Usually, when taking a small child to the circus, the child is the one too excited to think straight. But not much else was 'usual' in the Newkirk household, and, really, there wasn't much reason why this should be any different. Which isn't to say that Mavis wasn't excited, or that she had stopped asking questions since he'd announced that the circus was in town, and that they would be attending, but Peter was more excited than she was; he was just more restrained about showing it.

"Will there be elephants? And clowns?" Mavis asked, bouncing on her tiptoes. The line at the ticket office was long, and people in front of them were tall. She could see nothing except a sea of backs.

"Clowns, yes," Peter said, trying to retie a dangling hair ribbon on a moving target. It didn't work all that well. "Elephants I doubt, unless they've come into some substantial money since I was with them. You have any idea how much it costs to feed one of those things?"

"Tell me again about the circus," Mavis demanded.

"Blimey, there's nothing left to tell. You've heard all my stories a dozen times apiece," Peter said, as he always did before spinning a tale. "Weeeell… there was the time the snakes got out of their tank; did I ever mention that one?"

"No," Mavis breathed, wide-eyed.

"Snakes are sneaky little buggers," Peter said. "Scattered to the four winds before you could say Jack Robinson. But it was autumn, and a funny thing about snakes is that they like to be warm. So instead of striking out for pastures afresh, they went and found themselves cozy little digs the length and breadth of the boneyard. We were finding cobras in the costume trunks, and boa constrictors in our beds, and—"

"—And this one let out a screech that could have been heard in China when one of them touched his ankle," said a man in exaggerated jungle gear, including a battered pith helmet. "Am I lying, Peter, old son?"

"You? Always!" Peter said, with a grin. "Good to see you, mate."

"You, too. Come on," said the man, beckoning them both to follow him. "If Maggie were to find out I left you standing in the queue with the rest of the marks, she'd have my hide for a handkerchief."

"Cor. Is she still here?" Peter said, his eyes sparkling. "When I left, three years back, she was swearing that tour would be her last."

"She's been saying that as long as I've known her. She'll probably still be with the show when we're all pushing up daisies. But who's this, then?"

"Where are my manners. This is my little sister Mavis," Peter said. "Mave, this is George Bloomington; we bunked together for a time. Where's your better half, Bloomer?"

"Resting before his next performance," said George, ushering them down the midway. "He can do that now, since there's no more snoring keeping him up all night."

"Finally did something about those adenoids of yours, then, did you?" said Peter.

"I did have one noisy irritant removed," George conceded, stopping at one of the smaller tents and waving to someone inside. "I've got to go get Freddie ready for the show; I'll see you later. Oi, Maggie! Look what the wind blew in!"

The woman on 'Madame Medusa's' painted banner was a fantasy straight out of H. Rider Haggard; a buxom, flame-haired woman in a tight, one-shoulder tiger-skin tunic, either embraced or imprisoned in the coils of an improbably large snake with venom-dripping fangs.

Mavis, awestruck, looked up at the woman hurrying over to meet them. Up close, her tiger-skin costume was more than a bit worn, the darns in her flesh-colored tights somewhat visible, her bottle-red hair in need of a touch-up. But the snake around her shoulders was as real as real could be, and so was the smile on her weathered face. Hard to say which of those two facts did the trick, but somehow, for Mavis, reality more than lived up to the dream.

"Welcome back," Maggie said, cupping a grandmotherly hand over Peter's cheek. "Ah, you're a sight for sore eyes. And who is this fine young lass?"

Peter grinned. "My sister Mavis. Mave, this is Maggie; I've told you all about her. Say hello, luv."

Mavis ignored that last, skipping courtesy in favor of curiosity. "Is that a real snake?" she asked, her voice balanced on the knife's edge between fascination and fear.

Maggie chuckled. "She's your sister, right enough," she said. "Yes, duckie, this is a real snake. She's friendly. Would you like to pet her?"

Mavis, obviously uncertain about the wisdom of this, and even more obviously not about to back down from a challenge, extended a tentative finger and brushed it across the cool scales. When nothing dire happened, she did it again, more confidently this time.

"She likes you," Maggie said, with a fond smile split more or less evenly between the girl and the boa. "Well, now. I have a show in about fifteen minutes; you're more than welcome to come see it, of course, and afterwards I'll put the kettle on and we'll have a nice little chat."

"Not that much to tell, really," Peter said easily. "But I'd never miss a chance to watch the show. Or to have a cuppa with you and all your lovely creepy-crawlies, for that matter."

Maggie gave him a sharp look, then shook her head. "Not so fast, lad," she said. "I was talking to the young lady. She can sit and watch, if she likes. You'll be singing for your supper, same as always."

"Me? What, did Ron skewer another assistant? Clowns need someone to douse with whitewash?"

"You used to have clever hands, as I recall," Maggie said, still watching him intently. "Do you have them yet?"

"Still attached to my wrists, last I checked," Peter said, suddenly uncomfortable under her shrewd gaze. She had always known perfectly well what he'd done before joining the show, and he had a sudden, sickening feeling that she could guess what he'd been doing since. "Why?"

"Tim died about a year ago," Maggie said. Timothy Dugan, aka Balducci Il Magnifico, had been the show's magician. "Left his gear to the show, but so far, it's still in his trunk, just waiting for someone who knows what to do with it. Think you could work up a bit of an act in time for the main show?"

