Piper watched the illusionist's show again the next night. Alex's eyes found her partway through the first act, and the glance they shared in that moment was warm and familiar, the kind that seems to convey a smile without any change of expression. Alex went on with the show and Piper tried to concentrate, but she found that the magic held less interest for her than did the illusionist herself. Her thoughts were filled with Alex, with her voice and her stage presence and the way their eyes kept meeting. She enjoyed the slyness of those glances, the secrecy, the sense of sharing something private between them that no one else could understand.
The illusionist retreated backstage immediately after taking her bow and Piper waited while the rest of the audience filed out, leaving her alone inside the tent. She couldn't remember the last time her heart had beat so fast or so loudly. A few moments passed before Alex reappeared, slipping through the gap in the curtains.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," Piper replied, a little breathlessly.
"Was the show as good the second time?"
"Better."
Alex laughed. "Liar."
Her jacket was unbuttoned and her top hat was missing, presumably discarded backstage. She began removing her gloves as she spoke, pulling them delicately off the ends of her fingers. It was almost like one of her magic tricks, only instead of doves or roses she was revealing simply her own hands, bare beneath the silk.
The gesture made Piper feel shy again. She bit her lip, watching as Alex tucked the gloves into her trouser pocket and then sat down on the edge of the stage.
"Alex." It was the first time she'd said the name aloud. "Why did you come after me last night?"
The words spilled out of her mouth with a self-conscious slowness. Piper knew it was an awkward question. She'd been thinking it over all day, unable to come up with an answer.
"Well," Alex drawled, "it seemed impolite to give a girl a flower and not introduce myself. Even though you didn't even take the flower with you, which, in some circles would definitely be considered bad manners."
"Whereas you are the very picture of propriety."
Alex laughed. She was sitting with her legs spread and her feet dangling; hardly the posture of someone overly concerned with etiquette. She looked perfectly at ease though, unlike Piper, whose heart was still racing like it might never slow down.
"My turn to ask a question." Alex leaned forward, bracing her hands upon the tops of her knees. "Why did you come back tonight?"
Piper hesitated. She wasn't sure exactly what it was about the carnival— about Alex in particular—that made her so relentlessly curious, so she stuck with the safest answer.
"You promised me a tour," she said.
"Hmm. I guess did." Alex grinned, and somehow the sight of that smile alone had been worth coming back for. "I've got some time before my next show. Shall we?"
They went out through the back of the tent, into the night and the throngs of guests walking the pathways. Alex knew a shortcut to everything, ushering Piper past barricades and through hidden entrances. She insisted on bypassing the most crowded and popular tents, the common circus acts with clowns and animal trainers, favoring instead the entertainments that were either more delicate or more unusual.
They visited a tent that housed towering sculptures made of entirely of sugar. Whorls and twists spun out in an array of translucent colors; panels as clear and thin as glass panes. One of the sculptures was an entire miniature garden, rendered in exquisite detail right down to the blades of grass.
"This is amazing." Piper's voice was an awed whisper. She bent forward, inspecting a handful of delicate sugar flowers. "Who makes these?"
"Red. You probably know her as Reznikov."
"The proprietor?"
"This is her tent. The exhibit changes every few weeks, whenever she has time to design something new. The theme is always culinary, though. She used to be a chef."
Piper's fingers hovered above the sculpted petals of a daisy, wanting to touch but not daring to, afraid of damaging the display. It was hard to believe that such delicate, intricate beauty could be creating by hand. It was magic somehow, too.
The next act was almost monstrous by comparison. It involved an electric chair, the sort they used on death row to execute the condemned. It was wired to a complicated looking apparatus with numerous dials and hand switches. As they watched, a woman with wild-looking hair stepped up onto the platform, sat down in the chair, and allowed an assistant to shackle her in place.
Piper watched the preparations with a feeling of mingled fascination and distaste. "My god," she whispered, "they're not going to… are they?"
"Didn't you read the sign? That's Nicky Nichols! Got struck by lightening twice in one day, and lived to tell the tale."
"Seriously?"
"Of course. That's why her hair is so big."
"Alex!"
They watched as the assistant threw the largest of the console's switches. The girl in the chair began to jerk about in short, sharp motions, her limbs tugging at their restraints. Her mouth fell open and her eyes began to roll backwards.
Piper turned away, covering her face with her hands.
"I can't look," she mumbled.
"It's okay." She felt Alex's fingertips ghost across her shoulder. "That thing is barely a jolt. She's fine. Look."
Peering through her fingers, Piper looked up at the stage. The assistant was now unstrapping the electrified girl, who rose unsteadily from the chair. She looked pale and weak, as if she might keel over at any moment. Suddenly her expression changed—she flashed the audience a gleaming grin, springing forward and sweeping into a bow. There was a gasp of surprise before thunderous applause broke out, accompanied by a fair amount of hooting and hollering.
"See? Told you, it's just an act."
"I can't believe someone would do that voluntarily," Piper said, grimacing.
"Nicky calls it free shock therapy. If anyone needs it, it's her."
They left the tent, wandering back in the direction of the courtyard. Alex left Piper standing alone for a moment and returned with two cups of mulled wine, though Piper didn't see any vendors offering it. When she mentioned this to Alex she received a wink in reply. "Perks of the job," Alex told her.
As the night progressed Piper realized that Alex had dimensions far beyond her on-stage persona. During her shows the illusionist remained perfectly poised—everything was planned, from the choreography of her tricks to the way she looked out at the audience. Her expression remained impassive and carefully composed. Her onstage demeanor made her seem intimidating and unreachable, and the mystery of her persona was part of the act's appeal.
But the moment she stepped offstage Alex became different. She seemed both more at ease and more animated, her stoicism giving way to liveliness, laughter, and a quick wit. Her gait as she led Piper around the carnival was both casual and purposeful, and she exuded a confidence that Piper couldn't help but feel envious of.
Somewhere just off the beaten path they came across a contortionist. She was standing atop a pedestal, dressed all in white and dusted with glitter, statuesque and glamorous. While Piper and Alex stood watching the contortionist grabbed one ankle with both hands and arched into a backbend; spine curved, head thrown back, eyes closed. She began to rotate slowly, to spin herself by degrees, all her balance centered upon the ball of her planted foot. She looked like a music box ballerina, elegant and glittering.
Piper took a few steps closer, transfixed, and saw that the woman was older than she'd looked at a distance. While the muscles of her arms and legs were still supple as a dancer's, her skin was beginning to wrinkle and sag. The woman's age lent a kind of dignity to her performance. Her poses had a grounded, lived-in quality that came from experience rather than youthful experimentation.
But the most striking thing of all was the contortionist's expression—she had pale, watery eyes, the color of water trickling over stone, which were staring at a point somewhere in the distance. The lines of her face seemed, at least to Piper, to contain a deep and wordless sorrow. There was something about the contrast of the glittering costume and the mournful stare that made Piper want to cry.
"That's Jones," Alex told her. "Amazing, isn't she?"
"But she seems so sad."
The contortionist stopped rotating and shifted her weight, twisting her limbs slowly into a new pose. Her eyes remained sad and vacant, fixed on that unseeable something in the distance.
"Of course she's sad. Misfits and runaways don't join traveling shows because they're happy."
Piper's gaze flicked toward the ground in embarrassment. "I guess I never thought about it."
"Carnivals are all fun and games for townies. But this kind of life… constantly on the road, a new town or city every week… some people aren't build for that. It can be hard to let go of the things you left behind."
They fell silent for a moment, watching Jones move into another pose.
"Was it hard for you, when you left?"
As soon as the question left Piper's lips a change came over Alex; the look in her eyes became suddenly guarded, and her features rearranged themselves into a carefully neutral expression. It was as if some internal defense mechanism had been triggered, shutting Piper out.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "It's personal. I shouldn't have asked."
It was just that in the few hours they'd known each other Piper already felt more comfortable around Alex than almost anyone else she knew, and she wanted to know everything about her.
Alex gave her a small smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Don't worry about it," she said, in what sounded like an attempt to act casual. "I'll tell you sometime, just… not yet."
And Piper didn't mind, because sometime seemed to imply that they'd see each other again, which was more than enough to be content with.
They ended up back at Alex's performance tent. This time they went in through the rear entrance so that Piper could see the backstage area. She recognized a number of the props from Alex's show: birdcages and bedsheets, a wardrobe on wheels, special tables with cut-out holes in the center. There were other things she didn't recognize, like an elaborate rig of lights and a number of dusty mirrors with ornate baroque frames.
"You realize that you're bound to secrecy, right?" Alex told her, ushering her through the cramped storage space. "This is classified stuff. If my secrets get out I'll lose my professional advantage."
