Pantomime

by Laura Lam

  I wondered why I was letting them treat me this way, and why I did not simply take this as a sign that I was meant to return home. There, I did not practice tumbling and climbing until my hands were blistered and raw. I did not wake up from a clean, feather-down bed with my muscles feeling like they had been torn and sewn inexpertly together by a drunken surgeon. My life had not been perfect and had its own challenges, but I had so many who cared for me.

  I missed Cyril with a sharp pang each and every day. I had written letters but there was no way for him to respond. Perhaps I should leave and return. Perhaps my running away would have proven to my parents that I would not allow them to change my life and they would leave me be.

  Leave me be to be a spinster, tolerated in society but always just outside of it, pitied, and always under my parent's roof. And if they died before me, I would be a burden on Cyril. As a Laurus, I would have no way to support myself through employment, unless I became a governess or turned to writing or teaching, neither of which I thought would be my true calling. At least in the circus I had the freedom to be myself, even if most of the others did not seem to like me overmuch. I kicked a stone into the water.

  I heard the padding of running feet and turned. Aenea caught up with me. She had just bathed, and her hair hung in dark ropes against her skin. She wore a thin silken robe from Linde, printed with faded cranes and stylized clouds. She must have been cold, but she did not shiver.

  "Micah. I went to your cart to see how you were," she said. "Arik said you'd gone for a walk."

  I did not say anything, but I held my bandaged hands behind my back.

  "It was a cruel prank that they did," she said.

  "The chalk or my pack?" I asked.

  A line appeared between her brows. "Your pack?"

  "It's gone."

  The line disappeared. "Ah. They do that sometimes. Don't worry – I know where they'll have hidden it. Follow me." We walked up the strand plain.

  I pressed my lips together and looked out over the ocean. "Did this happen to you, when you joined the circus?"

  "Yes, but not quite as badly."

  "Why do you think it's worse for me?"

  "Because you're merchant class. I think most of the others believe you think yourself better than us. Lofty, some of 'em call you."

  I had tried to roughen my speech and not mention much of my past, but I suppose I still had not learned how to be convincing. "Do you think that of me?" I asked, fearful of the answer.

  "No, I don't. You seem more… scared of us, almost. Like you always think you're going to say the wrong thing. Like you're weighing up all the different responses before you speak."

  I caught myself considering all the different ways I could respond, and smiled wryly. "I suppose I do. I don't know what to do. I feel like I'm always doing the wrong thing."

  "I have a feeling it'll start to ease off, soon. Bil doesn't like that you won't be able to practice properly for a week at least."

  Dread filled me. How would I spend my days? "I guess I'll work on my splits, or see if I can master that handless cartwheel you showed me the other day."

  She laughed, and nudged me in the shoulder. "That's the spirit, Micah." I was grateful to the dark night that hid my blush.

  We came upon a crevice in the rock of the cliffs. Aenea bent down, her arm disappearing into the darkness. I had the irrational worry that something terrible would be in the darkness and would hurt her. She had a rip in the seam of her robe at the shoulder. Her arm emerged unscathed, holding my sandy, damp pack. She threw it to me and I clutched it to my chest. My pack felt the same weight that it normally did, and I could feel the Kedi figurine through the canvas.

  "Do… Do you think they've looked at it?" I asked, fearful.

  She shrugged a shoulder. "It's possible. But if it was the clowns, you might be in luck. Drystan's the head of the clowns, so usually he goes through them first and decides if there's anything worth sharing in the group." She laughed. "One of the other circus hopefuls a few years ago was very surly. No one liked him at all. Drystan found a pair of his soiled undergarments in his pack and put them up in place of the flag of the big top. He left that night, without his drawers, and no one missed him."

  I had a terrible image of my dress flying from the big top. I felt as though I might be sick.

  We stared at the ink black ocean for several minutes, not speaking, but standing close enough to feel the warmth of each other's skin. We returned together, slowly, the glowing Penglass shading the sand with soft blue light. It would have been a good opportunity to take her hand, but with my injury I could not. At least that was my excuse.

  I did not see the dress on top of the tent when I returned.

  I lay on my pallet with my pack as my pillow. I had gone through it and everything was there and apparently undisturbed, even my letter to Cyril.

  I supposed I stayed in the circus because I already knew what my previous life had been like and what my future would likely be if I returned. I would wait, and work, and see.

  All that was certain in both lives was that I would always be keeping secrets.

  "So how are you finding our humble circus, lad?" Bil asked me during a warm summer afternoon.

  I started. I had just finished feeding the otters and was watching them wrestle and chase each other about as I emptied the water of their tank. It was far easier than filling it, for I only had to connect a pipe that led the fetid water far enough away from the circus and to sea. I would have to fill it bucket by bucket. The otters were very tame, and Needle had taken a particular liking to me, sniffing my hand and letting me stroke his smooth, wet back. Needle had darted to his fellows at Bil's approach.

