and began to carefully patch a scorched skirt.

A sudden, loud clatter came from the entrance as her ship door was violently thrown open and Colette staggered through the heavy curtains that hung on the inside of the door frame. When Alexandra saw the ringmaster’s grayish skin and the dark circles around her eyes, she jumped out of her chair. “Colette! What’s wrong?” As the fortune teller ran to Colette’s side she could smell the alcohol on her friend’s breath as well as the lingering smell of smoke and sweat.

Colette grabbed Alexandra’s shoulders and hung on, shaking her friend. “Tell me that everything will go back to normal! Tell me that whatever I do, everything will be alright!”

“What are you talking about?” The fortune teller pushed her friend away.

“Tell me what would happen if I…” Colette paused and swallowed. Alexandra has a sinking feeling that she knew what the ringmaster was about to ask. Ever since the Hirondelle showed up in Orleans, the ring master had been on edge. She was usually calm and in control, and she certainly didn’t break down after shows or turn to drink to soothe her nerves. Alexandra knew all of this trouble centered on Jacque, the great rival of the Cirque de la Vapeur.

Alexandra understood Colette’s mind well after working closely together for five years and knew that she would do anything, absolutely anything to protect her circus. Even if it meant doing something drastic, such as killing the one who had caused all of the trouble: Jacque.

“Colette!” Alexandra cried, “I won’t do that for you. You know I can’t do that. I can’t tell you the future; it’s too unpredictable. It changes every second with every minute decision. There’s no way of knowing for certain what will happen if you take a particular action.”

“Then what use is fortune telling anyway? ” Colette said bitterly.

Alexandra froze, rage began to rise in her chest, her eyes locking with the ring master’s. “Don’t tempt me, Colette. I could let you glimpse in my world and what I see. And believe me, you don’t want me to do that,” her voice dropped to a low, harsh whisper. “I know what you want to do and even without looking into the future I know that it will end in eventual failure. One by one, the performers will leave and the cirque will fall apart.”

“No! Jacque is the reason we’re struggling so. He won’t stop until he’s destroyed everything that I’ve built, everything I… love. You don’t realize what he’s capable of.” Colette seemed on the verge of helpless sobs as she spoke, “He’s already killed my brother. Don’t you understand, Alex? I have to finish this.”

Alexandra’s rage grew icy and faded suddenly at her friend’s words. Colette had a brother? She was in shock at the revelation. And Jacque was responsible for his death? She must have been part of the Hirondelle once, then. Alexandra saw the anguish on her friend’s face. Her voice softened as she spoke, “It won’t change a thing, Colette! Killing Jacque will not make a difference.”

“It has to. I’m going to do this, Alex… I just have know it will make things better.” The ringmaster stepped back from the fortuneteller, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her hands to her face.

Closing her eyes, Alexandra shivered. What could she do? Colette wouldn’t listen to her. The ringmaster needed proof that what she wanted to do would only bring more pain. The fortune teller stiffened her back; she knew Colette trusted the cards. Alexandra would do anything to keep the Cirque from being destroyed, even if the only way to make her believe was to do a full card reading. “Very well,” she said, resigned to what she had to do, “I’ll use the cards and read them for you.”

Alexandra turned away from Colette and walked to one of the shelves that lined the wall and took down her piquet deck. Of all the tools that she used in fortune telling, Alexandra found the piquet deck to be the clearest when it came to questions of personal matters. Motioning for Colette to take a seat at the small wooden tea table, Alexandra sat across from her and removed from cards from their knitted pouch. She shuffled them once, allowing herself to relax as she felt the thin leaves slide through her fingers. Fanning the cards, she picked out the queen of spades, a woman in confusion, to represent Colette and placed it in the center of the table.

“Take the cards and shuffle them as you think of your question,” Alexandra instructed her friend. “Then cut the cards with your left hand and place the right hand pile on top of the other and hand it to me.”

Colette did so, a nervous yet determined on her face. The fortune teller took the top card from the deck and set it face down below the queen of spades and placed the card from the bottom of the deck above the queen. Alexandra then handed the cards back to the ringmaster, “Cut them again with your left and place the right hand pile on top of the other and give them to me.”

Alexandra continued this pattern, taking the top and bottom cards, placing them around the queen of spades in an ever widening spiraling star then handing the deck back to Colette. Only when twenty two cards in total had been placed on the table did the fortune teller take the deck and place it next to her on the table. She had chosen the great star pattern which was the clearest of the predicting spreads. The outer ring of cards showed the external results based on the question, while the inner ring showed what was internally influencing to her.

Steeling herself to what she knew would happen next, Alexandra flipped over the two cards at the top of the star. Immediately, she felt a low hum began at the base of her spine. Alexandra kept her voice as even as possible as she revealed to Colette the meaning of the cards. “The cards along the outer ring of the star reveal what with happen in the world based on your question. A knave of spades and an ace of hearts, an action you take will bring peace of mind and liberty for you but will eventually bring disgrace.”

Alexandra continued to flip over cards in pairs, reading their meaning to Colette, “Seven of clubs and seven of spades, the action you take will leave you with moral consolation but fraught with anxiety. Ace of diamonds and seven of diamonds, but this action will also bring good news. Knave of hearts and seven of hearts, and you will continue to be surrounded by faithful allies. Ten of diamonds and nine of spades, but soon troubles in business force you to move far away. Ten of spades and ace of spades, by then you will have grief, sorrow and death following you. Ten of hearts and queen of clubs, this loss will be caused by an old rival. King of clubs and eight of clubs, and that person who brings failure will be one you expected.”

As Alexandra had been reading, the hum climbed slowly up her back until it began to pound insistently in the back of her skill. She took a deep shuddering breath, gathering her strength to reveal the last four cards. “These last cards represent who drives you to this fate. Knave of clubs and queen of diamonds, it is a dangerous rival who is also a great obstacle. Eight of diamonds and king of hearts, and this man is brings difficulty in business and personal matters.”

The fortune teller’s voice hung in the air for a moment, the last echoes of her reading. After a few minutes of heavy silence, she rose with a swish of skirts and fetched two teacups from the sideboard, filling them from the intricate little kettle and setting them on the table. Colette nodded her thanks, taking the cup and breathing in the steam for a moment. It smelled sweet and dark, and she took a fortifying sip before speaking. “So. Things will not get better.”

“At first, they’ll seem to. But, eventually… I’m sorry. No. They won’t.”

Colette folded her hands in her lap, clenching her fingers tightly. The cards were chilling to say the least; before her lay a future of ruin and despair. The cirque would be over. Everything she’d worked for would be snatched from her. But if Jacque lived, he’d ensure the same result…

“Damned if I do, damned if I…” She broke off the phrase midway through, her mind slowly running through possibilities. “I suppose… it is the only way.”

Alexandra looked alarmed. More than simply surprised, she appeared ashen and pale, almost ill. “You can’t, Colette. Look at what will happen!” She gestured with a hand to the star pattern of cards that still lay ominously on the table.

“We will be ruined either way, Alexandra. Jacque will see to that—or I will. At least if I do, he will be dead, and cannot hurt my family. He’s already caused me too much pain. He deserves to die. Auréle will have his vengeance, and if it keeps Jacque from killing again…” She hesitated and bit her lip. “I would rather go to prison or to my own death than see him kill again. I have lost so much already, Alexandra. Jacque has taken my brother from me, and I won’t let him take my family.”

The woman looked back at her dangerously, trying to ignore the almost blinding pain that continued to creep through her skull. “You are being a fool, Colette. I’ve read for you what you asked and if you do this thing, the demise of the cirque will be completely on your shoulders. Jacque wants to destroy us? Let him try. We will hold him off. Don’t give him the satisfaction of damning the Cirque yourself.”

“He’s too powerful. This is the only way. I’m sorry.”

Alexandra rose from the table, hands bracing against the surface; she seemed almost to struggle to her feet. “I won’t let you do this, Colette.”

Colette looked at her with a hard expression and reached behind her back under the tails of her coat. From a sheath at the small of her back, she drew a plain but sharp silver knife. “I took this off my brother’s corpse. If you think you can stop me, you don’t know me at all.”

Without a second’s hesitation, Alexandra had lunged around the table and was reaching for the blade. Colette tripped back slightly, raising the knife to keep it out of Alexandra’s reach. As the blonde woman tried to wrap her slim hand around Colette’s, blade brushed her fingers and drew a line of blood as thin as a paper cut. Colette swore, and Alexandra clutched at her hand tightly, her eyes darkening before rolling slightly back in her head. She fell backwards, blindly clutching onto the chair. The fortune teller seemed to glow with a fiery rage, and in a surprising display of strength, she ripped the knife from Colette’s hand and jammed the blade halfway through the little tea table. Colette retreated abruptly, holding her hands out, torn between retreating entirely and aiding her friend, who looked almost possessed by some evil.

Alexandra opened her eyes slowly, her gaze focused on the ring master. “You will not leave this cabin, Colette.”

“I have to finish this, Alexandra. He killed my brother! Don’t you understand?”

“How do you know?”

“I saw the body!”

“How do you know he was murdered?”

Colette froze. “I… I just… know.”

Alexandra drew in a shaky breath, steadying herself and trying to clear her head from the vision that still flashed before her eyes. “You’re wrong.”

Colette shook her head frantically in denial. “No. No, no, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Alexandra slapped her palm against the table. “And you don’t know what happened! Your brother’s death was an accident.”

“You can’t know that. It isn’t true!” Colette reached for the knife, jerked on the handle, and found that the blade was stuck fast.

“It is, Colette, and you have to listen to me—Jacque didn’t kill your brother.”

Colette screamed wordlessly, ripping at the knife again, and upon finding it impossible to withdraw, picked up her teacup and threw it against the cabin wall.

“You are lying!”

Alexandra stood her ground and matched the ring master in volume. “I saw it, Colette, I saw what happened. Auréle was drinking and he climbed to the top platform of trapeze to think. He fell, Colette. Jacque was no where near your brother. He just fell.”

“No!” The ringmaster shrieked in denial, grabbing the other teacup off the table and throwing it at the wall as well.

Alexandra fled the ceramic shrapnel, darting to the door as Colette raged behind her, hurling anything within arm’s reach as sobs ripped from her throat.

Alexandra threw the door open and was not at all surprised to see Marie sitting on the steps that led up to the carriage, fidgeting with her hands and undoubtedly waiting for the argument to die down so she could enter her quarters.

Alex thundered down at her with the last strength she possessed, “Get. Tom. Now,” before disappearing back inside with a slam and a flurry of skirts.

Mad Marguerite

After enjoying a few drinks, Marguerite left the post-show festivities. As much as she enjoyed the revelry, she had had enough of crowds for one day. She returned to Alexandra’s show tent, her temporary home while the circus was grounded, dropping her lab coat on her current bed of blankets and pillows. It felt strange to be in a place so quiet, her usual abode filled with the noises of her animals. So, when a metallic click sounded outside the tent wall, Marguerite hitched up her skirts, tucking them into her belt. She was not about to be caught off guard so near to Vapeur’s successful prank.

Two hushed male voices circled the tent, their footsteps light. Marguerite stood near the entrance. When their voices neared the gap between the curtains, Marguerite stepped outside to see Alphonse and Hyacinth, the acrobat twins from Hirondelle. They each held a lit torch, and smelled like the concoction she had brewed for their circus.

Before they could even recognize her, Marguerite punched one of them, grabbing his torch as he fell and using it to hit the other one upside the head. She grabbed the other torch and kicked the two of them until both had ceased crawling and instead curled around themselves.

“Good evening, messieurs,” she said. “I trust you are well?”

“Crazy bitch!” One of them said. Marguerite hit him with a torch. The blow landed on the back of his head. He screamed and clutched at the singed base of his skull.

“Good to hear,” she continued. “If you will please see yourselves out, now, I’m afraid I’m quite tired, and not up for any further entertaining tonight.”

She dropped the torches on each of them. They screamed and rolled about, putting out the flames on the torches before it could spread to their own clothes. Marguerite thought it a shame that they did not catch fire, but she was pleased when they scrambled to their feet, casting back fearful and angry looks in her direction. They were out of her sight within moments.

Her hands shook. She took a moment to collect herself before inspecting the tent. She smelled oil, and spotted a canister of it at the back of the tent. Thankfully, her torch brandishing had not caught on anything.

A wave of shouting carried across the circus grounds.

“What now?” She said, wondering what further trouble the twins and their lot were causing Vapeur.

She ran in the direction of the shouts, noticing along the way that some people were busy putting out fires. Not about to start playing with that again, she continued to follow the louder noises, which began to include scuffling feet as more circus members came out to see what was happening.

Cirque de la Vapeur’s stagehands were fighting with Hirondelle’s. Marguerite could only imagine that those were the men who she could smell from where she stood on the brawl’s outskirts. Some of the other circus members of Vapeur were trying to pull the men apart, while others joined in. More fires ringed the area, and Marguerite recognized Colette’s cabin on the opposite side of the clearing in time to see her charge into the fray.

“The fire!” Marguerite heard Colette scream. “Put it out, or we’re all going to die!”

Smoke burned Marguerite’s eyes. She threw herself at the nearest pair of fighting men and drew them away by their collars.

“Fools, tend the fire!” Once she had their attention, she added, “Stop the others and get them to the fires! Go!” One of the men nodded, picking another pair to stop the fight between. The other ran off, and Marguerite wished she knew the stagehands better, so that she could have kicked the Hirondelle men some more. Soon enough, the fighting died down and the fires were put out. Some small shouting matches continued, and whenever she heard them, Marguerite swooped down and twisted their ears until they had quieted.

The moon peeked through clouds of smoke, and Marguerite wondered if she would ever be rid of the smells of ash. The unwanted fires were dimming, and soon gone entirely. Stagehands lurched by, nursing wounds at varying levels of severity. Tom Sry approached, his own face bruised over one eye, but the man he supported looked worse.

“I’ve got some boys need patching up, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Put them in the dining tent. I’ll be with them shortly.” Marguerite did not think this was the time to bring it up, but she wanted to ask Colette if she would eventually receive a bonus for her medical help.

Marguerite fetched a basic medical kit from her belongings, then made her way to the makeshift hospital. There were no life-threatening injuries, although many men would likely have scars. Marguerite took a deep breath.

“Get out if you can walk and are not bleeding,” she said, repeating the instruction as she walked through the area, taking stock of the injuries she would need to treat first. Once the room had cleared of all uninjured except for Tom and a few others who insisted they would help, Marguerite directed that minor cuts be cleaned and covered, then sent on their way. She then began to treat those that needed sutures and a few who needed their noses, jaws, hands, and fingers set from fractures. Many of the stagehands flinched when she treated them. She did not speak to them or respond to their protests of pain, but cleaned them up and moved on. She wanted to get out of clothes that smelled like fire again, and to sleep. These men griped and yelped at her every move, and when they were not making noise of protestation, they were bantering. She wanted them to be quiet for a change, especially after she heard one of them refer to her as Mad Marguerite.

“Your bedside mannerisms are atrocious,” one of the men said. He had tried to tell her a joke, and she had ignored him. Marguerite turned her head to look at him, her eyes narrowed and her fist clenched.

“Monsieur, I assure you that the treatment you are receiving is adequate. Your limbs are still attached, you have not been strapped to a table, nor have you been sedated with anything more flavorful than alcohol. I will excuse your own stupidity for engaging in fisticuffs with less than sanitary gentlemen, but if you insist on insulting your caregiver, I will see to it that you are immobilized for no less than the length of our next excursion.”

The man who spoke wisely ceased his previous action, instead holding out his wound so that its sluggish bleeding was cleaned and bandaged by Marguerite. Their talk unnerved her. What they said made sense, even if she could tell that some of it was said out of nervousness, adrenaline, or shock. They responded to her care, and were alert or chatting with each other while she tended to them. They also called to her attention her less than warm personality outside her profession. The movement of the circus was alien to her actions, which were normally done in quiet rooms on starched sheets with the occasional solitary doctor or nurse waiting for Marguerite to finish her shift.

Tending to sane, living people left Marguerite more drained than she had anticipated after her already long day. When her work was finished, and the stagehands as fixed as they were going to be for the night, Marguerite packed her things and returned to her tent. She collapsed on top of her lab coat, not caring about the ash any more, and slept.

Tom Sry is on the Job

The grounds were clearing and Tom Sry's boys were already getting the big tent closed up. Tom Sry supervised, hands shoved in his trouser pockets. Really, he liked supervising. Not that he minded climbing up in the rigging and getting it all set up and safe, but really it was nicer to trade the undershirt for a snazzy waistcoat and bowler and watch everyone go, periodically yelling orders. The show had gone well, the crowd was all happy and willing to empty their pockets as they drifted out past the side shows, and it promised to be a pleasant night of drinking and singing and sleeping til noon the following day just as soon as the clean-up was done.

He saw some movement in the corner of his eyes and frowned, turning around. One of the boys sneaking off before the work was done? He opened his mouth to shout, then closed it again, squinting into the shadows. Not one of his boys, he could tell at a distance. For one thing, his boys were sneakier.

He followed the man he'd seen around the back of the main tent, along the edge of the circus grounds where it hit the trees. There was definitely someone there - several someone, actually, talking a bit more loudly than would have been appropriately sneaky about explosives and the placement thereof. The noise of the crowds and the clean up was enough to cover the conversation to the casual listener, but anyone actually paying attention could tell that they were up to something from a mile off.

Tom Sry tip-toed back to where his boys were working and whistled softly. They looked surprised to have the last bit of clean up interrupted, but gathered quickly - twenty or so gentlemen, of varying ages.

"Gents," Tom said, in a lowish voice that still carried across the group. "We 'ave some unwelcome visitors lurking 'bout the cirque. They're planning on circling the perimeter and planting things that go boom. Let's go say hello, shall wee?"

The stage hands nodded and, after a few brief moments of murmured discussion, split off and began to slink towards the outskirts of the circus grounds. Tom watched them leave, all drawing knives and other toys, then followed as well towards where he'd first noticed the gang. He heard an explosion rip through the noise of the cirque and the chorus of yelling that followed, and picked up his pace, face breaking into a grin. The evening promised to be more interesting than he'd thought.

Showdown

The after-party was still raging in the common area that ringed the small kitchen, from which drinks and snacks poured freely. Tumblers cart wheeled by in celebration, and Colette snapped at them, “Save it for the show.” If the actors drunkenly injured themselves or any other performer, there’d be less celebration the following day. She sighed, rubbing her face. She didn’t mean to rain on their parade, but at the same time, she was utterly exhausted. Running the show with nothing but the power of her voice and presence took a huge toll on her and all she wanted to do was go back to her cabin and banish her demons with a nice glass of port. Or several.

The money from the night’s ticket collection clinked against her thigh, and she patted the bag that hung there before unlatching her cabin’s door. She stroked the worn doorframe as she passed through, calculating the takings in her head. They’d gained quite a patronage tonight by sabotaging the Hirondelle, though she was loathe to admit that stooping to such low tactics had worked. The question now was had they earned enough to keep afloat? They’d certainly not made as much on each ticket as they normally would have, but they’d had more customers tonight than they would have if the Hirondelle had had its way. Not that Jacque had any business being in town. She frowned as her train of thought buzzed unhappily, shed her coat and tossed it over the back of an armchair.

“Such disrespect for your costume? No wonder you always wore through seams so fast.”

Colette whirled, heart thudding in her chest at the sound of the familiar voice. “Jacque.”

The man was leaning against the wall by the door casually, little spectacles propped on the end of his nose, under which lay a neatly waxed moustache. In his hand was the little notebook where Colette kept the circus’s accounts all lined up in her neat handwriting. He was thumbing through the pages lazily and commented, “You seem to be doing quite well. I’m surprised.”

She swallowed hard, anger and fear lodged in her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“Collecting what’s rightly mine. Your man acted out of order, and I believe I am entitled to compensation. It’s only sportsmanlike.”

Colette’s hand twitched towards the moneybag, but she refrained from touching it. Instead she crossed her arms over her chest and widened her stance, tossing back, “A gentleman would not have touched down in another Cirque’s territory. You should move on and cut your losses before your reputation takes another blow.”

Jacque crossed the room swiftly. He was a thin, short man and to anyone on the street he would appear friendly, genteel and entirely harmless. With every step he took towards Colette, though, her mind receded further and Auréle’s persona ripped back through, taking over out of pure habit. Jacque was a dangerous man, a fiend and a killer. She’d always been a little frightened of him, even as a girl, but her brother had never had trouble standing up to him. Never, not even when it had gotten him into trouble. He’d always done the right thing, and now, her brother’s strength flowed through her, mixing with the tang of her coppery adrenaline and false bravado, filling her with a sense of power and control.

Jacque’s face was dark with barely repressed rage. “Yours is the reputation I’d worry about, Lettie.”

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed, wincing as he used her brother’s pet name for her. He noted this, and used it again gleefully.

“You tried to ruin me once, Lettie, and you failed then. Threw my name down on the ground in front of paying customers, in front of my staff… and you expect me to just dig up my stakes and roll out of town? I intend to burn more than just one of your pathetic airships. I am going to ruin your cirque, your name, and as for you.... I am going to bury you. After I take what you owe me.”

He held out his hand, waiting. Colette merely spat at him. “I owe you nothing but a knife in the ribs, after what you did to me. To my twin.”

“Your idiot brother’s death had nothing to do with me, Colette; we’ve discussed this. Don’t try to pin it on me so you can feel better about yourself. I won’t have it.”

Colette pushed into his space, knocking his waiting hand aside. “You killed him. You killed him!”

Jacque growled back. “I did nothing of the sort, Colette, and this pointless vendetta is going to stop, one way or another. If I have to burn your whole cirque, so help me, I will. Gladly, too. Or you can give me my earnings… and then quit. Get out of this business while you still can. It’s already taking the edge off your sanity; any fool could see that. Don’t start a war you can’t win, Colette. Because I can win, and I will, and you will be cold in the ground before I take responsibility for your damn brother.”

Colette felt something twist deep within her, and she shoved at him in senseless fury. He pushed back, whirling her swiftly and throwing her against the wall. She hit it with a slight crack of bone on wood and slid down, biting her lip to keep from whining deep in her throat like a whipped dog. He roared, anger finally bubbling over. “Don’t test my patience, Colette.” He paced in a tight circle, hands clenched and body tight as a violin’s strings. “I had little of it for you when you were a child and I have less of it now that you’ve grown. You are nothing to me but a tick on my side, and I won’t hesitate to pluck you out and set a match to you.”

Jacque broke from his stride and stooped, drawing a short knife from his belt. He reached for the moneybag looped around Colette’s waist. She grabbed at his wrist and he twisted it easily until she bared her teeth and hissed at him from where she was slumped against the wall. The leather thong sliced easily under his blade and he palmed the little bag, turning to leave.

There was a scuffling sound behind him, and he looked over his shoulder like Orpheus after Eurydice.

Only behind him there was no fair maiden, but instead a fiery woman with the devil in her eyes and a curved sword in her hand. Next to her, the umbrella stand she'd ripped it from was tipped to the floor, a bouquet of canes and parasols and a leather sheath spilling out of it.

She brandished the rapier, spitting through clenched teeth. “You are not leaving here with that money, Jacque, if I have to rip it from your dead hands.”

He glowered at her and there was a long moment of tense silence within the little room, which was dim and full of shadows and sorrow. Outside, the clink of bottles and occasional whistle of a few illicit firecrackers could be heard.

Jacque replied tersely, “Fine.” He dropped the bag and the mouth of the leather pouch burst open, spitting little silver and bronze coins across the floor in a violent spray. Colette’s eyes never wavered from his face, though he approached her, speaking in a dangerously quiet tone. “Colette, you’ve gotten yourself into some serious trouble. More than you can handle, I promise you.” There was a glimmer in his eyes. “What time is it?”

