Chapter Six
Opening Day
"How's Ariel? You feeding her right?"
Mr. Whittington and Rodger had managed to find an opening in their respective schedules, and now they sat interviewing Mr. De Rossi again, who was far pleasanter than he had been the first time they met.
"She's eating like a champion," Mr. Whittington assured him, smiling. "Milk, bread, vegetables, she eats it all. Ate three cinnamon buns and two bowls of cold cereal in front of me at the breakfast table. She'll be as wide as she is tall soon."
Mr. De Rossi nodded approvingly. "Better than too skinny. My mama always said skinny is bad for the blood. Ariel would be a beautiful fat girl. Don't discourage her eating!"
Rodger frowned in confusion. Miss Fleck wasn't eating at Mr. Whittington's house, was she?
"Don't worry. I make certain to give her plenty of food. Vitamins too, although last night she threw them up. I'll have to work her up slowly; it's too much nutrition all at once."
"Of course."
Rodger was about to ask Mr. Whittington what his plans with Miss Fleck were, but the man went right into updating Mr. De Rossi about how far the story had progressed, and without further ado the prisoner continued.
(Gangle picks up the story.)
It was May 31, 1907, the day before Phantasma's opening day. Funnily enough, it was also Ariel's eighteenth birthday. I was walking down towards the complex where Fleck Manor was, birthday present in hand. Mr. Y couldn't come. He was too busy. What once had been a long trek across a dusty ghost town of faded stands, crumbled grass, and discarded wrappers was now a pleasant walk down a cobblestoned street in Phantasma, the completed City of Wonders. My walk was lined with rosebushes, and off in the distance the rest of the place stood majestically, empty, full of anticipation. It was a city that seemed to contain all the wonders of all around the world: crystal fountains, a restaurant that looked like a Roman Colosseum, pavillions, gardens...a year ago this has been a field with three barns and a housing complex!
The housing complexes had not been changed. They still stood where they always had, but now they were enclosed by a towering stone wall with a gate, which I presently passed through. Even if I had forgotten where the Flecks lived, I could have simply followed the party sounds and smells, right to their open door. A moment of blindness because of the outside light, and I was in.
Fleck Manor still smelled like 600-year old pouporri, but now the scent was mixed with that of popcorn and frying meat and candy, and the walls of grim ancestors were fluttering with giddy little decorations. All of my freak friends were having a gay old time, shoveling buffet-style food onto plates, bopping balloons around, and fussing over the phonograph machine, with its music cylinders. Currently playing was Ada Jones, of whom Ariel was a rather big fan, singing with Billy Murray about being "honeys". Speaking of Ariel, I couldn't see her. She must have been surrounded.
The moment I regained my sight, I was looking into the curlicued face of Alf, who had strode over.
"Good afternoon, Ee-talian!" he chortled like Father Christmas. "Good afternoon indeed! Here, give me that present, I'll pile it here with the others..."
In all the years I knew Alf, he never once pronounced "Italy" or "Italian" correctly. I think I even mentioned it to him a few times, but he never remembered. Anyhow, my modest box joined the merry little pile of bows and tinsel on the nearby parlor chair, and Alf, as happy as a clown, turned to me again. I'd never seen the man like this. Usually he just sat, slightly hunched, with an "I-don't-want-to-be-a-burden" expression on his face. Today he was downright jolly.
"There. Now you'll want to greet the lady of the hour, of course," Alf almost sang. "She's just over there. Ariel! Mr. De Rossi's here!"
A handful of fluttering eyelashes turned in my direction, and the committee that had been obscuring her from sight parted to reveal Ariel, the birthday girl, dressed in a beautiful little confection of ivory and white lace, her black hair waved and pinned into a cascade of braids. I remember that she greeted me, and I ate some food, and we may have played some sort of party game, but all I can remember now is that I was completely smitten with her. Everybody else at the party just sort of contributed to the ambience. I think that is how it always is when a man loves a woman.
As of the day of the party, I had been secretly in love with Ariel Fleck for almost two months. Of course, I certainly loved her longer than that, but love is scarce to be pinpointed. Who knows when love begins or when it starts? One day, it's simply there, and wastes no time in seizing full control of you.
It had come upon me on that night, when she and I were watching stars and had heard the distant strains of Mr. Y's music. The stars were shining in her half-closed eyes as she dreamily listened, a perfect peace upon her brow and the moonlight making her gleam, making her one with the night. All was white and dark blue, except for her plump little lips. They were pink. They were precious. Just a moment ago, they had said, You make me happy too. I longed to kiss them. And in that instant, right at that precise moment, my heart said, Ariel, you make me much happier. You make me happiest! (bad English?) I love you.
I didn't know what to do, so I didn't do anything. I just sat in silence, grateful for the dark, for my cheeks were flaming and my heart was pounding and I was reeling at my own revelation. I stirred.
"You hear that too?" she asked suddenly.
I trembled. Hear what? Not my heart! Ah, ah, the music! "I do," I said, trying to sound conversational. "That's Mr. Y. At night, he likes to play the piano in the dance hall. Nice music, hmm?"
I watched her listen to the music, the sliver of light from the dance hall sending a glowing line from her head to her knees, and in that light I saw the tears illuminated in her eyes, the dewy color rushing to her face. Her hands clutched her skirt. I thought she was becoming ill, but whenever I tried to say something she waved me away and kept listening.
It was like Ariel and the music were having a conversation. When it rose and swelled, she shivered and breathed like it was bearing down on her. When it was soft and tender, her eyes squeezed shut with something like grief, and her stiffly-corseted bosom rose and fell feebly. As her friend, I felt obscene watching my beloved Ariel feeling this intensely, but as a man I was intoxicated. It was like the ecstacy of Saint Teresa; it was tortured, and fervent, and burning, with a fierce undercurrent of sexuality. Ah, the magnificence of womankind!
But it soon faded into quiet, and all at once, she slumped into my arms as though spent. A single tear bubbled out of each eye. Looking down at her white face, my heart thumped. I felt as though I were holding something holy. It was an epiphany.
And now, at this birthday party, I was presented once more with my dreamy-eyed angel, who was now on the brink of adulthood. Eighteen! Eighteen little flames perched atop her big white cake. We all sang:
Happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday, dear Ariel...
Haaappy birthdaaaay tooo yoooou!
