Mirrors and Magic: A Steampunk Fairy Tale (The Clockwork Republic Series)

by Katina French

  The dark-haired costumiere gave her a searching look. She smiled sadly, brushing her hands absently over her skirt as she leaned forward and planted a kiss on Neve's forehead. Long ago, she'd had to lean far down for that affectionate gesture. Now, they were nearly the same height.

  "Ah, ma chere. All good things, they cannot last forever."

  "But why? When did things get so bad that even you don't believe we can recover?"

  "I cannot say. I think, things have been going bad since your father passed, n'est pas? Very slowly? For a while, we rallied around his memory, non? But as time went by, things changed."

  She looked out the door, squinting towards the big top. Right now, Paolo the ringmaster would be introducing Bella Venezia, the Queen of the Air. She'd taken over as the featured act after Papa died.

  "When your papa worked here, we had an esprit de corps. We all worked together, helped each other to shine. He believed there was enough limelight for everyone, yes? But Bella is not like him. She does not like to share the spotlight, I think? The star of the show sets the example for others to follow. I do not think Bella has set the good example your papa did."

  Neve nodded. Their most skilled crew hands and performing talent had slowly disappeared. Any new acts with much promise rarely stuck around for long. Many old hands had moved on, some retiring and others abandoning them for bigger, more popular shows.

  Worse, it seemed like the audiences were leaving with them. Attendance seemed to shrink a little with each stop on the tour, which seemed to get shorter every year. The show didn't even stop in many big cities where they'd once drawn a good crowd.

  Neve leaned against a tent pole, looking down the midway at the small courtyard stage. Most of the acts gave brief performances during the day, attempting to drum up ticket sales for the big show.

  "You'd think as much as she doesn't want to share the applause, Bella would show up for it a little more often. Lately, it seems like she doesn't even like the audience, much less the rest of us."

  Claude and his partner Nicky Wheeler thrilled people with a taste of their motorized daredevil act. Gloria's trick riding was always popular. Lately Brendan, a young knife thrower from Ireland, also seemed to be a particular favorite.

  As the star attraction, Bella Venezia should have been out there, stoking the crowd's anticipation. But she rarely deigned to make an appearance.

  Monique was right. After a decade without a strong leader holding it together, Lang & Perrault's had gradually unraveled.

  Had the enchanted kingdom of her childhood ever really existed? In a circus, creating the illusion that ordinary things were magical was part of the charm of the place. Still, Neve couldn't remember it looking quite this threadbare and shabby before today. Was it a trick of the light? Her own memory playing tricks on her?

  "Why didn't I see it before now?"

  "Ma chere, when would you have had time to notice? You work from sunrise till long after dark. And, I think, you did not want to see it?" Monique pressed her lips together and frowned, as if uncertain how much further to speculate. "And I think maybe, some things have also been concealed by more than just greasepaint and clever lighting? Now, you see things as they truly are."

  A skilled alchemist could create a veneer of illusion with a light-bending formulae. Her father had used just such techniques as part of his magic act. But with her Papa gone, who could have disguised the whole circus? Not Marcus, their latest magician. He didn't know any alchemy, only simple sleight of hand and misdirection tricks, and not many of those.

  Maybe it was as simple as Monique had said. She constantly kept busy. The busier she was, the less time she had to think about her parents or feel sorry for herself.

  Maybe she'd been so caught up in the details of a dozen little jobs, she'd missed the bigger picture.

  But there was no denying it any more. Lang & Perrault's was like a clockwork carousel winding to a stop. Did anyone hold the key to bringing it back to life?

  She thought about her recent discovery. The secret she'd been keeping since they left San Francisco. Was that the answer?

  "Monique, do you think even my father's act could bring things back? Is it too late to save Lang & Perrault's?"

  "Your papa's act raised this circus from nothing once. Oui, ma petite chou, if Le Magnifique were here, he could turn things around. But there will never be another magician like Bianchi."

  Neve worried her lower lip, thinking.

  It was too soon. She wasn't ready.

  But what if there was another Bianchi magician?

  Queen of the Air

  A violin sang the exultant cry of a bird in flight. It was her song. Every night, the violin sang, and Bella Venezia flew.

  High above the crowd, she spun and whirled on her silks. Feathered and spangled costumes and countless hours of practice transformed her into an exotic bird.

  Her current incarnation was a phoenix, trailing glittery golden flames. Of all her elaborate outfits, this was her favorite.

  She'd risen from the ashes of her past to become a magnificent new creature. Her flaming hair, caught and pinned in the whorls of an elaborate coiffure, glowed like a comet as she soared through the air.

  Bella belonged in the sky. If she'd had to tear a path through anyone who'd stood in her way, what did it matter? Eagles, falcons, hawks, all the great majestic birds of prey had claws. Glory belonged to those with the strength to seize it. Everyone else was merely the crowd.

  If Bella believed anything, she believed the crowd needed someone like her. They looked up to her, both literally and figuratively. Her performance fueled the dreams that made their mundane existence bearable.

  She'd been a dreamer herself, once.

  Years ago she'd just been Bertha Vane, a pretty girl from a small town with a gift for acrobatics. The thought of her past brought a twist as sour as stale gin to her face. The other girls had laughed at her when she'd done flips on top of the fence posts, or practiced swinging from a rope tied to the branch of an enormous oak tree. She'd been a farmer's daughter, stuck scrabbling in the dirt with a name as common as a brick. But those other girls were dowdy farm wives now.

  Bella was the Queen of the Air.

  Ordinarily, she'd be battling with a clockwork dragon during this part of the act. She'd fling flames of ribbon and light at her mythical adversary. The dragon would whirl on mechanical wings around her silks and breathe its own make-believe fire.

  But the New Africans were skittish around mechanicals. She thought the whole thing silly. The Mechanicals War had been over for years.

  Lang had yammered something about New Africans finding automatons, especially replicas of humans or animals, disturbing. She'd argued a dragon wasn't a real animal. Lang had refused to negotiate. He'd claimed the city of Omaha might not let them finish their run otherwise.

  She'd let him feel like he'd won his little battle. Giving him the impression she'd conceded gave her more leverage later. It wasn't as though she needed clockwork props to impress an audience. When she'd first joined the troupe, they'd expected her to perform with second-hand costumes and cheap silks.

  Bella twisted in the air, flipping into a wide, sweeping arc around the big top.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the determined girl she'd once been. Her mind reeled back her audition. The day Bertha Vane died and Bella Venezia was born.

  She'd played the wide-eyed ingenue, swallowing any complaints about the costumes or the silks. She'd pretended to be thrilled to be offered the opening act. It took fierce control to bite back her outrage at not being offered the featured performer spot, instead of that washed up magician, Bianchi.

  She'd pushed for greater prominence, but what great performer doesn't? Lang and his old partner Charles saw her ambition as a sign that she'd continue striving to improve, and she did. Her moment would come. She just had to be patient, wait for the right opportunity.

  It hadn't taken very long.

  Bianchi died, on
stage during his act no less.

  Her moment had come. The only question was, would she embrace it? Of course, that was never really a question, not for her. She'd seized her chance, and never looked back.

  Bella had presented herself to Lang and Perrault as a grieving, but capable replacement for their lost star. Lang had clung to her, allowing her to guide his decisions. His faith in his own judgment appeared shaky, as he mourned first Bianchi and only a little later, his partner and mentor Perrault.

  By the time he began to doubt her, he was no longer in a position to make demands. Bianchi and Perrault were long dead, her other serious competition was long gone, and Lang was completely dependent on her to keep the show going.

  She'd fought and worked and bled to become a star. Or an angel, like the paintings she'd seen in books as a child.

  She belonged up here in the heavens, above the dreary townsfolk lining the pews of her canvas cathedral. She craved their applause, but deep down they horrified her.

  How could anyone be so complacent? Who could be content to live such humdrum lives?