Colette made no move to answer, and so he nonchalantly pulled out a pocket watch and checked the little face. “As I expected. Had you simply turned over the money, we could have avoided this whole ugly business. All this mess.”

Colette took the bait, her face twisting with concern. “What mess?”

“The blood spilled tonight will be your fault. Remember that.” He turned with a sinister flourish, and Colette's hand shook, the sword trembling. His hand on the doorknob, he revealed his ace in the whole. “We ringed your perimeter, Colette. You took too long to give us what was rightly ours, and so, we were prepared to take it. Already, my men have moved to begin the… fireworks.”

Though he faced away from her, she could hear the triumphant smugness of his smile. “You think one burning ship causes a stir? Imagine what will ensue after thirty simultaneous infernos. You must be so pleased by your impending celebrity. I imagine it’s far more exciting than anything you’ve ever experienced with your tawdry little group.” He sighed. “Ah, Colette. It’s almost disappointing defeating you. You never did think things through.”
He dropped his head and headed out the door without another word.

He left it swinging wide behind him, open to the night sky, and Colette’s already hard-beating heart ratcheted into double time. What she’d thought to be clinking bottles of champagne and ale, and little sparkling firecrackers were actually the raging sounds of a battle being waged on the grounds. Men tumbled by brawling, hurling whatever was near to hand at their opponents, and in the dark from this distance it was impossible to tell who belonged to which troupe. It was clear though, from the little spitting fires that flared up around the campus that some kind of flammable agent had been spilled and ignited, and if they didn’t act swiftly to put it out, the whole arena might go up in flames. Colette’s eyes widened in horror, and then she was flying out the door.

Jacque had disappeared in a shimmer of silks and shadows and was nowhere to be seen. Colette’s eyes flickered left and right, dazzled by the darkness of the sky and the glimmering orange flames that licked along the ground. She turned to a nearby couple of roustabouts who were locked in a violent dance, and she dove into the brawl.

A few good right hooks worked in her favour, though she earned herself a split lip for her troubles. She spat a thin stream of blood, and then roared at the men that she had caught by the ears. One of them was her staff, and the other Jacque’s, but it didn’t matter now.

“The fire! Put it out, or we’re all going to die!”

She threw the men away from herself, and they stumbled into a breakneck run, though whether it was to warn others or to make for the edge of camp it was impossible to tell.

Colette herself ripped herself away from the pair and ran, screaming the names of her family into the night.

“Marguerite! Marguerite, Alexandra—Asmodeus, help! Please, God, help me—Asmodeus! Asmo—Auréle! Oh, Auréle.” She tripped and fell hard to her hands and knees, a dribble of blood on her face, pain and heat searing her from all sides. A sob bubbled up in her throat as the fires blinded her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, throwing her dirt-stained hands up to her face and screaming her brother’s name into them. She wasn’t made for this. This had been his dream, and it had become her nightmare.

She stayed there for almost an hour as the fight died down, roustabouts dashing to and fro, the fires sizzling and steaming as they were doused and dirt kicked over their embers. The tent had come loose on one side and the edge of the campus flapped angrily under a stiff breeze. Around her, streamers and thin lines of lights were severed and dangling; broken glass pieces littered the area and shone like little scattered diamonds. Jacque’s men had bolted and her own, bloodied and bruised, brought the rage down to a dull roar before deserting the area. Most of the staff had fled to the edges of the camp and were now creeping back, tentatively.

A few formed a nervous semi-circle around her, and she was dimly aware of many staring eyes, but was unable to rouse herself to even run back to her cabin.

A pair of familiar, strong hands reached down, took her shoulders and shook her lightly. “Come on, Colette. Let’s go.”

She leaned heavily against her friend as she was led back to her cabin. She collapsed through the door, making for the little bed tucked in one corner. Halfway across the floor, she hesitated, reaching blindly out with her left hand until her fingers groped at the welcome slim neck bottle of some unknown liquid. She fell heavily to her bed, still in her boots, and sucked at the lip of the bottle. It burned comfortingly. She took a deep draught, throat pulsing as she gulped down several mouthfuls. She coughed slightly, wiping ash off her face and smearing blood and dirt across her cheek in the process.

She took another burning swallow of the alcohol, and fell asleep with the bottle tucked into the crook of her arm.

Up in Flames

Colette descended from the rigging backstage, having double checked that her trapeze artists were secured in their costumes and ready to fly. She dusted a bit of chalk off her hands, addressing the crowd as she burst through the black curtains behind the rings.

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to fly? You've seen my daring Arab vaulters, you've marveled at my feathered friends, but you've never seen anything like this before--I present to you a family of high-flying sisters, to whom the air is but a second home."

A lone trapeze dropped slowly behind her, and she backed up a pace, sitting on it delicately, kicking her feet lightly so she swung gently back and forth. It began to rise, and two matching trapezes began to descend on either side of her. Soon, the three of them were in an even line, and on both sides she was flanked by a young woman with equally dazzling outfit and smiles.

"Ladies?" Colette held out a hand first to one, and then the other, both of whom giggled lightly. Colette grinned at the crowd, balancing delicately with her hands outstretched.

The girls tugged back and forth lightly, and her trapeze swung from side to side, at first with a gentle motion, and then more raggedly.

"Now, now, girls, is this any way to treat your employer?"

The girls laughed again, and with a little wink at the audience, pulled her entirely off the swing.

She tipped backwards, falling back until she was nearly diving at the ground, and then the thin line that ran down her back snagged in the riggings above, brought her horizontal to the ground, and brought her whizzing back above the crowd almost faster than the eye could follow. Within a few seconds, she had disappeared entirely into the dark.

The two girls continued swinging like they were in a park rather than hanging at the top of the tent, leaning back and letting go first with one hand and then with the other, dropping down to hang from their knees. Colette's middle trapeze returned, absent the ringleader, and one of the girls reached for it, releasing her knees from the first trapeze so that there was a moment of holding nothing in mid-air before she snatched the bar and pulled herself gently back to sit on it. Alisa and Lin went back and forth for a few passes in gentle competition - one letting go just a moment sooner and grabbing just a moment later, the next adding an extra flip. Marie knew that it was all choreographed, and that who would outdo who had been planned in advance, but Lin's usual intensity was still there regardless and she was almost loath to drop into it. Rolling her eyes, she slid down onto the third, empty bar, sitting on it for a moment like a swing and getting it moving back and forth while the other two struck a pose before dropping down to hang by her knees. She flung herself off it and was snatched out of the air by Lin, who whispered something to Marie before tossing her back to Alisa. The music - a cheerful tune, tinny like something on a toy piano - was picking up its pace and volume, and Marie decided to assume from the pinched look on Lin's face that it was some uninteresting criticism of her hair or posture or entrance, and thus could be ignored. Alisa caught her wrists and gently lobbed her back to the middle trapeze, and she pulled herself back up as a fourth trapeze descended, holding Lottie, who smiled broadly. The four girls now made four corners above the center of the tent, close enough together that anyone dropped would land well away from the edge of the net, so that the routine they transitioned into - with girls swinging in leaps and flips from their own trapeze to be caught by the girl adjacent, one or two at a time - was impressive but not overly dangerous.

In the middle of this routine, the ceiling mechanism began to move again, this time starting to rotating slowly so that the four trapezes circled the top of the tent, forcing the acrobats to adjust their throws and leaps, for the spot they were aiming for was not where the trapeze was when they first took off. With some more gentle creaking, another object began descending from the ceiling in the middle of the circle: A large metal ring, in which Abigale was lounging, her back resting against the curve, with one leg dangling down. One of the little mechanical birds from earlier perched on her knees and sang, its amplified, tinny voice mixing with the music from the orchestra below. It took off, flying around the tent a bit before landing on Marie's trapeze bar.