A burst of appluase as she reduced the flames-and her childhood-into little wisps of smoke, and cheered. She was now a grown lady. Alf kissed her. Damien tried to start up the Are you one? Are you two? gimmick as the burnt-out candles were plucked, but Genevieve elbowed him in the gut. Thus began a mad dash for cake and ice-cream, followed by the mad dash for presents.
As I said before, I don't remember much of the party, so what gifts she recieved I don't recall. I only remember mine and Genevieve's. After unwrapping a whole slew of cutesy doo-dads, Genevieve's gift was really a stand-out: it was a jewelled pin, designed to adorn the throat of a blouse, and it was cunningly made into the likeness of a red rose, with delicate little petals that were blushed with black. Her favorite flower. She was thrilled, and pinned it on that very minute, tiliting her head to show off the charming effect. Beautiful! She kissed Genevieve on the cheek. That was easily the finest gift in her menagerie. That is, until she opened mine.
I had scoured New York City, but I had been successful, and when Ariel tore the tissue paper she screamed in delight. The room aahed in admiration. I smiled widely. My trouble had certainly been worth it. For in her lap was a glass bowl filled with her favorite black-blushed roses, and for what I paid for them, they were something that a princess would have been pleased to wear. Ariel snuggled the tender blossoms to her cheeks as though they were her children, and a sublime rosy glow filled her cheeks.
"I love them," she cooed, the light on the glass throwing rainbows across her throat. "I love them. Thank you, you darling!"
Her darling! My insides did a somersault, and I enjoyed a full fifteen seconds of joy before my reason kicked in and reminded me that she was speaking from her delight, not sincerity. Still, to be called darling! I should get her roses every day. Genevieve looked at me like I was a rat fink.
You might wonder why, now that she was a grown woman, I did not take Ariel away to some quiet garden and tell her all about my love. I had a variety of reasons, but one was foremost: Ariel was (and still is) such a rare breed of lady. My efforts to describe her invariably fail. She is dreamy, and intense, and scathingly witty, and...I want to say Victorian, but I don't think the Victorian era saw anything quite like her.
Imagine with me, por favore, a room of women. Hear them chatter about trifles, see their sporty little get-ups, smell the artifical garden on their pulse points. Now, see Ariel, sitting nearby. See her lily-white face, the raven hair, and the deep, daydreaming emotions in her eyes. See how she seems to drift like a little spirit, but never gives the impression of detachment. Her thoughts are too deep; you cannot understand them, so you mustn't try, yet you feel as though you have known her for a thousand years. You leave her, but she never leaves you. That is how I describe Ariel.
As I stood there at that party, watching her caress her beloved roses, I felt as though I had offered tribute to a Greek goddess, a priestess, a representation of sacred femininity. That said, now you can understand my situation. How could a man like myself become any closer than a mere worshipper? Did I even dare to do that?
In Italy, I did not have any respect for women at all. "Use them like a hanky and toss them out", that was my motto, and one that I followed like a religious precept. My nights were filled with wine, smoke, licking lips and stroking thighs. Find a large pair of tits, talk to her nice, take her home. Bang bang, said my headboard as the sheer vigor of my love-making-if so self-obsessed an activity could ever be called that-caused the owner of the tits to slam into it. A wild ascent into oblivion, and then send the hated creature away. Then a spark, a flame, a wisp of smoke, and then I would lay grinning, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Sono stato Maestro. Ero il re. Ero Dio.
Then the unfortunate event, the flight from Italy, the entrance into the freakshow, and all of a sudden Don Juan had no sex life. It was maddening. You'd think such tribulation would drive me to contemplation, or even God, but it didn't. I was even angrier than ever, and now with no voice to express myself, my soul was nothing but one livid shriek. My fellow freaks were frightened of me. They had stereotypical notions about Italian men, and I reinforced every last one: the arm-waving, the fury, the dramatic behavior. The only one I wasn't was religious. Yes, they feared me, and I did not care. I did not want to be one of them. I stayed because Mr. Y promised to restore my voice one day, and give me a job.
I remember meeting Alf and his wife for the first time. It was after my first dinner as a "freak", and I was staring up at the were very polite, and addle-brained Polly was quite adorable, even sexy, but I did not show any emotion. I glared at them until they felt awkward and went away. I did not belong in a freakshow, making friends with these bizarre people. I didn't belong in Italy, either. I continued to stare at the moon, but all at once it swam and blurred, and an awful hot teardrop hit my throat.
"Hello," said a little voice.
I coughed and wiped my eyes. When I regained my sight, I saw a little girl with a crutch. She had a malformed leg, pale baby skin, and black hair tied with a big organza bow. She had a little doll.
"Hello," she repeated, limping over and sitting on me. "I'm Ariel. Why are you sad?"
I was a hateful grouch, but I couldn't bear to be mean to this pretty little girl. Not when her eyes were watery like that. I smiled and shrugged.
She nodded as though I had recited a whole monologue. "Sometimes I'm sad, too." She held up her rag-doll. "This is Barbara. She's sad because she's a cyclops."
It was true. The doll had only one button eye.
"But we can be friends because we're both freaks. See? I have a backwards leg, and my Daddy's like a bear, and God ripped my Mama's arm off. He didn't want her to be born, and He tried to hold her back, but my grandparents wanted her more, and her arm got ripped off. God almost stopped me from being born too, but my parents pulled so hard that my leg only got busted; it didn't rip off."
And so she went on and on, telling me the whole mythology behind the Fleck family, until at last she was sitting in my lap with Barbara.
"Say!" she eventually chirped, eyes illuminated with a discovery. "Did God try to stop you from being born, too? Did he rip your talking-box out on accident?"
It's a good thing I couldn't talk, or I may have hurt her feelings with a bitter laugh. The last time God and I had a talk, I was halfway across the Atlantic Ocean with Mr. Y, and I had flung my rosary overboard, followed by a gob of spit and the declaration that I was my own God now. It was probably eaten by a whale, in which case I am definitely going to Hell.
"Freaks are speical," Ariel informed me importantly, "Because God loves us and tried to stop us from being born. Isn't that nice?"
If only He'd succeeded. Yet, despite my grouchiness, I became very fond of little Ariel, with her quirky, babyish outlook on life, her optimistic platitudes, and the way she was apt to bow her head, fold her hands, and recite "The Raven" entirely fom memory. As a result, I befriended Mr. and Mrs. Fleck, and since they were friends with everyone else, me and Mr. Y became friends with all of Coney Island's freaks. One big freakish family, with Ariel as our intrepid little moral support.