Peter, taken aback, hesitated for a moment. Then he grinned. "Well… let's see what there is to be seen, shall we?"

*.*.*.*.*

Mavis spent a blissful hour and a half being spoiled by essentially the entire circus. Passed from one old friend of Peter's to the next, she gasped at the feats of the acrobats and trick riders, laughed merrily at the clowns, played—and won—rigged games of chance, ate far too much popcorn, had her fortune told, and made the acquaintance of snakes, chimpanzees, trained poodles, and more. And, dazzled by the spectacle, when her current minder led her to the ten-in-one, where a new performer was just taking the stage, it took her a long moment to recognize the slim figure in white tie and tails as her brother.

Peter's technique was a little rusty, and the routine he had put together was more than a little basic. He hadn't quite dared try most of Tim's more elaborate illusions—no sword cabinets or bullet catches for him, not without some actual rehearsal—but if the crowd noticed anything lacking in his performance, they didn't give any sign of it. From start to finish, he had them in the palm of his hand; maybe it was nothing more than the unguarded delight in his eyes every time a trick worked as it ought, every time the audience cheered, every time a certain little girl in the front row clapped her hands.

For half an hour, the world was a magical place.

Later that night, after the last of the spectators had reluctantly left the midway, and after most of the performers had staggered back to the living tops, Peter and Maggie had that cup of tea. Mavis had long since fallen asleep, snuggled under Balducci's black silk cape, and most of the snakes had, too, so the two of them kept their voices low.

"So, tell me. What have you been up to since you left us?" Maggie said.

"Little of this, little of that," Peter said, and gave her a rueful smile. "I've learned more about how to braid hair then I ever thought I'd need to know, for starters."

"Mmm-hmm. She's a fine little lass. A credit to you. Now stop trying to change the subject by charming me. It's never worked before, and it won't work now. Answer the question."

Peter bit his lip. "I pick up work wherever I can," he said. It was true, if incomplete. He needed those jobs as much as ever, and his reasons were entirely pragmatic. For one thing, it kept people from wondering where and how he made his money, and, for another, Alfie chose his jobs with care, planned them carefully, and spaced them well apart. Peter needed some income during the dry spells between burglaries; he was, after all, still a very junior member of the crew. His cut was not large.

"I'm sure you do. But that's not all you're doing, is it?"

Peter looked away. "…No," he said.

Maggie nodded, bitterly disappointed but not surprised. "No, I didn't think so. Well now, young Dodger. Are you on your own, or have you found a Fagin to indenture yourself to?"

"He's a good bloke," said Peter. "Treats me right. I owe him, Maggie. He's done a lot for me over the last few years."

"And asked what in return?" Maggie asked. "Never mind; don't answer that."

Peter didn't.

"You could stay, you know," Maggie said, after a while. "We need a new magician, and I can't imagine that Tim wouldn't be happy to know that his things had gone to someone who'd treat 'em right. We'll be here for another week; time enough for you to pack up your trunks and give notice to your master."

Peter's gaze flicked immediately to Mavis. "You know I can't."

"And whyever not? If it's the little one, she's as welcome as you are."

"It wouldn't be fair to her. She's not yet eleven. She needs her schooling."

"And how much schooling do you think she'll get when you're kicking your heels in the jug?"

"More than she'd have if I pulled her out tonight. She's clever, Maggie. She deserves her chance. If I can get her through school, no telling what she might make of herself. But if I take her on the road now, she'll end up like—" he broke off midword.

"…Like what, Peter?"

"You're going to make me say it aloud?" The expression on Peter's face was, technically, a smile. "She needs this; I don't have anything to teach her that I wouldn't rather die than have her learn. I've made it this far; I just need to be lucky for another couple of years."

Maggie shook her head and sighed, letting the argument go. "Write if you change your mind," she said. "Or if the rozzers change it for you. Care of our booking agent; he always knows where the show will be. There'll be a place for her here if she needs it. For the both of you."

"Cheers," he said, in a low voice. "I mean it, Maggie. I'm grateful."

"You're a bloody fool," she said tartly. "But you're our bloody fool. Just think about it, lad. You're no good to the girl in quod, and Tim's gear is no good to anyone in a trunk."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Newkirk sat down, faced the old man. He had to clear his throat twice before he thought he could trust his voice, and even after taking all possible precautions, he still sounded pitifully young. "So… what did you want to tell me, sir?"

Alfie swallowed before replying, and for the same reason. "What you said earlier… you're right, my boy. I did drum you out of my little circle of associates. And I did black-ball you with other members of the profession; I made quite certain that they knew to shun you like the proverbial plague. Never mind the mark of Cain; by the time I was done spreading the word, they would have crossed the street to avoid stepping on your shadow."

"Yeah," Newkirk said. "They did."

"I want you to ask me why I did that."

Obediently, mechanically, Newkirk said, "Yes, sir. Why did you do that."

Alfie studied him for a moment, letting the silence stretch until Newkirk lifted his eyes to meet his. Then, and only then, he said, "…Because you asked me to."

"I never…!"

"You did, my boy," Alfie cut him off. "You did. Not always in words. But you did, and on more than one occasion. Think back."

"Sir?"

"The ribbon, my dear boy. Remember the ribbon?"

Newkirk's eyes widened.