The ladies on the edges stopped throwing each other while Abigale repositioned herself in the ring. She dropped her other leg and for a moment just sat, holding nothing, leaning back a bit further than comfortable and swinging her legs in ballerina-like movements so the ring swung a bit with her. A few more more birds flew into the tent and added their voices to the music as Abigale began to climb into the ring, bracing her legs on the inside or wrapping them around the top in a series of gravity-defying poses, her back arched to match the curve of the ring. On the edges of the tent, the ladies started moving again, mimicking Abigale's slower, more stationary moves - Lin slid slowly from her seated position to dangle from the bar by one leg, and Marie hung below her bar by her arms and pulled her legs up into the splits, smiling so as not to betray to the audience how much she truly loathed this part - gracefully holding difficult poses was much less exciting than flying through the air. One of the birds landed on her outstretched leg and she mentally peppered it with profanities.

Abigale continued to manipulate the ring, with more and more impressive maneuvers, until she was hanging from the top by her arms, legs bent above her and back arched in a modified, mid-air version of a yoga pose she'd stolen from one of the contortionists. The ladies on the bars pulled themselves in slow, graceful motions to stand on to of their bars; the birds, who had been flitting around the acrobats, swooped back towards the middle of the ring.

It was a prettily put together pose, accented by a change of lighting and swell of music, and the audience clapped politely, and then were cut off with a gasp as the girls all suddenly dropped in concert; Abigale catching herself with her bent knees on the bottom of the ring, not changing her position at all except to move her arms, and the rest of the girls likewise falling back off their bars to catch themselves with their legs. Hardly a breath later, the mechanical birds exploded abruptly, and the lights darkened so that the audience could clearly see the net below, now apparently quickly catching fire.

In reality, there were two nets: what the audience saw, which was the edges of a net which burned continually through a clever trick of pyrotechnics, and the smaller net hidden below, perfectly safe (or as safe as circus things went) and not at all on fire, but tucked out of audience view. So that when the trapeze machinery began to lower, dropping the swinging and twisting acrobats closer to the flames, the audience began to shift with concern. Marie climbed back up onto her bar and jumped, apparently diving into the flames, only to be snatched out of the air by Lin, who caught her ankles and tossed her back towards the center of the tent, where Abigale, still hanging from the bottom of the ring, caught her by one arm. They held the dramatic pose for a moment - Marie dangling, limbs spread dramatically, above the fire, held precariously by the suspended Abigale. Then Abigale grabbed Marie's other arm and the act continued, with Marie flying first to Lottie while Abigale's ring lowered and she dropped herself in it, holding herself in by her arms and shoulder blades and twisting her legs so that the ring spun. When it was low enough, Marie could fly over top of it to Alisa, who caught her and tossed her - into the middle of the net. She seemed to disappear into the flames, below the wildly spinning Abigale, who was pulling herself back up to sit in the ring. Marie bounced up briefly on the net, reaching an arm out - Abigale leaned precariously forward in the ring, stretching out her hands to catch her, but Marie fell back down, vanishing beneath the stage. Lin went next, swinging back and releasing into an incredible flip with ended with a dive into the net. Lottie followed, and then Alisa. The entire time, Abigale's ring was ascending back towards the ceiling; for a moment, she stood in it, lit by the flame and smoke below, before swinging back down to hang by her knees. The ring dropped suddenly and Abigale tumbled off of it, into the net. Abruptly, the music stopped, and the little flames licking at the edges of the net flared into a column of fire that stretched nearly to the top of the tent, throwing the previously dim corners into yellow light. As quickly as it had come, it vanished; the lights came up again slightly, to reveal that the trapezes and net were gone, and the acrobats nowhere to be seen. Indeed, the circus's rings were entirely empty.

Colette's voice, amplified mechanically, drifted through the tent: "Ladies and gentlemen, we deeply appreciate your patronage this evening. Our talents are our greatest gifts, but sharing them with cities so fine as Orleans is our greatest joy. We look forward to performing here all week; return if you dare, or simply spread the word that the greatest Cirque ever to grace the Western World has come to France--Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages... La Cirque de la Vapeur!"

In a crawl space beneath the stage, stage manager Tom Sry was helping the acrobats wiggle out of the secondary net without being spotted by the crowd leaving the tent above. "Well done ladies, well done," he whispered, ushering them into the performer's area behind the tent. The circus was alive with performers, hugging each other, jostling around looking for clothing and props, breaking into celebratory alcohol while still half in their costumes. "Yes, yes, you all did marvelously," Tom Sry said in his drawling voice, his accent an odd mix of Arabic and Spanish and French. "Be sure to put all the costumes back on their hangers or Alexandra shall turn you into a newt. Lads," he called to some of the stage hands nearby, "see that the nets get packed up properly. Check for weak points, the fire might've caught the edges."

"That could have gone worse," Lottie said cheerfully to no one in particular, straightening her skirt. "We smell repulsive."

"Keep it down, ladies and gents!" Tom Sry called above the din. "The audience is still out there!" But the performers could hear them dispersing, the sound of footsteps on the seats in the big top lessening and the sound of chatter in the space beyond swelling as the audience trickled out into the night.

Silks and Serpents

A flurry of panicked motion filled the back changing tent as the belly dancing troupe frantically tried to find all of the pieces of their costumes before their portion of the show began. The lights dimmed, then rose, and dimmed again. Gears above the stage clicked as they shifted into new positions to prepare for the second half of the circus shows.

Alexandra tucked her deck of cards back into a pouch at her waist as she walked back from her performance tent into the changing tent to help control the chaos. Upon seeing the mess, she immediately dove in and helped to sort out everyone’s costume pieces.

All the lights in the circus dimmed and then slowly began to rise with a red undertone. Music began to spin and weave throughout the tent and drifted in past the double layered curtains that separated the changing tent from the rings. It was a haunting tune in a minor key: played on violin, clarinet, accordion and cello. The dancers, wrapped in sheer and flowing multi-coloured silks, gracefully slid past the curtain and posed in the center ring. The lights continued to rise, allowing the crowds to see the silhouette of the belly dancer troupe. A heavy drum beat started in the background: one, two, three, four. With each drum beat the dancers reposed themselves, spreading out across the stage. More instruments added themselves: clarinet, accordion and cello. The lights rose completely and the troupe continued to dance seductively to the beat of the drum.

As they glided around the ring, another act was preparing in a small shelter attached to the main tent. A scantily clad woman with henna tattoos covering her body knelt and opened up a deep basket to lift out large python, which she wrapped around her slender shoulders. Two muscular men, wearing only loose fitting pants and more henna tattoos, lifted a basket on each shoulder and followed her as she slipped into the back of the main tent.

The woman stalked out of the shadows and into the view of the crowd. Bells attached to her ankles chimed to the beat and she spun and danced in half time to the music, lifting the python over her head and dancing with it. The rest of the belly dancer troupe spread out to either side of the snake charmer, moving with the music. The two men placed the baskets on the ground, opened them, knelt and pulled flutes from loops on their belts. From inside the baskets deadly cobras and vipers began to raise their heads, hissing at the light and noise of the crowd.

As one, the crowd seemed to draw back in their seats at the sight of some of the most venomous snakes in the known world. The music playing for the belly dancers faded slightly as the snake charmer men began to play their flutes. The snakes’ attention was drawn to the sound and they rose further out of basket, swaying to the music. The woman with the python wrapped around her danced gracefully in between the baskets, gently stroking the swaying scaly heads.

To one side of the stage, Colette stood with Alexandra watching the performance of the belly dancers and the snake charmers. “They’re doing well tonight, aren’t they,” Alexandra murmured to the ringmaster, “it’s a full crowd out there and the tickets for tomorrow night are almost sold out.”

“Wonderful. Tell the ticket master to bring the cash from tonight to be to put in the safe; we don’t want anything to happen to them, especially after making such a profit,” Collette replied, keeping her eyes on the performance. “I’ll see you at the end of the show; I have to go announce the next act.”

Alexandra nodded, walked back behind the curtains of the stage and left to go find the ticket master of the Cirque to pass on Collette’s message.

As the act drew to a close, the song played by the flutes grew slower and slower, lulling the snakes back into their basket. And, with the belly dancers accompanying them, the snake charmers gathered up the baskets and slid gracefully off the stage and back behind the dark curtains.

A small group of men and women wearing sparking red and gold bodysuits tumbled out of the shadows and into the bright spotlights and, barely even pausing, three of the men broke out of the roll and knelt, allowing one of the smaller women to flip onto their backs and bow to the crowd.

“Ladies and Gentleman!” Collette’s voice rang out from high above the crowd as she dropped down on a swing shaped like a gear from the top of the tent. “I am pleased to present the Tortuosity Troupe of Contortion.”

Two of the women who had rolled to each side then simultaneous flung themselves at the three person pyramid; pushing off the backs of the men and balanced themselves in a handstand on the shoulders of the woman on top with one hand and held each other up by grasping each other’s hand over her head. The crowds exclaimed with amazement at the feat and continued to “oooo” and “ahh” as the contortionists broke from the pyramid and reformed with each of the men holding one of the women above their heads by one hand. The women, balancing on one hand, gracefully and in sync did the splits while upside down, before dropping one foot into the men’s other hand and letting go with the other hand and flipping themselves right side up. They continued to bend and contort themselves, all the while balancing on one foot, held up by the incredibly strong men underneath them.

All of a sudden, the women flung themselves out of the grip of the men and caught almost invisible black ribbons which had dropped from the ceiling while the crowd was watching the contortionists. The women twisted and spun as the ribbons began to lift high into the top of the circus tent, appearing to the crowd as if they were floating stars shimmering in mid-air as they continued their contortions.

As the women were lifted off the stage, the men began to flip backwards across the stage one after the other and each one grabbing the hands of the other acrobat and lifting and tossing the other across the stage. They continued their twisting and tumbling until they reached a small platform that had lifted out of the stage. They agilely stacked themselves, one on top of the other, holding themselves up by one hand or foot and staying almost motionless in one almost impossible position. This platform began to slowly spin and sink into the stage. As the platform turned a full rotation, the men changed their positions, turning their bodies into full circles or twisting their legs around and above their heads while balancing on one hand.

As they disappeared completely into the floor and the women on the ribbons above disappeared into the darkness, swings began to drop from the ceiling of the tent. Fog began to rise from somewhere in the depths of the machines under the stage, swirling around the ground and rising slowly to completely obscure the wooden flooring. The lights dimmed and a spotlight shone down from the top of the tent and into the fog.

Legerdemain

Anselme’s strong clear voice still echoed among the canvas and timbers of the main tent as he stood in the center ring, bowing low in response to the thundering applause of the crowds, his long feathery sleeves brushing the arena floor. His heart was racing with the adrenaline with which performers are often so familiar. In his head, he was counting the seconds until his cue to exit the stage, and mentally tracing the path behind him that would lead past the crowds into the cool night air. He knew the route with his eyes closed… which happened to be a vital point at the moment.

With a heart-stopping suddenness, every light in the tent winked out at once; the stagehands operating the lanterns unnoticed. Cries went up from the patrons in their seats: some men stood abruptly, some sat in patient dread, and several startled ladies swooned. A single lamp, focused upwards, illuminated the ringmaster in her perch high above the circus stage, the shadows casting a look of menace and mania to her narrow features. “Ladies and gentlemen,” her voice bellowed from the heavens, “do not be alarmed. When confronted with danger, one must remain stalwart.” A soft glow now began at the edges of the ring, casting a faint orange tint to the tent interior. As Colette continued, the flames became visible in their troughs around the giant cogwheel terraces, yellow tips dancing madly to and fro. “When faced with flames, the Vapeur remained unflinching. Here to showcase this bravado is a man of mystery and power, said to be possessed of Satan himself! May I present… Asmodeus Prodigious!”

Colette vanished into darkness as the lantern was extinguished. Music drifted into the tent, quietly at first, but gaining both volume and tempo. The flames around the stage had attained such ferocity as to shed a considerable light upon the floor of the tent. A man stood upon the center-most gear, but it was no longer Anselme. Fire reflected on gold buttons and braids, crossing purple leather in a dazzling pattern that seemed to come alive under the inferno’s spell. His arms rose slowly above his head and Asmodeus began to rise above the stage. Up and up he rose, ascending some 20 feet with the aid of the small, matte black balloon strapped to his back, the pilot light from the torches strapped to his arms giving it the proper motivation to inflate. With a quick flick of the wrist, he touched the spark to the miniature blimp, igniting the accelerant that had been soaked into the fabric. There was a burst of intense white light as the balloon was instantly consumed in flame, Asmodeus wreathed in a halo as he plummeted to the earth below. He landed hard in a crouch, an addition to the stage giving imperceptibly under the sudden weight. The bellows he had set up came into play, forcing oil into the troughs around the stage, sending the conflagration towering above the crowds.

As the flames receded, Asmodeus allowed himself a satisfied grin, and reached for two steel spheres on either side of him. He rose, tossing both orbs into the air and catching them, the magnets lining his gloves sending them whirling in place inches above his hands. Thus he stood, the central stage gear rising, rotating. Asmodeus crossed his arms, deftly activating the torches again, the spheres catching fire above his palms. He began to swing his arms in a tight, controlled manner, his hands weaving dizzying patterns through the air, the magnets from both hands keeping the balls of flame static in their whirlwind course. In the darkness the eye could perceive afterimages where the orbs had been, assuming familiar shapes out of seemingly random lines. Asmodeus’ hands increased their pace, until suddenly the rosette that was the Vapeur’s icon burst forth from the gloom, showering sparks that bounced and scattered from the elevated stage.

Asmodeus clenched the orbs firmly, smothering the flames, and dropping them to the stage. What followed was a menagerie of clockwork-inspired spectacles that drew forth gasps and applause from the assembled masses. Before long, however, Asmodeus reached the end of his routine. He opened the gas feed of his torches to full. Arms at his side, a jet of flame erupted from both of Asmodeus’ wrists, angling down from his body and steadily rising as he raised his arms like phoenix wings. Asmodeus then swung his arms down in front of him, hurling the twin gouts of living orange into the stage before him, creating a brilliant aurora just as their fuel source exhausted, and the music stopped. All was left dark and quiet within the circus tent.
Asmodeus emerged back stage, a wide grin of self-satisfaction plastered to his face, sweat beading on his brow from the intense heat of his performance. Alexandra stood nearby appearing, for all intents and purposes, to be thoroughly examining her cards. She had been watching the show the whole time, spellbound by the cunning tricks and gadgetry Asmodeus employed, riveted by that strong, imposing figure standing solitary upon the stage. She would, of course, never admit it. To further enhance this illusion of ennui, Alexandra looked up nonchalantly from her cards, and asked coldly, “So, how many ladies offered themselves to you after…” Her barbed remark was cut short by a startled cry, and Alexandra’s eyes grew wide. “You’re on fire!”

Asmodeus’ grin grew even broader, teeth beginning to show from between his upturned lips. “I know; it was incredible. Fire is a lot of fun! I should really incorporate more flammables into my routine.”

“Lord, man! In earnest, YOU ARE ON FIRE!” Alexandra pronounced the words with as much emphasis as a hammer on a window, making certain to drive through Asmodeus’ thick ego. His brows knit together in a worried expression, and his eyes slowly followed Alexandra’s outstretched finger to his sleeve. A gas line had blown, and a thin trail of orange and blue was happily licking its way up his arm.

Stalwart was the word Colette had used.

Brave. Fearless. Asmodeus controlled the fire.

He began frantically flapping his arm, prancing around in circles, all the while howling and shouting “Put it out! Put it out!!” Alexandra gave chase, armed with a blanket, face twisted in a scowl at the thought of being late for the intermission business rush.

****

Inside the main tent, the lanterns had been relit, and a stagehand ran in front of the audience, from section to section, shouting “10 minute intermission!” Dozens of conversations had broken out at once, some discussing however she left the house wearing that, or how your ailing mother was holding up, but the majority of attendees were recounting their favorite moments from the varied acts. A throng of people left the tent for the fresher, certainly cooler air of the circus field, attending the many sideshows and stalls.

