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“All right, then. Tell me.”
“My grandfather taught me his best trick,” Mephistopheles said, surprising me with an actual family detail. There was a wistful expression in his gaze that made him seem like any other young gentleman. Except for the cursed mask. He shook his head. “Though I doubt my father would be pleased to hear it.”
“What did your grandfather teach you?”
He offered a smile tinged in sadness. “To dream.”
I drew my brows together. That wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting, which should have been expected coming from Mephistopheles. “Yes, but was he also good at engineering? Did he show you how to craft trick hats and boxes that saw people in half? Surely that’s more valuable in your business than a simple dream.”
“The greatest trick of all is dreaming without limits.”
“Everyone dreams, Mephistopheles,” I said. “There’s no trick to it.”
The ringmaster stood and picked up a toy-sized hot-air balloon. He beckoned me to come near and lifted it into the air, watching it hang prettily between us, all pale blue stripes, crescent moons, and tiny pearls. Up close, I could see the little wicker basket had been woven through with silver thread.
“Dreams are strange curiosities,” he said, eyes still on the balloon. “Sure, everyone possesses the ability to lay their heads down and imagine, but to do so without limitations or doubt? That is something else entirely. Dreams are boundless, shapeless things. Given strength and form from individual imaginations. They’re wishes.” He looked at me, then reached out and removed my hatpin. “All it takes is one shard of doubt to wedge itself into them”—he swiftly stuck the balloon with my pin, and the air whooshed out as it descended to the ground—“and they deflate. If you can dream without limits, you can soar to great heights. Let the magic of your imagination set you free.”
“Does your grandfather approve of your carnival?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t too rude of a question. “Or is that why you wear a mask? To hide.”
Mephistopheles stared down at the ruined balloon. “My family does not desire to know a thing about my show. They purposely act as if neither it nor I exist. As the spare heir, I was never required to be the good or decent one. I simply needed to be there in case the unthinkable happened to their favored son.”
There was no trace of bitterness that I could detect, though his words were brutally harsh in their honesty. Part of me longed to reach over and comfort him, while the more sensible side refrained from acting on the impulse.
“My grandfather passed away and my father withered. He’s still alive,” he amended, “but my brother mostly runs the estate. It was best, they said, if I didn’t displease my father with my useless dreams while he recovered. My follies were for swindlers and other lowborn thieves—things I supposedly needed to be extra wary of, since my mother is from Constantinople. They worried about society speaking even more poorly of me than they already did.”
“I’m sorry.” My heart clenched. My mother, being half Indian, had occasionally faced similar prejudices from small-minded people. “I know how hard it is to desire approval from your parents, even if it’s the last thing you truly want.”
Mephistopheles rubbed at his mask, but didn’t take it off. “Yes, well”—his voice was a bit rough—“now you see why that signet is so important to me. I might have been a disappointment to my family, but I’m not quite ready to give them up. My grandfather insisted I have it once he passed on, and it’s my last link to him.”
My hand went to the heart locket around my throat. I would go mad if anything happened to my mother’s necklace. I recalled the longing in Mephistopheles’s eyes when Thomas had produced his signet. If it were me, I’d have throttled someone until I got it back.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone your family ring was missing?”
He smiled, but it was more fierce than sweet. “I do not need anyone learning my true identity. Who knows what sort of blackmail might be used, should my name be discovered. The carnival folk are brilliant, but they’re also practical. They need coin and earn it anyway they can.”
“You believe Jian or Andreas stole your signet, then?”
“I’m not certain who stole it. They are all dear to me, but I have no idea how deep some of their own scars go.”
“That’s terrible.”
“That’s life, my dear.” He lifted a shoulder. “They are the dregs of society—the throwaways and so-called freaks. When that’s beaten into you by others, you tend to stick to yourself and live by your own code. Who can you trust when the whole world turns so savagely on you? And in the name of what? Because we choose to live by our own rules? Because a young woman would prefer to cover herself in ink instead of silk? Or because there’s a person who enjoys swallowing flames in place of mucking out alleys in the East End?” His hands clenched at his sides. “I can no more blame them for biting the hand that feeds them than I can ignore the f
act that society kicked them until they learned to strike back at anyone who dared to get close. We might band together, but we will always be apart, too. This carnival is home for now, but it won’t be forever for some. There’s always a grander dream, or larger goal, to achieve. This is the cost of dreaming without limits. This is the dark side of show business.”
I thought of one act in particular. “Like Houdini?”
Mephistopheles retrieved the broken balloon and tossed it into a rubbish bin. “Like him. Like Jian. Like Anishaa. Andreas. Cassie. And even Sebastián. We are all together—brothers and sisters—in this madness, until we’re not. I don’t relish thinking of them as thieves or scoundrels or even murderers, as you might suggest, not when that’s how so many others view them. But the fact remains I do not have the luxury of casting anyone aside. Though I am more inclined to believe it’s someone who’s not part of my troupe. I don’t know much about the captain, but he is… I’m not sure. He seems out for glory. I don’t know what he’d do with my signet or why he’d murder his own passengers, but I also can’t say he wouldn’t have stolen it or killed those people. Or had one of his crew members do the deeds for him. Perhaps he dreams of owning his own ship. My signet would fetch a decent price. And if he ends up ‘saving the day’ by finding the ‘true’ murderer, well, then, he’d be called a hero, wouldn’t he?”
“I thought dreams were good things,” I said, thinking to the start of our conversation.
“Ah, yes, but you cannot forget nightmares often begin as dreams.”
“If this dream has become such a burden, why not quit? You have the ability to walk away. I’m sure your family would gladly welcome you back.”
He gave me a sad smile and I thought perhaps it might be the truest thing I’d ever seen from the illusionist.
“If only it were so easy. You see, you create an escape for someone else, realizing at the last minute that you’ve trapped yourself in a cage of your own design. By then it’s too late—the show has taken on a legend of its own, and you are powerless to overcome those bars, so you submit to your art and allow the world to consume you, knowing the cost. Each performance siphons a bit more of your soul.”
