Pantomime

by Laura Lam

  "You should let me take a look at them. Cat scratches can become easily infected, and it must have gotten you badly to need so many bandages."

  "It's almost healed now. I can probably take off the bandages within the next couple of days," I said. "Please don't worry about it. But thank you."

  "Hmm," she said, and threaded the needle. She paused before stitching, as if she were about to ask me something else. But she did not. She left as soon as she had finished. I let out the breath I did not know I had been holding.

  Aenea entered and looked me up and down. "You look the part. How do you feel?"

  "I'm nervous. And excited. It feels the same. And I look like an idiot."

  She took my hands in hers. "You don't have to do this if you don't feel ready. And you don't look like an idiot, either."

  I squeezed her hands. "Aenea, I'm ready. I've been climbing high off the ground since I was ten. You've taught me well. We'll be fine."

  She took a deep breath. "Let me paint your face."

  "Why do you two do that? It's not like anyone can see your faces, that high up."

  "They see our faces when we walk onto the stage and when we come down. It adds to the overall effect. Come now, it won't offend your manly sensibilities, will it?"

  I watched her face as she applied the paint. She was so trusting and so open with me, and I had repaid her with lies. