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.