  Bella soared above them, an icon of beauty and grace who deserved their devotion.

  Only lately, the worship seemed to be lacking a little zeal.

  As she performed yet another perfect dismount, she took her customary deep bow. Was it her imagination, or were the bleachers a bit sparse? Was the applause a bit tepid?

  She hardened her crimson smile and ruthlessly pushed those thoughts from her head. A woman had no room for self-doubt when she launched herself into thin air and then halted her own fall with nothing but unshakable confidence, a practiced grip, and a sheer length of silk.

  The applause died too quickly, as always.

  She kissed her hand to the crowd, bowing again and bounding off stage. She pretended not to notice that the bounding hurt her knees more than it once did.

  As soon as she was safely behind the curtain, in the tents that made up the backstage area for the big top, she dropped into a gait that was more akin to a lioness stalking prey than a leaping gazelle.

  "Good show, Bella."

  Marcus, the latest amateur Lang had managed to snag as a magician, sat on a steamer trunk, flipping cards between his fingers.

  "What are you still doing here?" Marcus' opening act had been over more than an hour ago.

  "Practicing. We don't all have your natural gifts." He offered her an insolent smile, his gaze traveling down her body in a way that made her flesh crawl.

  "Well, practice somewhere else. This room is for the professionals. The talent. Not itinerant card sharps with delusions of grandeur."

  He raised an eyebrow, smirked, and stood.

  "Anything you want, your highness." His southern drawl grated on her ears. He slunk out the back flap, disappearing into the midway. She sighed in relief.

  Bianchi may have stood in her way, but he'd been at least a competent magician. And he'd never leered at her as if she were some girl from the burlesque.

  Her face went rigid, freezing into a beautiful smile that held no warmth as she remembered her predecessor. She added "making me think of Bianchi" to the list of Marcus' many flaws.

  Then again, he was hardly the worst offender when it came to bringing up the past. Bianchi had become a ghost she couldn't seem to escape.

  With him out of the way, she'd believed the circus would embrace her as they had their old star. She'd thought they'd forget all about him. She'd never expected he'd leave his simpering spoiled brat behind, haunting the circus in his absence.

  She despised that girl. She'd been born with everything Bella had grown up wanting -- fame, money and celebrity -- and couldn't have cared less about any of it.

  Her presence was a constant irritation. Bella was sick to death of seeing her. Moping about the tents. Piddling around with the costumes. Yammering at those vile, ancient animals. Coddled by the whole ridiculous company of fools as if she'd ever done anything extraordinary, besides being born to a famous magician.

  Neve Bianchi was the girl everyone loved, despite doing nothing remarkable to earn it.

  Bella had earned her place in the spotlight, but the sideshow and crew, even the other performers, still whispered behind her back. Didn't they know she was the only thing keeping this whole company afloat? They owed her everything.

  It was time to remind them of that fact.

  The girl turned eighteen months ago. Lang could hardly keep calling her his ward. She was practically a grown woman. Surely the old magician had left her some kind of stipend. Even if he hadn't, she wasn't the circus' problem. She knew the girl puttered around running errands, but it wasn't like she was a real member of the crew. Maybe without her around, the company could finally move on.

  Bella squared her shoulders. She'd talk to Lang, use that leverage she'd earned by giving up her clockwork dragon. He couldn't afford to refuse her. One way or another, Bella was exorcising this phantom at last.

  He would get rid of the errand girl, or he'd lose his star attraction.

  Remembrance & Revenge

  Neve plunked the carrier cage on the floor of the monkey wagon, and released Roderigo among his hairy cohorts. God only knew how long he'd stay locked up this time, but at least she'd managed to get the costume piece back.

  As usual, Bosworth was nowhere to be seen. Of course, the show was going on right now. He might be removing his greasepaint with the other clowns.

  Or he might be hiding in his wagon, taking a nap.

  She hopped up on a crate, leaned back against the animal cages and closed her eyes. She tried to imagine the circus brought back to its former glory. It was hard to even remember the circus as it had been during Papa's time. The animal pens were never a delightful place, but ten years ago, Lang & Perrault's had held true wonder.

