The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern [124]
The handful of patrons who witness the event are ushered quickly away. Later they assume it was a clever stunt. A touch of theatricality for the already festive evening.
The sign outside this tent is accompanied by a small box full of smooth black stones. The text instructs you to take one with you as you enter.
Inside, the tent is dark, the ceiling covered with open black umbrellas, the curving handles hanging down like icicles.
In the center of the room there is a pool. A pond enclosed within a black stone wall that is surrounded by white gravel.
The air carries the salty tinge of the ocean.
You walk over to the edge to look inside. The gravel crunches beneath your feet.
It is shallow, but it is glowing. A shimmering, shifting light cascades up through the surface of the water. A soft radiance, enough to illuminate the pool and the stones that sit at the bottom. Hundreds of stones, each identical to the one you hold in your hand. The light beneath filters through the spaces between the stones.
Reflections ripple around the room, making it appear as though the entire tent is underwater.
You sit on the wall, turning your black stone over and over in your fingers.
The stillness of the tent becomes a quiet melancholy.
Memories begin to creep forward from hidden corners of your mind. Passing disappointments. Lost chances and lost causes. Heartbreaks and pain and desolate, horrible loneliness.
Sorrows you thought long forgotten mingle with still-fresh wounds.
The stone feels heavier in your hand.
When you drop it in the pool to join the rest of the stones, you feel lighter. As though you have released something more than a smooth polished piece of rock.
Farewell
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, OCTOBER 30 AND 31, 1902
Bailey climbs the oak tree to retrieve his hidden box before sunset, gazing down at the circus that sits bathed in deep orange light, casting long pointed shadows across the field. But when he opens it, he does not find anything he truly wishes to take with him.
He removes only Poppet’s white glove, placing it in his coat pocket, and returns the box to the tree.
At home, he counts out his life savings, which is a higher amount than he had expected, and packs a change of clothes and an extra sweater. He considers packing a spare pair of shoes but decides he can likely borrow some from Widget if need be. He shoves everything into a worn leather satchel and waits for his parents and Caroline to go to bed.
While he waits, he unpacks his bag and then packs it again, second-guessing his choices of what to bring and what to leave behind.
He waits an hour after he is certain everyone is asleep, and then another hour for good measure. Though he has become rather proficient at slipping in at abnormal hours, sneaking out is a different matter.
When he finally creeps down the hallway, he is surprised how late it is. His hand is on the door, ready to leave, when he turns around, putting his bag down and quietly searching for a piece of paper.
Once he locates one, he sits down at the table in the kitchen to write a note to his parents. He explains as best he can his reasons for going and hopes they will understand. He does not mention Harvard or anything about the future of the farm.
He remembers when he was very small his mother once said she wished happiness and adventure for him. If this does not count as adventure, he is not sure what does.
“What are you doing?” a voice behind him asks.
Bailey turns to find Caroline standing in the doorway in her nightgown, her hair piled on her head in a spiky mess of pin curls and a knitted blanket pulled around her shoulders.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he says, turning back to his writing. He signs the letter and folds it, leaving it propped upright in the center of the table, next to a wooden bowl full of apples. “Make sure they read that.”
“Are you running away?” Caroline asks, glancing at his bag.
“Something