He stood, crossing to the shelves. It was harder to see in the low light, but not impossible, and he let his eyes adjust, trying to read the black, scratched writing upon the shelves.
Income.
Payroll.
And one that said something far more interesting.Szarka’s Circus. The box’s knot had been loosened, and when he slid it from the shelf the birds were blessedly quiet – even as he opened it.
It was filled with … cuttings. Just newspaper cuttings. Reams of them, threaded at the corner in nonsensical piles, and as he brought them closer to the fire, to the glowing coals, his brow furrowed. Many were in a language that he couldn’t understand – Greek? The Cyrillic alphabet, perhaps? But there was one fromThe Starin London, one with a line drawing of a tiny figure atop a high wire, and what looked like a mountainous drop below.
Liliána Szarka ascends the high wire, while her father, the Ringmaster, watches from below.
He wished whomever had cut this hadn’t cut the date from it, too, for the figure looked like that of a child. As though she couldn’t have been any more than six or seven, and yet there she was – suspended over nothing, arms held wide as wings.
Footsteps in the corridor.
He slipped the pages back into the box, replacing the lid with careful silence, twisting the yarn back into place as the footsteps grew louder, accompanied now by the familiarthunkof her cane, and thechakker-chakof the magpie upon her shoulder. As he replaced the box upon the shelf, his gaze shifted south slightly, to one he hadn’t seen before.
And a name he had.
A. Adams.
‘That was fast,’ said Miss Lillian, stepping past him to the desk, and leaning over one of the gas lamps. She pulled matches from her top drawer, the magpie fluttering loudly upon her shoulder until the room was lit with yellow warmth. ‘I thought I would have to send Bertie in person for your reply.’
‘It’s not in my interest to drag this out forever,’ said Damien, his eyes flicking back to the shelf.
The box he’d taken was sticking out ever so slightly. Why hadn’t he pushed it flush, with all the others?
‘So then?’ Miss Lillian sat down, and the magpie hopped onto the desk and began preening its iridescent feathers. ‘Bertie said the two of you were at the theatre. Why?’
‘It wasn’t planned,’ said Damien. ‘I found her outside the stage door. She was eager to see her mother’s dressing room again. She said it’s the last place where it feels as though her mother is still alive.’
Lillian’s dark eyes narrowed a little. ‘How touching,’ she said, scribbling something down. ‘Shall you tell me what you’ve learned, or shall I sit here guessing?’
‘Well, she agreed to take me on,’ said Damien.
Lillian’s expression flattened. ‘I set you loose for two weeks, and that’s all you come back with? A story about her mother’s dressing room, andthat?’
‘No,’ said Damien, the muscle in his jaw bunching slightly. ‘I came to tell you that she can do it. Mesmerism. I saw it, first-hand.’
Lillian’s eyes widened. ‘And how did it go?’
Damien looked at the bird on her shoulder, at the way it dug its beak through its feathers. As though it could sense his gaze upon it, the bird looked up – cocking its head at Damien.
‘It was … uncomfortable.’
‘For her? Or for you?’
‘For both of us, I believe. But she managed it.’
Lillian plucked up a pen, dipping it into the almost-dry inkwell. ‘What of her technique?’ she asked. ‘Did she use the coin? The bell?’
A shadow of a frown crossed Damien’s face. ‘A pocketwatch,’ he said. ‘Though we’ve only had one session. “To build trust,” she said.’
Miss Lillian arched an eyebrow. ‘And did she succeed?’
‘Succeed?’
‘In gaining your trust?’