And then, a month later, completely out of the blue, this little eight-year old tried-but failed-to kill herself, saved only by the misconception that the palms were the place to cut yourself. We found her in a closet, asleep but alive in a puddle of blood. Everyone was absolutely gobsmacked. It turned out that some customer had made a comment about the sad, unfortunate life of freaks, and with her cheerful world of illusions and uniqueness destoyed, Ariel knew that she was not special. For the better part of an hour, Mr. Y, myself, and others listened in disbelief as she wept out the most bleak, hopeless, heart-breaking things, ending with a soft, "God didn't make me special. He broke me and threw me out."
Poor mentally-impaired Polly, already driven to her breaking point, disintegrated into sobs on her husband, who held Ariel to his chest as though someone were coming to drag her away. What in the world could anyone say to that? We were silent. It was like the punchline to the most horrible joke we ever heard. It was Mr. Y who came to the rescue with soothing words and the promise of a better day. I clenched my fists. I wanted to find whoever was responsible for hurting Ariel and choke the life out of them. I'll never (I said to myself) let her get this sad again.
And so, I became her pal. I couldn't talk, but I could dust off my English skills and write to her. She was a bright little girl, and after a while, I was able to actualy teach her Italian, a language perfectly suited to her musical voice. It was my consolation, for I could not speak myself. I nicknamed her "little girl", which is Signorina in Italian, and as the years went by we became chummier and chummier, and she became prettier and prettier, though she never lost her quirky, deep thoughts.
I was there to see her turn "double-digits", I was there on New Year's Day, 1900, when everyone ran around screaming that it was the Twentieth Century. I was there when her body matured into that of a woman, when her hair went up and her skirts went to the floor, when her mother got killed, when Mr. Y announced the opening of Phantasma. I was there with her, watching the stars, when it occurred to me that I always wanted to be there. I wanted to be there to kiss her, and marry her, and make love with her, and kiss her pregnant belly, and smoke cigars when she gave birth to my children. I wanted to be there forever.
But I had to become a better man. I had to be the kind of man who could really deserve a treasure like Ariel. The very idea of Gregory De Rossi, that wicked woman-user, smothering her rose-petal virgin flesh with his his coarse, animalistic copulating made me nauseous. I had to be different. I was criminal once, but I couldn't be anymore. I had to be re-born. I had to take on an entirely new identity.
Then it struck me. The character I was supposed to portray, Dr. Gangle, he was a former criminal. What did the pamphlet say? Now he's a perfect gentleman. Ha! Perfetto! Eccellente! I resolved, that very minute, to become everything a perfect gentleman was. I visualized Dr. Gangle. An eccentric sort of fellow, yes, but polite and truly good. I could make the transformation go deeper than makeup and costuming. If only I could imagine what this Dr. Gangle would do in any given situation, I could figure out how to change.
Alright, then! cried Dr. Gangle in my mind. If you want to be like me, we'll start tomorrow-on opening day.
Opening day! Yes, we were ready for it. The streets were ready to be filled, the costumes packed on the racks were ready to be worn, our new lives-my new life-was ready to begin. Everything was born-again.
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Early on opening day, Ariel went swooping around the hall, knocking on doors and thwarting any plans anyone might have made to sleep later than six in the morning, chirping, "Good morning, everyone! Rise and shine! Opening day, today! Breakfast soon!"
At length her cries were rewarded as bleary-eyed freaks in hair curlers and night-robes came staggering out into the daylight, lighting cigarettes as they headed off to get dressed. It was like magic: we strolled into the dressing rooms looking like our ho-hum selves, but when we emerged in full makeup and costume we were a sight to be marveled at, a vision of extreme gothic beauty, the brilliant brainchild of Mr. Y, who designed every aspect of our appearances. We men, naturally, had been finished long before the ladies, so we went to the breakfast tent first.
We sat at the table reserved for freaks, Alf, now transformed into "Mr. Squelch"-looked scary in a black military-esque jacket, his eyelids blackened. He looked like he could kill you. Me? I had become "Dr. Gangle" with the help of metallic, reptillian makeup, and with my dark frock coat and hat I looked a bit like an Italian Count Dracula. My voice trumpet hung by a velvet rope. With no ladies around, we men cracked lewd jokes (while Alf glared) and piled our plates with sausage. A day like this-particularly mine, for I was Master of Ceremonies- would require a lot of fuel.
"Here come the lady-freaks!" announced Damien eventually, and in marched the painted, costumed ladies to unanimous approval, but the only one I really saw was Ariel. She looked like she stepped out of a silent film, all black and white with cherry lips and smoky, glimmering eyes, her throat decorated with lace, and her waist rising small and delicious in her dress. (Her hair was also radically short, but it was a wig, for Alf would not allow Mr. Y cut her hair.) Mamma Mia!
"Lord, help us!" cried Mr. Squelch as he rose to embrace her. I silently congratulated him for siring such a beauty. "What are we going to do, Ee-talian? We ain't spruce enough to be seen with the fabulous Miss Fleck here!"
I needed no reminding.
"Daddy! You look so scary!" Ariel bubbled, squeezing her cheek against Alf's, and for a moment Daddy and Daughter Fleck made a heart-warming picture.
Then she slowly took in the sight of me, and her rosy mouth opened wide in glee. "Oh, look at you!" she cried. "You look like a completely different man! A very-" Her eyelids drooped prettily, and she poked my nose-"Handsome one."
My heart filled with warmth.
"Hey, Ariel! Lookin' cute!" called Damien.
"No more compliments! You're embarrassing me," Ariel said demurely, sitting very straight. Something about fine clothes makes one feel very dignified. "Pass the sausage and eggs, please! And toast. I'm partial to toast. Coffee, too. You may as well pass the jam as well, I need it for my toast."
We ate our fill of all that good food, stealing admiring glances at each other's costumes and feeling proud to be eating at a nice table with a tablecloth and fine china, segregated from the common performers and workers, who were relegated to picnic benches. At Phantasma there was a definite and well-defined hierarchy. On the bottom rung were the janitors, followed by the maintenence crew, then vendors, then security, then the "common" performers, then the performing, costumed freaks (we insisted on being called "freaks"; it was a term we embraced) then the "Trio", then Mr. Y, the boss. In this way, Phantasma truly was like a city, with a society, classes, and expectations.