"Don't worry," Piper reassured her. "All I see is a bunch of discarded junk."
"Oh good, so the illusion is working."
They walked onto the stage, right up the edge. From their vantage point the dozen rows of audience benches seemed a more intimidating number, and Piper tried to imagine what it would be like to see them full; all those faces looking up at her.
"It seems daunting," she said. "Isn't it? Standing up here every night with so many people watching?"
Alex laughed. "Not really. Being on stage—there's nothing like it. The tent goes dark and there's this rush of adrenaline, like you're about to step over the edge of a cliff, only instead of falling you just… float." Her face looked slightly flushed as she said, like she was being transported into the memory of that moment. "Performing is the only thing that makes me feel like I'm in control."
Looking out that the empty rows of seats, Piper tried to imagine what that would feel like. But she couldn't conjure up that sense of power; couldn't imagine feeling anything at all other than intimidation.
"I wish I could stay and see the show again."
"You've seen it twice already!"
"I know, but I like watching you." She felt embarrassed the moment she'd said it, like she'd let slip a secret. But it only made Alex smile.
"Alright. One more trick, just for you."
Alex pulled up the sleeves of her coat and produced a coin from her pocket. With a practiced, almost casual motion, she passed it from her right hand to the left. When she opened her palm the coin was gone. She spread her fingers wide, turning her hand over to show that she wasn't hiding the vanished object. There were no folds of cloth to conceal the coin, no place where it could possibly be hiding.
Piper tried to keep the surprise from showing on her face, but her eyes widened involuntarily. "Where is it?"
"Here." Alex held up her right hand again, and there was the coin—exactly where it had started. The pass had been a feint, a misdirection.
"I was watching so closely! I could have sworn it left your hand."
Alex pocketed the coin with a satisfied grin. "Ahh, the power of suggestion."
"You enjoy fooling people," Piper told her, a gentle and smiling accusation.
"Maybe. But some people like to be fooled."
Piper blushed, because she know Alex meant her. She couldn't deny it: she liked the magic. She felt greedy for it, like it was something to hoard. And Alex had done a trick that was just for her, and the knowledge of it swelled up like a song inside her, a faint and beautiful orchestra that accompanied her all the way home.
.
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.
The next day was the occasion of Carol Chapman's charity club meeting, which Piper was obliged to attend.
"I don't see why you need me there," she complained over breakfast.
"Because I'm trying to teach you how to be a proper hostess, Piper. I can't very well do that if you won't be present at parties in your own home."
Piper glanced plaintively at her father, an appeal for aid. It was the sort of look that worked when she was younger. Back then he would have smiled at her conspiratorially, a more indulgent father, but when he looked up from the morning post his expression was tired and wary.
"For god's sake Piper, don't turn this into an argument."
The charity club was its own kind of circus. The ladies' bustled skirts and wide-brimmed hats were piled so absurdly with ribbons and feathers and gauzy plumes of tulle that they began to resemble the uniforms of carny clowns, only in shades of pastel rather than primary colors. The laughter that accompanied each titter of gossip was even more manic than that of an audience beneath a big top. The women gave a round of applause after each proposed fundraising idea, as if to congratulate themselves for making such a convincing show of sincerity.
Piper had never seen the falseness of it before so plainly; it was as though attending the magic show had unveiled all kinds of smoke and mirrors, laying bare the ordinary illusions upon which her world was built. The meeting was a piece of dramatic absurdity, a well-practiced performance that everyone played a part in. Piper held her teacup gracefully, sipped daintily, sat with her most dignified posture. She didn't speak unless spoken to, maintaining a bland and placid smile. It was like a rehearsal for the mother's idea of womanhood, and she was just another actress practicing her lines, playing the role that was laid out for her.
Alex said performance made her feel like she was in control, but this made Piper feel so beholden to others it was as if she were someone else entirely; a dummy in a ventriloquist act, mouthing words that weren't hers.
All at once she felt quite sick of it. She didn't want to be the sort of performer her mother wanted her to be. She wanted to be like the women at the carnival, doing something new and daring. She wanted to be like Alex.
It was time, Piper decided, to improvise.
A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews on the first chapter! Sorry about the long wait. This is only about half of the chapter I intended to write, but it's been a while since I posted and I wanted to get something up before I disappear (aka go on vacation) for a week. As a result it's short and mostly filler, but I promise more exciting things are coming.