Pantomime (24 page)

  "You first." She nodded and began to make her way down the ladder, and I followed behind.

  She held her hands up and bowed when she reached the ground, and the circus audience yelled and stamped their feet, startling the elephant in the animal tent into a trumpet. I followed and bowed as well, though I wanted to get off of the stage as quickly as possible. When I returned to the stage for the grand finale bow, Cyril was beaming at me. I was proud of what I had done, but the entire performance was soured by what had almost been.

 

I left the big top as soon as I could, my patched coat thrown over my costume. I still wore my smudged face paint. Aenea had left quicker than I had, and I ambled about the carnival – attracting odd looks – not expecting to find her. She would be in her cart, and she wanted to be alone.

  The loud music of the funfair, and the chatter and press of the people made me feel claustrophobic. A man in a bowler hat almost tripped me with his cane as he hurried past. The juggler nearly hit me with the dolls he tossed about for three little girls with ribbons in their hair. I staggered from the crowd and fled to the relative quiet of the beach.

  With my sharp hearing, I could tell someone was following me from a long way off. From the stride, I also guessed who it was. I waited in the damp sand for my brother to catch up with me.

  Cyril, his broken arm long healed, swept me into a tight hug, not caring that I smelled of sweat and that he was getting greasepaint all over his cheek and the neck of his coat. I hugged him just as hard, tears streaming down my face and blurring the cosmetics further. My brother was here. My brother.

  "Cyril," I murmured. "I've missed you so."

  He released me and looked down at me, though he did not have to look down much. We were almost of a height.

  "You look so different, and yet just the same," he said, tousling my hair.

  "You look just the same," I said, and he did. His golden locks curled about his face, and his cheeks were rosy with the salty breeze.

  "Are the others here?" I asked him, meaning Oswin and his other friends.

  "No, none of them were actually brave enough to sneak out."

  "How'd you manage?" I asked.

  "I used a trick of my sister's and used the scaffolding." He half-smiled.

  "You're not too afraid to climb anymore? After what happened?"

  He shook his head. "I reckon I won't climb on Penglass again anytime soon, but normal scaffolding is just fine."

  I hugged him again, breathing in Cyril's comforting smell and the lavender soap that the servants used to wash our clothes. The one person I didn't have to pretend with about anything. My truest, closest friend.

  "How have you been, Gene? It was such a shock to see you in the park today, and I couldn't think of anything to say in front of the others that wouldn't give it all away. And seeing you tonight… wow, Gene. Just wow. You were incredible."

  "I'm fine, Cyril, really," I said, and I told him of my time in the circus, glossing over the crueler of the pranks and my fear that Frit knew who I was. "It's wonderful, here, truly. And being an aerialist – it feels like what I was always meant to do. I'm not sitting about, waiting for decisions to be made about me. I'm out there, doing them."

  Cyril's smile faded. "That's great, Gene. But… do you know what it's been like for us, since you left?"

  I grew unnaturally still. "No," I whispered. I imagined that both parents would be angry at my leaving and scared for my well-being, and that perhaps they missed me… but Cyril's voice sounded as though it were more than that.

  "Mother and Father are in a spot of trouble with the law. You saw the newspaper article, didn't you?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, the Constabulary still thinks it's rather suspicious that they didn't report your disappearance for a few days. I'm not sure why they didn't, either. I suppose they thought you would come back. That's – that's what I thought would happen."

  My stomach twisted with guilt.

  "They've been fined quite a lot. And Mother has been beside herself with worry."

  I blinked at him in surprise.

  "She can be tough on us, Gene, but she's barely left her bed since you left, and she's developed a cough that won't go away. She finished off the laudanum for my arm. She ranted at me once, when she was on it. Mother blames herself for driving you away. She's moved into the old nursery and doesn't sleep in the same bed as Father anymore. She seems unwell, Gene."

  I felt as though someone had punched me in the gut. Mother had often been so cold, I almost expected her to be relieved that I was gone. No longer did she have to worry about me shaming the family by doing something too boyish, or worry about finding me a suitable husband and avoiding scandal. So stupid of me – a daughter running away was scandal enough. But a traitorous thought twisted through my mind.

  "Are you sure she's worried, or is she frightened?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "A doctor gave them a lot of money for me. What if he's mad that they were going to cut me, and that I ran away?"

  A sudden thought occurred to me: had the doctor been planning to come for me? I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth, fearful that I would puke.

  He considered. "Maybe she's a little frightened. But I don't think it's only that, Gene. I think she misses you, and regrets how she handled things."

  I did not know what to say to that. "And Father?"

  Cyril shrugged. "He seems much the same as he always is, but he drinks more in the evenings. He's sharp as ever in court when I go with him, but otherwise it feels as though he's going through the motions."

  I squeezed my eyes shut and bowed my head.

  "I think you should come home, Gene."

  I felt torn in twain. Realistically, I knew that I probably should. It was the life I always thought I was going to lead. When I left, I had not wanted to hurt anyone, and yet my whole family missed me as much as I missed them. They were in trouble because of me. But when I tried to imagine actually going back to life as Iphigenia Laurus, I could not. I was a different person now.

  "I'm not Gene anymore," I whispered.

  "What?"

  "I'm Micah Grey. I'm not Gene Laurus, and I'm not sure if I could be her again, Cyril."

  He looked away from me. "You could try," he said, as if ashamed to utter the words.

  "I could try, but then I'd lose all that I gained here. If I left the circus just after I've become a performer, they'll hire someone else. Someone with more experience as an aerialist." I stepped away from him and ran a hand over my face. "I don't know what the right choice is. It feels selfish to stay, but at the same time, I don't feel I should have to sacrifice all I have gained to return to a life where I don't belong. I wasn't happy as Iphigenia, Cyril. I mean, I love you and many people from my old life, and I mourn not seeing them every day. But… it never felt right. And I feel that this new life is right more and more each day. Can you understand?"