"Excuse me!" announced a voice with a strong French accent, and everyone looked up from their plates. It was Madame Giry. "Thank you," she said. "Mr. Y wishes to extend his thanks to the crews, without whom this opening day would not have been possible. He also wishes luck to his common performers, as well as his thirteen freaks-"
It was here that we freaks-even those who were still chewing their food-burst into cheers, clinking utensils together and toasting each other with our coffee mugs and bacon slices until Madame Giry's glare finally shut us up.
"Furthermore," she continued stiffly, "Mr. Y would like his Trio to report to him in the Ayrie, together, as soon as they are finished with their breakfast. The rest of you may do as you please until your individual acts, and you are reminded that the park will open in one hour. That is all." And, as swiftly as she had come, Madame Giry pushed aside the flap and was gone.
"Ah'm so jealous," griped Ann loudly, causing her twin to wince. "Y'all get to go into the Ayrie. Desk-raab it for us later, woncha?"
Genevieve pounced on that idea gladly. "Oh, yes, please do. We'll all hear about it after dinner. Oh, won't that be fun, Damien?" she gushed to her brother as she started on yet another lollipop. "I do love stories. You're so lucky, Ariel, although I guess if I were Mr. Y I'd love to have such a cutie in my Trio."
Damien chuckled. "She's a real peach. Don't fluster the Master too much, young lady."
"I can assure you that flustering employers is not something Ariel has been brought up to do," Alf said sharply, his grudge against the Pennysworths making him take it entirely the wrong way. "Mr. Y has known her ever since she was a child, and he knows she's been raised right. Doesn't need to be told twice to do anything, does her job and does it well with no hullaballo. I should scarcely think that a man like Mr. Y would hire a girl with the intent of hankering after her, hmm?"
That effectively subdued the Pennysworth siblings, who awkwardly mumbled that they hadn't meant to suggest anything as they returned to their breakfasts.
"Well, I'm finished eating!" Ariel declared, smiling nervously at Alf. "Are you finished, Daddy? And you, Gangle?"
We were. Wishing our co-workers luck, we left the tent and headed for the center of Phantasma, where Mr. Y's workshop and dwelling-place, the "Ayrie", rose up into the sky like a great black obelisk. It was the highest point in his city, and all the streets went out from its base like the spokes of a giant wheel. At the very top floor were two windows shaped like giant, staring eyes. Even when he was not physically present, it seemed as though Mr. Y was always there, high above his world, watching all day and especially all night, when the lights within the workshop made those eyes glow like the eyes of God, high above us in the darkness.
Now we stood at the base of that tall building, craning our necks to see the tip of it. All we'd ever seen until now were the rough sketches. It was like being on the threshold of Heaven; the excitement of what lay ahead in Mr. Y's workshop made us anxious. Finally I essayed to open the door, and we began our ascent. Up and up we went, on a long spiral staircase, the clatter of our steps and the rustle of Ariel's skirts the only noise we made. It went on for so long that it almost became hypnotic. It seemed that there was nothing else in the world but the darkness, and our breath, and our footsteps, all going about in an endless circle, until suddenly there was a door.
We tried to look down, to see how far we had climbed, but we could not. All we could see below us was a pit of darkness. It was as though we had materialized from nothingness, and someone behind us had made every step disappear as we climbed. Now we were in Mr. Y's world. Ariel timidly rapped on the door.
"Who's there?" called Mr. Y's voice from within.
"Me," Ariel blurted cutely. "Er, it's me, Miss Fleck, and my father, and Dr. Gangle."
"Ah. The Trio. Come in."
We stepped out of the darkness, into the Ayrie, and let out a collective cry of amazement. It was the most bizarre, magnificent place we had ever seen. It was like a cathedral dedicated to the worship of music and artifice. The ceiling rose majestically to a dizzying height, a large golden angel rising up the wall and spreading her wings over us. All around the room were all sorts of fascinating things: instruments, maps of exotic lands, strange machines, automatron robots, statues, things that whirred and made tinkling tunes, mirrors, and roses. A chandelier of golden Medusa heads hung above us. There was a grand piano by the windows, covered in sheet music, and near that was a small curtained chamber. Ariel laughed aloud when she saw that there was a relief sculpture of herself in a peacock costume against the back wall, along with a bust of her father's tattooed head. This was above and beyond anything we'd imagined. Mr. Y was a genius!
Mr. Y! Suddenly I became aware of him. He was standing by his piano in a long black robe, a white half-mask obscuring the right side of his face, smiling. He clearly found our astonishment amusing. We'd been so busy gawking at the Ayrie that we had forgotten him! I blushed in mortification and bowed, clumsily, and the other two immediately followed suit.
"Good morning, Master," we chorused.
Mr. Y nodded. "Good morning. I was about to ask you what you think of the Ayrie, but you've already made that abundantly clear. Welcome to my world, my friends." He cast a quick, careless look across it, as though it were something he'd thrown together in a weekend, and then he crossed to the piano. "You already understand your schedules, so we needn't bother going over that, but you will need these."
He gave us each a chain with a key on it, as well as a stiff, laminated card.
"Those are the master keys," Mr. Y explained. "They'll get you into anything with a lock in Phantasma, just in case I need you to go somewhere. As for those cards, they're proof that you have the authority to do so. At the end of the day you turn both items in to me."
We examined our cards for a moment.When we looked up again, Mr. Y was sitting down on the piano bench, looking at some sheet music. The light streaming in through the eye-shaped windows made him look both impressive and tired. He tapped a key.
"Provided that you three don't have any questions," he said almost glumly, no longer looking at us, "You may go. I know you'll carry out your duties well."
"Yes, Master," we said, and all too soon we had to leave that wonderful Ayrie and head back down the dark, spiraling stairs.
"Gee," Ariel said as we descended. "What do you suppose is eating Mr. Y? Isn't he excited about opening day? He looks miserable."
"I'll say," I added. Really, Mr. Y did look miserable!
"Mr. Y hasn't got the luxury of enjoying it the way we do," replied Alf reprovingly, misinterpreting our concerns for complaints. "Running a big operation like Phantasma is a very stressful thing, financially and otherwise. We mustn't criticize. Not after everything Mr. Y has done for us."
See what I mean about Alf making you guilty for no reason? Anyhow, once we reached the bottom, we could see the band congregating by the main gate, where throngs of people were gathered. Reporters were preparing their cameras. I caught sight of Meg Giry scuttling into a dressing barn with two other dancers. Banners were fluttering. The rest of the gang was getting into position. Here it was: the day we'd been waiting for.
