Chapter 7

Berlin, Germany 1838

            Within the shadows of a shiny tent, a young woman twisted herself into knots.  Her head hung by her ankles for a moment before those same ankles slipped through her arm.  And that arm eventually creeped by the side of her neck and took hold of her ear.  Cries of awe and horror erupted in bursts through the crowd, causing a boisterous round of laughter to fill the lulling air.  Her partner, though her age was hardly differentiated from the first, surpassed her in elegance and experience.  Her fluid bends grazed the grass gracefully before she stiffened in a pose similar to the dance of a ballerina.

            When the first had done the same, the entrance to the tent had appeared, and the show was over.

            “Tired?” The first said after the tent had emptied.

            The second nodded, “I’m not as young as you, Miss Irene.”

            Irene laughed, snapping her fingers the moment her mentor drew a cigar from her cloak.  Flame emitted from Irene’s fingers, to which the latter nodded gratefully at.

            “Tsukiko?” Irene called, “Would you like to take a walk around?”

            Tsukiko took a long, quiet drag of her cigar.  “I don’t see why not.”

            The night sky resembled her mentor in an uncanny sort of way.  Tsukiko had become a role model for Irene during her time at the Circus.  She was a nonchalant woman who often struck her as cold and distant—a force not to be messed with.  She was stubbornly resilient and everything Irene had always aspired to be, save for the smoking.  She told her tales of its origins, stories of Widget and Poppet, and the elusive Celia Bowen, whom she had known personally.  Her company was never quite ignored with Tsukiko, even though she did not speak most of the time.

            Perhaps that was the reason why Tsukiko was such a mystery.  Two whole years of being with her nearly every day, and Irene had only skimmed the surface of the enigmatic Contortionist.  No matter—she preferred it that way.

            “What happened to Celia?” Irene had asked one night as the clock struck midnight.

            Tsukiko shrugged, though her indifference rippled with discomfort.  They spoke no more of Celia.  Irene had learned the logistics of coaxing information from the older woman.

            “It’s been two years since you have joined,” Tsukiko remarked absentmindedly.

            Irene nodded, “It has.”

            “Are you bored?”

            Nothing but a light chuckle came from Irene, though, it was mostly because she did not know the answer herself.  Had she found what she had been looking for?  The infamous Circus of Dreams was the most excitement she had ever injected into her life; though like a play with no , something was missing.  Irene found beauty in the empty pit that she could not name.  Perhaps her answer was there. 

She couldn’t ponder on the answer for too long, for the familiar faint bowler hat floating in the distance caught her attention.  She stopped, mouth agape as she looked for an excuse to get away. 

            She clutched her stomach, “Tsukiko, I’m afraid I’m not feeling well.”

            Tsukiko looked back with a lazy gaze and bit the of her cigar.  “Go on.”

            “What are you doing here?”  Irene hissed as she made haste towards her room.

            Hector said nothing.  Instead he ran his eyes along the familiarity of the Circus, looking for some indication that her daughter had noticed his presence.  Irene sighed; she hadn’t seen Hector since she joined the Circus.  The night after her auditions, he disappeared without a word or a warning.  For months, she figured he had cold feet at the possibility of running into whatever was left of Celia.  Though as she glanced at the pale face next to her, she saw nothing but guilt under his familiar nonchalance.

            She waited until