Within and behind the main tent, stagehands and performers bustled here and there, laying out set pieces for the next act, gathering essential props, and generally looking frantic. Alexandra, having extinguished the flames of Asmodeus’ arm, but not of her own heart, hurried off to her tent to tell fortunes to the inevitable line of wives asking after husband’s fidelity and businessmen inquiring about financial investments. Colette leaned back against a support beam of the team, stealthily drawing a flask from some unknown pocket and taking a long, deep swig. Asmodeus, his sleeve charred but flesh intact, meandered off to assist Marie and the other acrobats in their final preparations for their impending performance. In both the circus crew and the night’s guests was a sense of unbridled anticipation for the second half of the show.

Claws and Feathers

Quiet music played as the mist cleared, a single tinny note hanging in the air. Marguerite turned a mechanical swallow over in her hands, wondering at the irony of its name. Birdsong twittered behind her. She released the bird, letting it fly overhead to signal Eric, the lion tamer, to begin.

As the brassy avian clinked around the ring, Eric crawled on stage in the shadows. His lions, two female and one male, followed in the main stage, growling. Their shoulders rippled with each step, tails settled behind them, ears perked. The audience was quiet. Marguerite could tell the beasts watched Eric closely, but the audience did not see him. The lions loped onto the platforms rising in the middle of the ring, and the tinny whistle and birdsong grew into a fanfare when Eric rose from the shadows, sitting calmly in front of his pets.

“I hope your birds can fly high, Auréle. I think my cats are hungry,” Eric said. The ringmaster swung down from her perch above to retrieve the mechanical swallow, shaking her whip at him before hiding again. The audience laughed, and then stopped when Eric rolled from his sitting position. The lions leapt after him.

The music followed in a hunting bugle, cut with sharp, tribal drumbeats. Eric stood just as suddenly as he rolled and the lions reared onto their haunches, paws waving in the air, their mouths gaping. He continued his act, at some points pretending each lion was nothing more than a housecat. The lions rolled, reared, and roared through the ring. At one point they ran close enough to the audience that, had they dared, the front row could reach out and touch them.

Once the promenade ended, Eric settled the lions on their own stands. The females on either side opened their mouths, their lips pulling back over curved teeth. Eric stepped up to the first one, passing his hands between the lioness’s jaws. She closed her mouth playfully a few times. Eric mimed a struggle. The audience seemed torn between laughter and terror when he retrieved his arm and sent the lioness backstage. Eric signaled, and the second lioness stepped down from her pedestal, crouching. He edged towards her, the music reducing to a trembling note of suspense. The lioness growled. Eric jumped back. He approached her again, with similar results. Placing his hands on his hips, Eric stomped forward and growled. The lioness reared, placing her paws on his shoulders. Eric let out a shrill scream, but the lioness licked his cheek. After nervous laughter, a waltz began to play. Eric and the lioness danced before he sent her backstage as well.

At last, Eric approached the male lion. He extended his hand. The lion rolled onto its back, as though sleeping. Eric threw his hands up in frustration, and the lion mewled. Once the laughter quieted, Eric clapped his hands. The lion returned to his pedestal, jaws opening. Eric passed his hands over its tongue, and then slowly inserted his head. The lion stood patiently while the audience clapped. Eric held one hand in the air, the other in the lion’s fur. He removed his head when birdsong reappeared.

Auréle descended with the swallow perched on her hand. When she hung halfway between ground and gears, a flock of songbirds lead by more mechanical swallows poured over the audience. They fanned from the center of the ring and circled back to the ground, where they gathered around a lanky man in a tight fitting, sparkly suit. His sleeves flared into magnificent, feathery cuffs that fluttered behind him while he walked forward. The lion and tamer were nowhere to be found.

Auréle said, “May I present the glorious plumage of our Avian Master, whose song will enchant you this evening. Anselme, do keep my precious little birds safe, will you?”

The brass birds settled their flocks around the ring. Behind Anselme, a peacock spread its tail feathers, its remarkable cue followed by Anselme’s tenor voice. He began with a country song, light and airy. Two of the mechanical birds danced to the tune, their wings clacking like little cymbals in the ring. At the song’s peak, they took the air, the other birds in their wake. They flew in a spiral to the top of the tent, nearly brushing the underbelly of the main airship. The gears spun to meet them, clicking and clanking. Anselme’s platform rose into the air, bringing him to his birds, then tilted over the audience. His voice quieted, and in its place the instruments picked up the melody.

“A pretty tune, don’t you think?” He called to the audience. They applauded, and the birds dove over their heads. Three peacocks strutted about the ring, their own cries overwhelmed by the songbirds and musicians. A trumpet heralded as the machinations continued to work their way from the ship’s hull, as though its gut were sliced open, spilling the contents in the height of the circus ring. But patterns formed from the otherwise chaotic mess of oversized gadgetry. Pipes extended from the ring’s floor to the tent’s top, and a keyboard sat before Anselme. His platform connected with it, and he proceeded to play the tune on the newly formed pipe organ suspended in the air. Birds and music surrounded the audience, another mist growing from backstage.

Marguerite smiled at the contraption. It was one of her favorite elaborate designs of the main airship, a beautiful instrument that bore the rosette underneath its platform. But Anselme’s act was coming to an end. He reached his next to last fermata, a dramatic chord held until Marguerite summoned the brass birds back to their places, and their feathered followers back to their cages.

“Let Hirondelle burn what they wish,” she said under her breath. “We’ve more fire than they could ever know what to do with.”

Anselme’s song came to an end, and so did Marguerite’s post backstage until the end of the night.

The Beginning of the End

"You are here to see for yourselves the famed Vapeur--perhaps because we are the very cirque that brought even the Shah of Saudi Arabia to his feet in awe mere months ago. Or perhaps you heard not of our Arabic successes... perhaps you are here because you heard tell that the Star Brittania had awarded us their Gold Standard--the highest compliment a humble cirque such as ourselves could hope to achieve, craved by the finest of performers across all of Europe!" Her voice rang out across the still air in the circus arena, and the crowd practically buzzed with anticipation.

"Or perhaps!" Colette paced, hands on her hips, leather whip coiled against her flank. "Perhaps you were inspired to feast your eyes upon the cirque so magnificent that in what could very well be an act of God Himself, terrible "accidents,"--Here, she leaned conspiratorially towards the crowd, sending a wink and a nudge their way. "...have taken place, that we might be unable to travel on."

"Though you may have your doubts, I am sure that these occurrences are of the purest coincidence. In no way could they have have been made to happen upon our camp by our competitors, who quake and tremble in their cots at night, sure that their fame and fortune shall be stripped away by our triumphs!"

Her voice echoed imperiously, but she cracked a grin. "Of course not. For to tease the Vapeur in such a way would be as dangling red silk before a bull--a feat that our lion tamer attempted in Barcelona only recently, entirely at the mercy of a bull so wicked he was rumoured to have been an incarnation of the Devil himself!"

She turned, and added almost as an afterthought, "Though that has been said of the Lion Master as well." The women in the audience tittered, and Colette shrugged, smiling indulgently once more. "Needless to say, the bull was no match for our Master... as no other cirque could dare compare to the fabulous, the famous, and the feared Cirque de la Vapeur!"

She crossed in a sweeping arc before the three rings. "You have come for many reasons, my friends, but tonight you shall all bear witness to the same miracles, carefully assembled from all regions of the Earth and each with a talent unmatched by any man who lives--for if a man of such talent were known to exist, he would be working with us within the month. Not for the food, you see--don't tell my cook--but for the chance--" She paused as the crowd chuckled slightly, waiting for the hush to fall once more so she could continue in a more somber voice.

"For the chance, dear friends, to be amongst performers truly blessed with supernatural talents. What you are about to witness may shock you, may terrify you, may even render you speechless for days to come. I personally counseled a woman, in my private chambers after one performance, who felt that she might never again to be able to speak! Needless to say, that when she did loose her tongue, it was to sing the praises of this, the finest Cirque to ever visit the city of Orleans--nay, France--nay--Europe!"

She tipped her hat. "Ladies and Gentlemen, children of all ages...I am Auréle le Conquerant, and this...is the night of your lives."

She bowed slightly, stepped back onto a slightly raised platform, and shouted. "Allons-y!"