Suddenly Ariel threw her arm around Alf's neck, and then mine. I wanted to kiss her. "We're gonna be famous!" she shrilled, and all three of us howled with laughter. "To the main gate, Trio! Step lively!"
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The band struck up a loud E-chord for the dual purpose of announcing us and shutting the crowd up. The three of us joined hands and came strolling through the illuminated main gate, where we were met with awe-struck murmurs and the sensation of a thousand interested eyes burning upon us. Compared to them, we were downright creepy. Nevertheless, we had this routine down to a science.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" announced Alf loudly. "Mr. Y welcomes you to Phantasma!"
Ariel piped up. "Featuring Dr. Gangle, Master O' Ceremonies!"
Puff puff puff! went a couple dozen cameras, followed by a spattering of flash bulbs and powder. I realized that I'd forgotten to brush my teeth.
"And Miss Fleck, aerialist extrordinaire!" Alf said again. I ran my tongue hastily over my teeth.
"The amazing Mr. Squelch," said Ariel, "World's strongest man!"
My turn! "And direct from Paris, France..."
Ariel gestured behind her. "Coney Island's Ooh-La-La Girl..."
"Meg Giry!" all three of us cried, and hustled away to allow Meg and her dancers to come prancing out. Judging by the whistles and renewed vigor of the cameras, the spectators really appreciated Miss Giry's very brief costume. The band struck up a saucy little number as we sat down to watch and sing along.
Welcome each and everyone, to our firmament of fun
Our buffet of bally-hoo!
It's where Coney comes to play, and it's opening today
And it's only for you!
Just as I knew he would, Alf couldn't resist casting a disapproving eye at the men who were getting their money's worth of a look at Meg's rear as she danced. His skin pinked under his tattoos and he turned to Ariel, picking imaginary lint off her dress, as though trying to make their father-daughter relationship obvious to these unreasonable perverts. Ariel didn't notice. She was singing. I waited for my cue.
Entertainment day and night, sure to dazzle and delight
And of course we'll be there too! (insert coquettish yoo-hoo from Meg here)
We're so happy that you're here, for the season's big premiere
And it's only for yoooou!
A final flourish of the drums and trumpets, and Meg Giry bowed out to wild, enthusiastic applause. I hopped up, ready to make my next announcement.
"Ladies and gentlemen! That was Meg Giry, the Ooh-La-La Girl! Five performances daily, only here at Phantasma!" Ariel and I met eyes and smiled. It was time for her big debut. "And now, if you will kindly make your way to the trapeze tent, straight and to your left, Mr. Y is pleased to present the aerial exoticism of the fabulous Miss Fleck! Half-bird, half-woman, one-hundred percent artiste! Not to be missed..."
As I led the patrons into the trapeze tent, Ariel was hustled off into a dressing room with her costumers. Alf and I assumed seats at the front of the stands, along with the rest of the freak gang. This was really a great moment for all of us, who were like a family, to see our special girl distinguished in the sight of all of Brooklyn. As the patrons settled into their seats, I heard them praising the handsome tent and pointing excitely up at the aerial hoop and riggings.
"It says in this little paper that Miss Fleck lived with peacocks, Mama!" I heard a kid say.
"No, dearie, it's a character she plays, surely," replied the mother. "Remember what Aunt Lottie read from The Times? She's the daughter of that lady who got killed."
"Oh?" said another woman, obviously a friend, in surprise. "She is? You don't mean that lady with that outlandish Greek name? The acrobat?"
"I do mean her. The girl going to perform is her daughter."
"You don't say. And doing acrobatics, just like her mother? Oh, how precious."
Beside me, Alf was twisting the sleeve of his jacket, his tattooed face drawn into an "I'm-the-nervous-Daddy" expression. I wondered if he heard that. But just then there was a spatter of applause, for Ariel, dressed in a brilliant blue aerialist's get-up, had just emerged and was waving pleasantly at the crowd. The gentlemen of the crowd in particular had some enthusiastic remarks regarding the way the blue leotard complemented her anatomy, which, of course, Alf heard and became accordingly panicked. His face rapidly changed back and forth from fatherly pride to fatherly fury, from smiling wistfully to glaring someone down. God, it was funny. I had to admit, Ariel was looking pretty...
"Hey!" cried Dr. Gangle in my mind. "It is very rude to look at a young lady like that. Behave!"
Ouch. Yes, sir.
Ariel got situated on the lowered hoop and a large cloth, like a sheet, was fastened onto her back. She kissed her mother's ring, gave the rig operators a thumbs-up, and up she slowly went, the band striking up the tender theme of Swan Lake. The long, long, sheet flowed beneath her. Up and up, and once she was all the way up, two men grabbed opposite sides the hanging sheet, and slowly walked away to reveal the impressive illusion. All at once, Ariel was a radiantly beautiful peacock, her massive tail spread out beneath her. The audience-and all of us freaks-cried out and cheered in admiration.
And then, in one swift motion, they jerked the fabric, and it went fluttering to the ground. The music swelled. For a moment, Ariel sat suspended like a bird in midair, and then she kissed her mother's ring, gripped the sides of the hoop, and went right into the acrobatics. Terrible word to describe it. It was more like ballet, the way she flowed and danced so gracefully to the strains of that haunting music. The lights went out, and a spotlight fell upon her. She became like a swan, a peacock, on her own little white lake, where time was of little consequence and there was nothing but beauty and music.
"Oh Damien!" I heard Genevieve whisper. "Isn't she utterly marvelous? I declare I could cry this instant."
"Marvelous," the brother echoed.
"A sight fer sore aahs, that's fer shore," added Aggie-Ann.
I was mesmerized. On the ground she had been so limpy, but she was perfectly at home in the air. It also struck me that she must be very strong, for she actually did an upside-down split a few times, holding herself up by her arms. She was having such fun, flipping and falling so carelessly, and yet so controlled. A sensation of something between love and awe gripped me. It did not go away until the music faded, the lights rose, and Ariel spread her arms in a dramatic flourish as everyone got on their feet to applaud her. Her eyes fluttered, her mouth trembled, but she did not cry. She kissed her fingertips and gave a little wave that reduced Alf and the whole freak section to sniffles. That was the way Polly always ended her routine. It was like a little hug from the grave.
