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“It was not me,” he repeated. “And here’s a hint, it shouldn’t be hard to figure out. Imagine who could have left it for you.”
“Donatella?” Scarlett breathed. She could have moved the box when she’d gone to fetch the rope. “But why?”
Ignoring her question, Legend handed Scarlett a short stack of letters. “I’m supposed to give you these, as well.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?” Scarlett said.
“Because that’s not my role.” Legend rose from his chair, moving so close to Scarlett he might have touched her. He was back in his velvet top hat and tailcoat. But he didn’t grin, or laugh, or do any of the mad things she’d begun to associate with him. He looked at her not as if he was trying see her, but as if he was trying to show her something about himself.
Again, Scarlett prickled with the feeling something was missing from him, as if the clouds had parted to reveal the sun, only there was nothing but more clouds. In Tella’s room, it seemed he’d wanted her to see how unhinged he was; he’d made her believe he might do something crazed at any moment. Now it appeared as if the opposite was true.
The words my role replayed in Scarlett’s thoughts.
“You’re not really Legend, are you?”
A faint smile.
“Does that mean yes or no?” Scarlett was in no mood for riddles.
“My name is Caspar.”
“That’s still not an answer,” Scarlett said. But even as she glared at him, puzzle pieces were clicking together inside her head, creating a complete picture of something she’d been unable to see until that moment. Around her neck, the pocket watch felt hot as she recalled the way Julian’s confession had cut off, as if he’d been physically unable to speak the words. The same thing had happened to him on the carousel, right before Scarlett had jumped.
“As a performer, magic prevents you from saying certain things,” Scarlett guessed aloud. She remembered something else then, words from a dream she’d been told she would not forget. They say Legend wears a different face every game.
Not magic. A variety of actors. It also explained why Caspar had looked dimmer and duller, like a copy of the real Legend, when they’d been up in the balcony—there really must have been some sort of glamour over him. And as Caraval had come to a close, it had begun to fade. The corners of his eyes were now red, the space beneath them puffy. In the tunnels, his fair skin had been eerily perfect, but now she could see tiny scars on his jaw, where she imagined he’d nicked himself shaving. He even had a few freckles on his nose.
“You’re not really Legend.” This time it was a statement, not a question. “That’s why you said you wouldn’t grant my wish. You’re just an actor, so you’re not capable of making wishes come true.”
It seemed the game truly wasn’t over.
Scarlett should have known better than to assume the real Legend would appear for her. How many years had she written him before ever hearing back?
“Is there really even a Legend?”
“Oh yes.” Caspar laughed, as faint as his smile, seasoned with something bitter. “Legend is very real, but most people have no idea if they have met him—includi
ng many of his performers. The master of Caraval doesn’t go around introducing himself as Legend. He’s almost always pretending to be someone else.”
Scarlett thought about the myriad people she’d seen during Caraval. She wondered if any of them had been the elusive Legend. “Have you ever met him?” she asked.
“I’m not allowed to answer that.”
In other words, he hadn’t.
“However,” he added, “it seems your sister managed to capture his attention.” Caspar nodded toward Scarlett’s hand.
Six letters, penned by two different people. Starting a season after Tella’s first correspondence.
* * *
1st day of the Harvest Season,
Year 56, Elantine Dynasty
Dear Miss Dragna,
You propose an interesting question, though I’m not sure what delusion has led you to believe I could help you. If you know my history, you’re aware of what happened between myself and your grandmother Annalise.
