The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern [166]
You hesitate before you exit, pausing to watch the intricate, dancing clock as it ticks down the seconds, pieces moving seamlessly. You are able to watch it more closely than you had when you entered, as there is no longer a crowd obscuring it.
Beneath the clock, there is an unobtrusive silver plaque. You have to bend down to make out the inscription engraved onto the polished metal.
IN MEMORIAM
it reads across the top, with names and dates below in a smaller font.
FRIEDRICK STEFAN THIESSEN
September 9, 1846–November 1, 1901
and
CHANDRESH CHRISTOPHE LEFÈVRE
August 3, 1847–February 15, 1932
Someone is watching you as you read the memorial plaque. You sense their eyes on you before you realize where the unexpected gaze is coming from. The ticket booth is still occupied. The woman stationed inside is watching, and smiling at you. You are not entirely sure what to do. She waves at you, a small but friendly wave as if to assure you that everything is fine. That visitors often stop before they depart Le Cirque des Rêves to stare at the clockwork wonder that sits by the gates. That some even read the inscribed memorial for two men who died so many years ago. That you stand in a position that many have stood in before, under already fading stars and sparkling lights.
The woman beckons you over to the ticket booth. While you walk toward her, she sorts through piles of paper and tickets. There is a spray of silver-and-black feathers in her hair that flutters around her head as she moves. When she finds what she is seeking, she hands it to you, and you take the business card from her black-gloved hand. One side is black and the other is white.
Le Cirque des Rêves
is printed in shimmering silver letters on the black side. On the reverse, in black ink on white, it reads:
Mr. Bailey Alden Clarke, Proprietor
bailey@nightcircus.com
You turn it over in your hand, wondering what you might write to Mr. Clarke. Perhaps you will thank him for his very singular circus, and perhaps that will suffice.
You thank the woman for the card, and she only smiles in response.
You walk toward the gates, reading the card in your hand again. Before you pass through the gates to the field beyond, you turn back to the ticket booth, but it is empty, a black grate pulled down over it.
You tuck the card carefully in your pocket.
The step through the gates that takes you from painted ground to bare grass feels heavy.
You think, as you walk away from Le Cirque des Rêves and into the creeping dawn, that you felt more awake within the confines of the circus.
You are no longer quite certain which side of the fence is the dream.
Acknowledgments
There were a number of associates and conspirators behind this book, and I owe them a great deal of gratitude.
First and foremost, my agent, Richard Pine, who saw potential in something that was once truly a god-awful mess and believed in me every step of the way. He earned his red scarf a thousand times over.
My editor, Alison Callahan, is a dream come true, and everyone at Doubleday deserves more chocolate mice than I can possibly provide.
I am grateful to all who gave their time and insight to revision after revision, particularly Kaari Busick, Elizabeth M. Thurmond, Diana Fox, and Jennifer Weltz.
I raise a glass to the denizens of Purgatory. You are strange, wonderful, talented people, and I would not be here without you.
Kyle Cassidy unknowingly prompted me to buy the vintage fountain pen that was used to compose a significant portion of Part IV, so I said I would put him in the acknowledgments. He probably thought I was kidding.
The circus itself has many influences, but two that should have special recognition are the olfactory geniuses of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab and the immersive experience of Punchdrunk, which I was lucky enough to fall into thanks to the American Repertory Theater of Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Finally, my eternal thanks to Peter and Clovia. This book simply would not exist without one, and it is better than I’d ever thought possible because of the other. I adore