  It had all been so different back then.

  During the circus' heyday, they'd stayed in the best hotels in New York, Chicago, Paris and London. They'd had the nicest steam wagon when the troupe was living on caravan out in the republics. She'd missed Mama, but she was so young that the whirlwind of their lives blunted the impact of her loss.

  Papa had doted on her, despite his grueling schedule of practices and performances. She couldn't help but wonder if it had been too much for him. Had raising a small child, while striving towards his own ambition, led to the terrible accident?

  That awful night in Chicago, everything changed. Her life had blown apart like the big top in a hurricane.

  One of his tricks had gone tragically awry. He was dead before anyone could react, much less save him, although many nearby had tried. Poor Paolo had to be dragged away by force. Old Perrault had collapsed in the stands, and his heart never really recovered.

  Only Andrew Lang had the presence of mind to whisk Neve away from the grisly scene. She could still remember his black greatcoat suddenly flung across her face, his arms bundling her up and away while she was still in shock.

  She'd been taken in by Lang, and allowed to remain with the circus. He was a kind man, but running the circus took up nearly all his time.

  She was lucky she hadn't ended up in an orphanage and grateful to remain in the familiar, if strange, home she'd always known. She was also incredibly lonesome.

  Most of the people who'd been with the circus when her father was alive had moved on, although a few like Monique remained. These days, few even knew she'd had a famous father. New performers judged her by her appearance and viewed Lang & Perrault's as a stepping stone to bigger things. Not many bothered getting to know a girl they saw as a common laborer.

  The sideshow and midway crews respected anyone who put in an honest day's work without grumbling. But now, even they often left for greener pastures. It seemed she no sooner made a friend than she was saying goodbye.

  Recently, even Lang himself seemed to have grown cold and distant. Perhaps he blamed her father's accident for the circus' misfortune, and she'd inherited the blame in his place.

  All this brooding was doin
g her no good. She'd be better off getting back to work.

  She hopped up off the crate. Thinking about the past couldn't fix the future, and one thing was clear: if someone didn't do something soon, there wouldn't be a future for Lang & Perrault's.

  She hung a lantern near the animal pens, warding off the long shadows of twilight. Time to feed the tigers without becoming tonight's main course.

  If the tigers weren't well-fed, they got grumpy. Aside from making Noel the Tiger-Tamer nervous, hungry tigers rarely put on a good show.

  Neve strived to make sure each audience got the best show possible. There was little she could do about the fading tents or the lackluster acts, but she could at least make sure the animals were groomed and well-fed.

  She also talked to them. She reassured them that they were still appreciated. She worried they'd get discouraged by the dwindling crowds. She certainly found the them discouraging. Sometimes, she suspected she just talked to them to feel less lonely.

  When she was done feeding the tigers, she'd need to brush out Gloria's horses. They loved rolling in the dirt right before and after each performance. She wondered if Bosworth had managed to brush out their snowy white coats in her absence.

  She stood on the bottom rail of the tiger pen and leaned over to drop a bloody slab of meat to Jazeera, the circus' largest and oldest tiger. She didn't see Roderigo, on the loose and looking for revenge. He grabbed the laces of her boots.

  The monkey yanked backwards with surprising strength for such a tiny beast. What he lacked in size he made up for in pure malevolence. Neve toppled headfirst into the tiger pen. She rolled and landed on all fours, like a cat.

  Looking up, she found herself face to face with Jazeera.

  Like all Lang & Perrault's animal performers, old Jazz was lazy and a bit fat. Her orange brindled face shifted in Neve's direction. The jungle cat's golden gaze held a touch of hungry gleam. Neve's mouth went dry in raw panic.

  Jazz looked from the hunk of meat to Neve and back. She sniffed loudly, like a snobby grand dame at a five-star restaurant dithering between the duck a l'orange and the steak tartare while expressing keen dissatisfaction with both.