  "I… I like it very well, Mr Ragona" I said.

  "Very well, eh?" he said, raising his brows. He swung his cane idly around. Bil was never without his beautiful teak cane, polished to a high shine. The curve at the top was carved into the head of a ram; details of the horns and face etched in silver, the eyes emeralds. Bil smelled strongly of aftershave, with perhaps an undercurrent of alcohol despite the early hour. His shirt was sweat-stained and his face shiny.

  "There are obstacles," I said, staring at the cane as it swayed like a pendulum, "but nothing I cannot overcome, sir."

  "Very good, my boy, very good. I was worried you would wish to call it a day, after what happened."

  My hands itched in a phantom memory and my cheeks burned that he would bring up the chalk incident again. I also had the strange feeling that he was not asking out of worry for me, but to make sure I was not leaving. "I understand that it may be difficult for the circus to appreciate newcomers, sir. Arik called it 'hazing'."

  "So it is. It is an unfortunate practice, sure enough, but there's a reason for it, lad. Many join without the stomach for it. A life in the circus is not easy. If you keep with us, then it will end, and you'll be the stronger for it and the others will respect you all the more." He patted me on the shoulder a bit too hard.

  "I hope so. Thank you, Mr Ragona."

  He swung the cane and gazed at the otters jumping about in the emptying pool. I thought he would have left.

  "So, where did you say you came from, boy?"

  I licked my lips. "I'm from Sicion."

  "Aye, I'm not deaf. But where in the city did you live?"

  "Um." My mind went blank. "Jade Street." I could not even remember if Jade Street had residential tenements.

  "And what'd your parents sell?"

  The interrogation was making me uncomfortable. I thought of my mother. "Gas lights and glass globes. Fancy scented candles and the like."

  "Ah, luminaries. Did they teach you the trade then, boy?"

  Oh, Lord and Lady. Was this some sort of trap? "Of course, sir. I was to take over the business one day from my father. Before… the accident."

  He coughed. "Sorry to bring up the indelicate subject, boy. What kind o' accident, if I may ask? Naught with the glass globes, eh?"

  He was testing me. T
hat was a trick question, but so few had close experiences with glass globes. "Not many ways for a tragedy to happen with a glass globe, sir, unless you cut yourself on the broken glass. The light fuel in it is not flammable." Once, Cyril and I had accidentally broken a glass globe in the dining room. We had painted ourselves with the glowing liquid, pretending we were the fearful Nunda tribe of Byssia, and the light had faded from our skin after a few hours. Mother had been quite annoyed. Glass globes were expensive. "My parents were lost at sea, returning from Kymri, where they bought their glass and fuel for their lights."

  He coughed again. "Course, my boy. Sorry to bring it up, as I said. Still, will be good to have a luminary apprentice in the circus, mind, in case our lights break."

  I gave a quick, fervent prayer to the Lord and Lady that all the gas lights and glass globes stayed in working order. Did the ringmaster know that my story was nothing but a lie?

  "Arik says that you're training well," Bil said, changing the subject.

  "Does he? That is very kind of him," I said, my voice too high.

  "He's not kind in this, just factual. Keep up the hard work, my boy. It is not going unnoticed." He gave me one last nod and ambled away, whistling.

  I could not help feeling like I had just been given a test and did not know if I had passed or not. In any case, the water-filled buckets I hauled to the otter tank grew no lighter with his praise.

  10

  SPRING: VISITATIONS IN SICION

  "Patient X has proven to be one of the most interesting specimens of sexual development disorders we have discovered. It is unfortunate that a more detailed examination cannot be performed over the course of 'her' menarche and 'his' onset of puberty, due to the requests of the parents. I have kept a dialogue open with them, in the hopes they may change their mind. Patient X has such resilience to illness and infection that I wonder what secrets his/her blood may hold."

  UNPUBLISHED MEDICAL NOTES, DR BIRCHSWITCH

  The train ride to Sicion was a somber affair.

  Father had left for the city immediately following the afternoon tea at the Hawthornes', taking the comfortable carriage. We had ridden to the station in the other hansom cab, and Mother complained about the outdated upholstery, muttering that she must convince Father to "transform" it. Cyril bought me a sherbet at the Emerald Station to cheer me up. The sour sugar fizzed on my tongue.

  We had a compartment to ourselves on the train. Mother put a mask over her eyes and promptly fell asleep. Her mouth opened and she snored. I wished I had a camera obscura to take a photograph to capture the moment forever. It would be perfect for blackmail.

  "Are you all right?" Cyril asked.

  He always knew when I was upset. "No."

  In hushed tones, I told him what had happened between Damien and me. Cyril's jaw muscles worked as he fought to keep down his rage.