"Oh, Alf, she was beautiful," Mrs. Beardsley cooed, but the poor man too overwhelmed to say anything.
I jumped up, wiped my eyes, cleared my throat, and announced, "Ariel Fleck, ladies and gentlemen!"
One last burst of applause as the lady of the hour came down and was walked off, and then everyone rumbled to their feet. Alf hurried to meet his daughter in her dressing room. My heart was singing with happiness for both the Flecks. Unfortunately, I'd have to congratulate her later, for I had a schedule to adhere to as Master of Ceremonies. I had to get to the next event:
But before I slipped out, I caught a really touching glimpse of Alf reaching her door and saw Ariel rush to hug him and wipe the watery black make-up gunk off his eyes. I smiled and went into Phantasma, which was now jumping with amazed, thoroughly entertained patrons. I was very happy.
"Excusez-moi!" A hand suddenly gripped my arm, and I jumped. It was Meg Giry, now decently attired in a robe. Her makeup was smeared and her hair was a bit tousled, but she still looked good. "I'm sorry, Dr. Gangle, but have you seen Mr. Y? Er, recently, I mean?"
"The last time I saw Mr. Y was in the Ayrie," I said honestly. "And he was not looking happy. I don't know if he's left since then. He didn't look like he was planning to. He wasn't dressed for it."
This seemed to make her sad. "Oh."
"If he has gone out, I know he'll certainly be back at the Ayrie in an hour. The Flecks and I are scheduled to go to the Ayrie then." I wanted to be useful, but I hadn't the time. "Sorry, but I don't have even a minute to spare, next performance is coming up..."
"Mine too," she said. She gave me a creaky, sympathetic smile and hurried off, a thin golden girl in a bustling crowd.
Schedule and voice trumpet in hand, I went bouncing to the next two acts. Off I went to announce Genevieve and Damien's routine, a dark, edgy affair of fire-breathing and bodily contortions that seemed particuarly hellish coming after a performance from Ariel, and then off to Aggie-Ann's musical performance. Mr. Y had designed their dress to be different on each sister's side, to to emphasize their individuality. One side white and bubbly, the other side dark and practical. After a brief period of humorous bantering, they played their banjo and sang, the music twice as fun coming from a two-headed girl. Everyone loved them.
After that, it was time to head back to the Ayrie again for a brief interlude, and then back to my job. I checked my pocketwatch. I was running about ten minutes early. Very good. The schedule was running along as smooth as an oiled cog. As I made my way to the base of that towering Ayrie, I saw the Girys going in and the Flecks approaching from another road, immediately recognizable in those funny black costumes.
Alf was thoroughly recovered from his emotional scene at Ariel's show; there was only a tell-tale black smudge near one eye and an aura of wistful happiness that clashed with his "Mighty Mr. Squelch" get-up. Ariel was as cute as ever.
"You were beautiful," I told her as all three of us ascended the dark Ayrie stairs together. "Really, Signorina, you were so beautiful to watch."
"Thank you," she replied, and then her voice grew a little sweeter. "I felt beautiful doing it."
A moment of friendly silence, and then Meg Giry's voice echoed high above us, like a perky, merry ghost. "Master! Oh, Master, did you watch? The crowd? I hope you're proud! Hmm? Yes? How about the costume? Do you think it was...too revealing?"
"YES!" yelled Alf.
Meg's voice stopped. Someone else in the Ayrie said something. Ariel and I stuffed our sleeves in our mouths and almost fell down the stairs laughing, looking at Alf in amazement. Alf, in turn, smiled wryly with the air of a man who has done his duty. We pulled ourselves together and kept climbing. Every once in a while Ariel began gagging with laughter, which made the rest of us snort and giggle, but we kept quiet.
"Oh, Daddy," Ariel gushed. "You're such a card."
"Card," Alf echoed, but then he suddenly stopped. He felt his jacket. He patted his pocket. Muttering, he began digging through different pocket compartments, and then he seemed to realize something terrible. "No! I...son of a-!" He came dangerously close to swearing.
"Daddy, what's wrong?"
Alf looked back down the stairs and let out an infuriated sigh. "That card," he griped. "The one we're supposed to carry around that Mr. Y gave us. It's sitting by the drinking fountain. I was looking at it before I got a drink and set it down. Anyone could grab it and take off-I've got to go get it!"
"You'd better," I told him. "Hurry; we'll tell Mr. Y where you are."
"No, don't!" he cried, beginning his hasty descent. "He'll think I'm unreasonable and can't be trusted with things. No, say that I had to help a patron with something. I'll go as fast as I can!"
And so down Alf ran, his hurried steps clattering, leaving me and Ariel alone to walk up.
When I was certain that he was out of earshot, I drew my arm about my secret love and said, quietly, "You're famous at last, Signorina." I wanted to blurt out I love you desperately, but could only say, "I am proud to know you."
"Oh, stop!" she cried, wriggling out of my grasp and hustling ahead to the Ayrie door. "Thank you, but stop. I can't stand all this worshipping, not even from you, Signor. Please, just treat me like you always have. All of us freaks are equally great today."
"Okay." I felt stupid.
She grabbed the doorknob but didn't open the door. She blinked and looked down. I hoped she hadn't forgetten her card too.
"By the way," she said abruptly, turning and meeting my eyes. "The roses you gave me yesterday are nicer than all the flowers I've recieved so far today. I love them."
A thrill went up and down my spine like a telegram wire.
She suddenly seemed shy, and turned away again. "I don't know why I just thought of that."
"Christine! Christine!"
Madame Giry's sudden shriek made us stumble back in alarm. Within the Ayrie, there was a brief silence and then an angry grumble from Mr. Y. Madame Giry said something vague. Footsteps snapped along the floor, shuffled, and then continued snapping, getting louder. The doorknob rattled. Before we could do anything, the door swung open and blinding light streamed into our eyes. It was Meg. Not expecting to see two freaks coming out of the dark, she gasped and clutched her heart. Then she recognized us.
"Just going in," I began to say apologetically, but she let out an irritated huff and swept past us down the stairs.
Within the room, Mr. Y and Madame Giry continued to fight. We sat on the steps and listened through the shut door. It was hard to hear around Meg's retreating footfalls.
"...where...when...hired you? Not her! Who kept working...waiting in this...sacrificing our very lives!"
"Giry!" growled Mr. Y.
"And who helped you buy Astley's? And Haley's? Who financed that?" Madame Giry sounded absolutely livid. "Meg and I did!"