Four horses charged in barely brushing by her as they raced full tilt, two by two, muscles rippling under gleaming white coats. Their backs were bare, but around their necks and draped over their rushing haunches were cascades of heavily embroidered fabric, shimmering under the swinging spotlights and sending fragments of colour bouncing over the walls in a violent assault of noise and sudden clamour. Colette's platform which began to spin counterclockwise in a slow movement and cranked up, inches at a time.

The horses whipped by as fast as lightning, and the pedestal on which Colette stood ratcheted up in speed and height. Her feet were slightly spread but she looked perfectly at ease, as if her intent was to sail right up into the heavens. She spread her hands in almost celebratory, almost joyous pride in her troupe.

"From the farthest corners of the Arab lands, these acrobats have come. In tune with their steeds from the day each animal was born, able to speak to them and understand their nature as no other human alive can--they defy death daily, and tonight they push even their heroic limits. They are the Fabled Four, a family in spirit and sentiment if not in blood, princes of the equine, queens among riders--"

And now the audience was able to make out: hunched so low on each animal's back, nearly moving at speeds too rapid to be registered by the eye were four acrobats adorned in white, bare shoulders glinting darkly against the whiteness of the horses' skins.

Their arms and feet were bare, but dressed in white and spangles, they glinted and shone in tune with the animals; it was nearly impossible to make out where the rider began and ridden ended.

Colette reached up with one hand, snaked her wrist through a loop of nearly unseen black silk, and was hauled up into the shadows at the top of the tent. Her boots hit the catwalk with a slight jar, and she nearly stumbled. A stage hand caught her elbow, and she nodded her thanks, retreating to one side of the catwalk to watch the show from above.

The horses raced tirelessly, throwing heaps of soil up as their hooves dug into the earth. They spiraled towards the center of the ring and simultaneously, as if controlled by one mind, they slammed to a halt.

Their riders rose from their hunched positions, standing fully upright on the animals' backs, arms held high above their heads.

They flipped backwards in tandem, landing on their hands on the animals' rumps, and the horses stepped forwards, bowing their front legs slightly as the acrobats began flipping, cartwheeling and slinging themselves from one horse to the next. They whipped by in a tangle of legs and arms, looking like ice crystals sent sailing on a stiff breeze. The animals rose up, began to pace forward, first side by side, and then in a wave that slowly peeled off and began to run about the ring once more, gathering speed as the acrobats tumbled and swung, supporting themselves from the barest of harnesses and the strength of their arms. They crossed paths, the riders flipping from animal to the ground and running a few steps, swinging from ground to animal in the easiest flicker of motion. They were like a tapestry of movement being woven before the crowd's very eyes.

Colette bit her lip. She was asking a lot of her team tonight, and that meant bringing out never-before seen tricks that were not as practiced as others. Of course, all their acts had an element of danger, and all their tricks had associated risks, but there were some that even her professionals were reluctant to perform in front of crowds without extensive practice first. In this show, she had been unable to give her performers the time they usually needed to work a difficult maneuver into an already complicated and sometimes fatal act.

But they trusted her, and that trust weighed heavily in her mind. Finally, there was a shift in the music, and the lights flickered. The Arabian music faded out, and a bright tune replaced it, and the horses began trotting slowly and elegantly in a smaller circle, nearly floating from step to step. A few laughs rang out as a series of large rings emerged from the scaffolding at the top of the ring--a carousel scene, depicted with live animals. How clever, how fun.

The horses trotted gaily under the rings, their heads lowered and their backs arched slightly, gliding forward as if mechanization and not living, breathing beasts. The riders sat up a little straighter, smiling, waving at the crowd, reaching up to tap the rings lightly in a parody of the popular game.

One rider pulled his beast aside, and another dismounted swiftly, allowing her animal to continue trotting in the small circle to the bright tune.

She vaulted up behind her accomplice, and both stood on the horse's back, smiling at the crowd. The woman looked about for something, while the man comically fretted and parodied anger at her, but ah! There. With a coy smile, she reached a few fingers into the clinging bodice of her spangly adornment--a few whistles from the crowd--and withdrew a white silk scarf. She tied it around the man's eyes--he willingly bent his head for her to do so--and she mimed hitting him in the face once, twice, and then smacked his cheek lightly. He was surprised, by it, flailing his arms slightly and nearly falling off his horse--an act, of course, but the crowd roared with laughter.

She spun him about, and he plopped on his horse facing the wrong way. She backflipped neatly off the animal, smacked its rump, and sent it cantering around the ring. She found her own horse once more, launched herself onto its back, and rejoined the ranks.

The single blind folded rider made his way around the ring once, twice... brought himself up until he crouched upon his horse, rocking with the motion and bobbing his head slightly. He rose into a diver's position, and as the horse crossed under one of the rings, he threw himself backwards, neatly sailing through the ring and landing on his hands upon the horse's shoulders. He brought himself forward into a plank before lying upon his horse's back, bringing himself around a few times in a flash of windmilling white until he faced the right way again.

He, still blind folded, rounded the turn once more, and with an inaudible ripple of hissing air, the ring caught fire.

His companions all rose to their feet on their animals, and first one, then another, and then the third executed neat swan dives through the hoop, landing on their feet and clucking their horses to a standstill stage left. The single rider, still blind and according to all evidence oblivious to the impending danger, smiled at the crowd, waved, and neatly flipped through the ring, landing in a fluid roll and bouncing to his feet, ripping the silk from his eyes and bowing deeply. Behind him, the four animals also cocked their legs and tipped their heads, and the riders swung back onto their animals, turning and filing out in a single file to riotous applause.

Fire. That was the key. Take the evil that had been done to their camp, use it in the show, prove that they had no fear. Fire was something that Colette was deeply afraid of, but tonight nearly every act would incorporate flames in some way, replicating the explosion and twisting it to their own benefit.

Colette smiled as the jugglers tumbled in, already tossing shining golden balls to each other, almost in a joking manner as if hoping that someone would miss. They executed difficult throws and catches of balls, scarves, little toys. They hurled the items at each other, grinning to each other and the crowd as they caught items behind their backs, flung them up from under a cocked leg, chucked something at the back of a juggler's head only for that person to reach up, snag it, and send it spinning again.

With a subtle twist of their hands, the scarves transformed into flashing blades, and the audience gasped. The knives flew back and forth, handles pearly and shining, blades sickeningly sharp. They zinged through their air, slicing through with a metallic song that chilled the crowd to the very bone.

They still continued in their capricious manner, casually playing with the fine edge of death as if it were their very best friend. And when the torches came out, flickering gently in the dim stadium, little licks of flames leaping and spinning and dancing in mid air, the audience was riveted, as sparks reflected in their eyes and danced in their minds. The jugglers, naked from the waist up, bodies glinting in the firelight, seemed to have risen from the hell directly below the cirque, toying with the elements in an inhuman manner.

As the jugglers tossed blades that now reflected swathes of amber, gold, and crimson of the somehow tamed, inferno, the dazzling effect seemed to enliven the crowd as well, and they cheered, called out, hissed and groaned and gasped in fear and delight as the sweat rolled down the jugglers' brows.

In the dim tent, the effect of the tossed torches was a dazzling light show of flickering illusion, an intricate pattern that grew and twisted like a living thing as jugglers handed the flames hand to hand. Two jugglers slowly caught the torches, and the audience sighed in disappointment, but with a soft "hup!" one leaped upon the other's shoulders and balanced lightly there, like a little bird.

Now the opposing pair of jugglers did the same, and with the rest scattered around, the light show became a two-level masterpiece, with torches whipping back and forth in curved patterns, slinging low at colossal speeds and launching upwards, defying gravity. With the delicacy of a master painter, from the angles and sparks the men crafted a spinning flower in midair--an illusion that echoed the rosette made famous by the Cirque's Rosette emblem.

They caught the torches at once, dropped them low into pails of water. The image was burned into the audience's iconic memory in the sudden dimness, and the water hissed and spat out steam.

In the ensuing roll of mist, aided of course by huge vats of dry ice hidden offstage, the jugglers disappeared.