  "When I next see him I'll–"

  "Do nothing," I finished. "It will solve nothing. He will not say anything. I will keep my distance from him. It will all pass over and eventually he may forget it ever happened."

  Cyril held my hand for the rest of the train ride. I rested my head against his shoulder. Several hours later, Sicion appeared on the horizon, a dark smear backed by the grey of the sea. The bright cobalt of the ridge of Penglass that ran through the city center was muted in the fog of the early evening, and the sandstone buildings blurred about the edges. It looked thoroughly depressing after the lush green of the countryside.

  Home.

  As soon the door closed behind me in the claustrophobic examination room, my chest tightened and I wanted to flee.

  Doctor Ambrose towered above me and was at least twice as wide as my father, and my father was not the smallest of men. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses and had a bushy grey-tinged moustache and beard. Between that and his long, straggly hair, Doctor Ambrose appeared to have no face.

  "Humph," Doctor Ambrose grunted through his facial hair. "You must be the young person I've read so much about."

  I said nothing, but noted the gender-neutral word.

  "Sit on the table, please."

  I did. I gripped the edges of the table hard and gritted my teeth.

  Doctor Ambrose put his fingers to my neck and shone a light in my eyes, as if it were a routine doctor's visit.

  "Who else have you been seen by?"

  I rattled off a list of names. There were about seven by now. I hated them all.

  "What do you do?" he said, opening a tablet. His practice was successful, for him to afford a functioning one.

  "Pardon me?"

  "Your hobbies. Your interests. What are they?" He looked at me from under his bushy eyebrows, stylus still held at the ready over the tablet.

  It was odd that he was not asking me about my physiology. I sensed a trap and was not sure if he would tell my mother or not. You can never trust doctors. "I enjoy dancing and music," I began cautiously. That was true. "And I like, um, sewing." A lie.

  He scribbled. "Do you cavort more with male or females?"

  I fought down a snigger. Cavort? "My best friend is Anna Yew." I did get on well enough with Anna, but my best friend was Cyril.

  He scribbled again.

  "Last menstrual period?"

  I tried not to choke. Surely that information was somewhere in my medical file. "Never."

  Another scribble.

  He asked questions that seemed to have no correlation to each other or to anything relating to my condition – how many hours a day did I study? Or exercise? How often did I visit the toilets? How much had I grown last year? What size slippers did I wear? He took measurements of my head, my neck, my shoulders, my chest, my waist, my hips, my legs, my wrists, and my ankles. I kept my limbs lax, trying to think of other things as he prodded and peered at me.

  He asked all of these questions from behind his beard, and always there was the scribble over the tablet. When he had finished a page, he would tap the stylus three times against the side.

  "Right," he said after what seemed like hours, setting the tablet aside. He went to the door and called for the female nurse. "Please remove your clothing," he said. The nurse entered and stood in the corner, looking menacing – the guardian of my virtue.

  I sighed and turned around so that the nurse could undo the line of buttons down my back. The doctor was like all the others after all, and once I presented myself for inspection, he would hmm and hah, write his article, have his name published in a prestigious medical journal, and then send me on my way without offering further assistance.

  The afternoon at the doctor's left me feeling invaded and despondent. I did not want to face Cyril's sympathetic looks; the only other person who had any idea of what I was going through. So I went to visit Anna Yew.

  I took the carriage to her apartments and told the coachman to tell my mother where I was. Mother was always delighted when I went to see Anna. Anna's elder brother was hopelessly dim, but he was a potential suitor in my mother's eyes.

  Marrying George would be like taking a cat or some other sort of pet as a husband. He would be happy enough to sit in the corner and blink at you, smiling slightly and staring off into the distance. He would not know the first thing about female anatomy. He would do what he was told and no more. At least he was sweet, if not much else.

  "Genie! So lovely for you to come calling," Anna said, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs to her room. "How was the countryside? Mother and Father haven't taken me yet and my eyes are starving to see green!"

  "My eyes are already withering from all of the grey and brown," I said, laughing. "But it was lovely, yes. I wish we could spend more time there. I think I would happily spend all of my time there."

  "Oh, I don't think I could go that far," Anna said. "I would miss the bustle of the city after a time."

  Anna's room was very girlish. A garden of printed primroses grew on her bedding, twined up the curtains and dotted the circular rug that covered most of the hardwood floor. More flowers wer
e etched into the vanity and the ornate framed mirror hanging over the fireplace. Even the wallpaper was flowery, though at least the pattern was subtle, in pinks only a few shades apart.

  Anna, in many ways, was my opposite. She cared for propriety, for proper girlish things. Yet she had a wicked wit hidden under the lacy layers of femininity, though of late, it had not appeared as often. We did not used to be so different. She had once climbed trees.

  We sat on the bed. Anna tucked her legs up and rested her chin on her knees. "Were any boys in the countryside when you went?" she asked.

  "Oswin Hawthorne and Damien Hornbeam," I said.