"I don't see how this-!"
"And the investors! And the press! And the politicians! Where was Christine? Gone! Long gone!"
Ariel and I looked at each other, bewildered. Who was Christine?
"We have slaved here in this dump for a decade, and where was Christine? Touring France! She chose Raoul, chose his beauty and money! It's high time you faced up to the-"
"ENOUGH!" yelled Mr. Y, bringing the fight to a standstill.
"You...!" hissed Madame Giry levelly. "Put-that-gun-down."
My heart jolted. Ariel squeaked. A gun?
There was a horrible silence as we crouched in the dark, holding our breath, the tension vibrating in the air. I began wildly planning what I would have to do if gunshots went off.
"Ariel," I whispered. "Get behind me."
I felt her shuffle and shrink against the back of my jacket.
Mr. Y's voice, more deadly than I had ever heard it, broke the silence. "You will be repaid as I promised you would. Now-" A definite sound of a gun being either loaded or unloaded-Ariel whimpered-"If you've anything else left to say?"
There was a defiant silence, followed by heavy, angry footsteps like the lowest notes on a piano. Madame Giry was coming towards us. I got up quickly just as the knob rattled, Ariel still grabbing me.
She flung open the door and yelped when she saw us.
"Oh! Oh, I..."
I smiled weakly. "Er, just going in..."
Her fear dissolved into disgust. She turned around. "Your freaks are here!" she spat to Mr. Y, and then she went stalking down the stairs, leaving me and Ariel to tip-toe nervously into the Ayrie, our insides quivering.
When we got in, Mr. Y was leaning on his piano, in the same robe he'd been wearing all day, looking at a small handgun. Ariel grabbed my arm. But there was no reason to fear; Mr. Y put it away under a pile of music. He seemed much more concerned about a nearby automatron. She was a beautifully realistic lady with curly hair and a dress made of some shimmery gold fabric. One of her arms was broken off. Could this be the Christine that Madame Giry was yelling about? The one who chose some guy called Raoul over him?
"Dr. Gangle," Mr. Y greeted, apparently still upset by the arguement. "Miss Fleck. I trust Phantasma is running smoothly?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, too afraid to say anything else.
"Excellent." He didn't seem to care one way or the other. He frowned. "Where is Mr. Squelch?"
As if on cue, his question was interrupted by the sound of loud, clattering footsteps. The Ayrie door scraped upon, and in stumbled Alf, panting like he'd just run a marathon, the lost card in hand. He put it in his pocket and looked apologetically at Mr. Y.
"I apologize," he said. "I was..."
"Never mind," interrupted Mr. Y, satisfied that he was simply present. "I need you to fix the Christine Daae automatron for me. Her arm-" Here his voice darkened, and his eyes grew bitter-"Got broken off."
I was right! Ariel and I gave each other a quick, significant look.
Interpreting Mr. Y's anger for dissatisfaction with his tardiness, Alf bowed his head meekly and went immediately to do as he was told. He knew nothing of the strange arguement.
"As for you, Dr. Gangle," he said, "I need you to sort some of my paperwork into piles: Bills, personal letters, and all else. And Miss Fleck, I need you to dictate a letter for me in shorthand, and then write it out nicely on stationary."
Off I went to the treacherous pile of paperwork, my head swmming with questions, and Ariel took up a pad and pen, looking equally thoughtful. I tried to hear what she was dictating as I sorted.
"My dear Miss Daae," Mr. Y said slowly as Ariel scribbled rapidly. "Your esteemed reputation has reached my ears across the Atlantic..."
What exactly was said, I don't remember, but I know that he invited Christine Daae, apparently a very famous French opera singer, to come and sing an aria to close out the inaugaural season of Phantasma on September the third. The letter was absolutely oozing with compliments and poetic expressions, but Ariel's shorthand skills were impressive. Her pen flew across the paper as though she were a machine.
But when I glanced over every now and again, I saw that her face was pale and her mouth was tight. When she finished dictating the final line-"I humbly request this of you, not only as a businessman but an avid fan"-she put down the pen and looked at the Christine Daae automaton, almost as though its presence hurt her feelings. Sadly, she went to fetch a sheet of good stationary.
Alf bent "Christine's" newly-repaired arm. "If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Y," he asked, keeping his tone aloof, "Have you ever met the real Christine Daae before?"
I squirmed at the long, awkward silence, as did Ariel, who was now translating the shorthand into beautiful calligraphy.
Mr. Y looked out the window, his jaw firm. "Yes," he replied, in a tone that forbade any further inquiries.
At length we all completed our tasks and were dismissed, but before we left, Mr. Y put the completed letter into an envelope, wrote an address on it, and stamped it. Then he gave it to Ariel.
"Take this to the nearest post-box and deposit it, please, Miss Fleck."
(
)
(
)
Neither me nor Ariel told Alf about what had happened between Mr. Y and Madame Giry. He had enough to say about the presence of a life-like woman in the Ayrie.
"So realistic!" whispered Alf frantically as we descended back into Phantasma. "I've never seen an automaton so like a real woman before! And showing so much skin! I felt like a fiend, touching her! I almost wanted to apologize."
Ariel and I had a good, nervous laugh. Well, I did. Ariel looked like she was going to cry, the letter clenched in her fist.
"I mean it! I'd like to know why Mr. Y keeps her around." His forehead wrinkled as though he had a pretty good guess. "I've heard of admiring someone, but keeping a doll of them around...I have never known Mr. Y to be unreasonable before; this whole thing seems terribly lascivious-"
"Daddy, no!" Ariel almost wailed. There were tears in her voice. "Don't! This conversation is... indecent!"
That stopped Alf dead in his tracks. "It is indecent," he admitted in a stricken voice. "Land sakes, I guess I don't know what's got into me. I must be embarrassing you. Never mind, dear, we won't talk about it anymore. I'm sorry."
We actually didn't talk about anything at all for the whole way down. I had a lot to ponder. I had never known Mr. Y to be a man who cared about women all that much, and all of a sudden this Christine Daae had entered the picture. What was more, Madame Giry knew who she was. She knew that, at some point, this Christine had made a decision between him and some fellow called Raoul, which had to have been before I met him. I was amazed. He was still pining over this woman ten years later? So much that he'd pull a gun on someone who taunted him about it? And now he was inviting her over?