  Cyril's shoulders slumped. "It's what I thought you would say. But I had to try. I wish you would come back, though I understand why you don't want to. For me…" He trailed off and stared at the sea. "I feel trapped, sometimes, like you did. But not enough that I would consider leaving. Maybe I'm just not brave enough."

  I laid my hand on his shoulder, and remembered a proverb. "We all have different paths to follow. No matter which fork we take, it's going to be difficult."

  "You'll still write to me, won't you?"

  "Of course," I said. "As much as I can, though I'll have to write in a certain code and leave many things out. But I'll find a way to always let you know where I am and what I'm doing. And whenever I'm in Sicion, I'll come visit you, and if you're in Imachara any time this summer, you should come visit me as well. All right?"

  "It's a promise," he said.

  I took his hand and squeezed. "And don't worry about me, Cyril. I always land on my feet."

  He stayed a while longer and we talked of lighter subjects. But when he left and I saw his wide back disappearing up the beach, it was all I could do not to run after him and say I would return, despite the difficulty, just to be with my brother again.

 
 

  The Sun Lord peeks his head,

  bidding 'good morn, good morn'.

 

  The Moon Lady waves her hand, 

 

GOOD MORNING, LIA'S SONG FOR

LADY IPHIGENIA LAURUS

 

I wandered alone through the city of Sicion, fascinated by previously forbidden streets and sights I had only seen from behind carriage windows. It was an hour before dawn and I explored alleys choked with homeless men and women, through dark parks with rustling bushes, and along pungent docks. Not once did I reach for the small knife in my pocket. Knowing what I do now, I would never have walked through that area of town without a weapon in my hand.

  I had walked in the city dressed as a boy before when I went climbing, but it felt utterly different now. This time, I would most likely stay this way, introduce myself to others, and have to be convincing. On the streets, I observed the way the men walked and attempted to emulate them. Stiff, straight legs, shoulders back, head high, hands in pockets. In my head, I tried to imagine how my voice would sound as a male. Rougher, lower, more direct. I was terrified that I would not be good enough at pretending to be a boy. How could I hope to unlearn sixteen years as a female?

  Before long, I was lost in a maze of crumbling buildings and alleyways. There were no street signs, the roads were more dirt than cobblestones, and the gas lamps were almost all unlit or sputtering. Between the dim light and the fog, my world had shrunk to a tiny sphere. The fear caught up with me. My breath came faster. There were no landmarks by which to ground myself. I was hemmed in by limestone on all sides.

  I turned, and out of the darkness three young men appeared. They were perhaps two or three years older than me, and they had obviously been drinking. Immediately, I sensed danger, backing away, hoping that they would not notice me and carry on. The fog hid me, and I watched as they drunkenly sang off-key. One fubbed a line of the lyrics and another took offense. Before long, they were tussling, and then brawling. The thump of fists on flesh, the grunts of anger.

  Keeping to the darkest parts of the shadows, I edged my way around them until my back was against an exposed gutter pipe. I dared not breathe. Eventually, the other two left, leaving the third on the ground. The bad singer had not won the brawl. I hoped he was only unconscious. I crept closer to him, until I saw blood, black in the moonlight. He groaned and rolled over, and I darted back to my hiding place.

  I climbed away from the scene. The pipe was cold and slippery with damp, but I found purchase on the bolts and did not look down. I clambered onto the roof and stayed there, despite the cold. The past few hours did not seem real. I almost felt as if I were dreaming – that soon I would awake in my bed, Lia would bring me tea and sing me the song she sang every morning as she combed my hair, and my old life would continue to march along.

  The sun rose and thinned the fog to a pink and orange mist before burning through it and illuminating Sicion. I could see to each horizon and the view was breathtaking. Twin limestone spires of the churches of the Lord and Lady of the Sun and Moon reached toward the sky. The light filtered through the cobalt-blue Penglass domes that threaded their way through the city like the backbone of some gigantic beast, illuminating the black veins of the glass and the murky shapes within. In this light they looked delicate, like dragonfly wings.

  The sun rose over Sicion, and the first day where I was no longer Miss Iphigenia Laurus.

 

As I was about to climb down from the roof, I peered through the window of the attic. The flat had been long since abandoned, with the roof in poor repair. I managed to open a window and shimmied in. Slivers of early morning light peeked through holes in the roof, and dust rose in a cloud about my feet, the motes golden in the light of dawn, and I sneezed.

  Sheets stained with damp and mold covered irregular lumps of furniture. Nothing covered the walls but cobwebs.

  I wondered who used to live here and what their jobs were. I could almost feel their ghosts lingering like the layers of dust. Families gathered about the battered dining table passing food, laughing or arguing. Children huddled together like puppies against the cold on the sagging spring bed. Generations of entire families surely lived here, as many as eight to ten people in the cramped quarters. I wondered why they left and where they went.

  The families would have been as different from mine as night and day. This was a hovel – an abandoned flat in a poor part of town. These families may never have had quite enough food or ever fully chased the cold from their bones. But they had left furniture. With a start, I hoped this was not a plague house. I rubbed my hands along my arms, trying to warm them against the early morning chill.

  I spent the morning clearing a corner of the worst of the dust with an old broom I found. After a failed attempt to nap, I ate some of the food in my pack, and decided the place seemed safe enough to leave my belongings hidden under one of the musty sheets. I filled my pockets with my coins and more of my food. And I climbed down the gutter pipe and back into the Sicion I had not seen before.