Worst of all, this whole fiasco unearthed emotions in Ariel that confused me, and if I admitted it to myself, they even made me jealous. She seemed to be taking this revelation very badly for reasons beyond her strict moral upbringing. This was not mere maidenly embarrassment. When she reached the nearest post-box, she slammed the letter into it like it had done her a great injustice and turned away with her cheeks flaming.
She was unhappy all the rest of the day. Our freaks friends-and even Alf-assumed that she was heartsick for her mother, but I had a feeling that she was heartsick for someone else who, up until today, had seemed somehow attainable. Night fell, the park closed, eveybody raved and laughed about their successes, the make-up came off, the costumes put away, Ariel read "Les Miserables" (looking appropriately miserable as she did), and Phantasma went to bed. Even if Ariel did want to look at stars with me, we couldn't; it was a cloudy night, and neither I nor "Dr. Gangle" would have known what to say anyway.
(Gangle stops the story here for now.)
The hour was up. Mr. De Rossi's eyes, which had been swimming with old memories and unresolved issues, refocused and looked soberly up into those of Mr. Whittington, who was contemplating all the nuances and discoveries in this futher unfolding of the tale.
"Mr. Whittington," the prisoner asked seriously. "I must ask you to do something."
"What?"
"I want you to hug Ariel." His eyes closed. "Nothing crazy, just hug her for a bit. She's too proud to say she needs it. She sits in here and lies to me, tries to tell me not to worry about her, but I know her too well. She's a very hurt girl."
Mr. Whittington nodded, the mental image of Miss Fleck's tears flowing onto the pictures of her parents fresh in his mind. "You can count on me."
"One more thing. This is going to sound a little strange, but listen. When you come back again, tell me how it was, hugging her." He blushed, unable to explain what he wanted. His accent thickened in embarrassment. "Ah, please, I not trying to be strange. It is-a jus'... I no remember what-a she...smells like. What-a she feels like."
Rodger eyebrows raised.
"No, no! You misunderstand," panicked Mr. De Rossi. "It is like-a this: for de past feef-teen years, we no touch each other." He tapped the glass sadly. "Only pretend we can. So many times I want to hug her. So many times she sit-a there and cry, and I not able to help. I no sleep. I forgetting what-a she is like to hug. I not know how to ess-plain."
"I understand," said Mr. Whittington, and he really did understand. "I'll do as you've asked. But don't lose sleep over her anymore. She's safe."
"You very good man," said Mr. De Rossi, bowing his head. "When I get out-a here, I give-a you lotsa money."
On this grateful note, the interview was over, and Mr. Whittington and Rodger left with an even thicker pile of notes. Out they strolled into the slushy streets.
Rodger swallowed deeply and asked the question. "Uh, Jay," he said, carelessly eyeing a group of playing children, "You mentioned that Ariel's eating a lot. Is she eating at your place?"
Mr. Whittington's reply was blunt and honest. "She's living at my place."
"She's...living at your place?" Rodger exclaimed. "You're not actually serious, are you?"
"Serious as a heart attack."
"But...but that's...!"
"But what? Mr. De Rossi asked me to take care of her, and I am."
Rodger rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"Look, Jay. I know Ariel's cute. She's got a touching little backstory. The De Rossi guy's apparently crazy about her, whether she feels the same way or not. But think about it. In a month or two, this guy's getting out of jail. To what job, may I ask? Who's gonna hire a guy who's been in jail for fifteen years? And what about Ariel? Having a song written about what a lonely drunk you are looks pretty bad on a job application. So you've got two pals who are homeless and have no ability to make money, but they both know that you hand out free lunches. And before you know it-whoop, zoop, sloop! You're running a free boarding house."
"She's giving me tremendous insider information about Phantasma," countered Mr. Whittington levelly. "Would it really be decent of me to make buckets of royalties off her story and leave her to freeze on the street? What would happen if the book became a success, but then she told everyone that I treated her like a bum? That would reflect very poorly upon me."
Rodger silently conceded that his friend had a point.
"And furthermore," Mr. Whittington continued. "What if it was you who was in jail and Bernice was homeless?"
"Now see here," Rodger replied, annoyed. "That's not a parallel case. For one..."
"I have no desire to continue debating this. I've made my decision. If I end up running a boarding house, so be it. Ariel does not presume upon anything. In fact, she insists on cooking and cleaning to make up for the costs she incurs, and thanks me every five seconds. I can see why Mr. De Rossi likes her. I guess all she needed was someone to treat her with respect, and not throw dimes and beer at her."
They reached Mr. Whittington's house.
"Well, if you've got to maintain good public relations, you've got to do what you've got to do," sighed Rodger. "It's your life, Jay. Do what you want. I won't whine."
"Thank you, Rodger, and thank you for all you've done for me thus far."
Rodger smiled slightly and shrugged. "Welcome."
"Breakfast tomorrow?"
"You got it, boss."
Mr. Whittington started up his stairs.
"Jay. Wait!" called Rodger suddenly. He stood, looking torn for a moment, but then he dug a crumpled bill out of his jacket pocket. He handed it to Mr. Whittington. "Buy the old girl something nice, will ya?" he muttered.
Mr. Whittington accepted the note gratefully and went inside his home, and Rodger hustled off, thoroughly perplexed at his own behavior.
Miss Fleck's face was bright and eager when her friend appeared on the threshold. She sat up on the old red couch where she'd been resting and gestured for Mr. Whittington to sit down beside her.
"How is he, Jay?" she asked. "Does he look good? Does he have any messages for me?"
"He looks better than the way I left him," Mr. Whittington answered honestly. "He's very happy that you're being fed and housed and all that sort of thing. And he actually does have a message for you, as a matter of fact."
"Really? What is it?"
"It's this," said Mr. Whittington, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into an embrace. For a moment, Miss Fleck was still with surprise, but then she closed her eyes and returned the hug, feeling the care of her imprisoned friend radiating from the warm arms of his messenger. She stayed there for a long time, trying to remember what it was like to hug him. It was so hard to remember.
"It's been a long time," she murmured softly, "Since I've been hugged."
"So I've heard," said Mr. Whittington.
NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:
As the holidays-and my church activities-pick up, updates will be slightly longer in between, but I will make every attempt to make them uniform and predictable. Writing 15-20 pages a week is pretty challenging, and that's not including the conclusion to "Freaks Never Die"! My typing fingers shall be permanently malformed, and then I myself can join a freak show with a mysterious boss.
Thanks for reading City of Wonders!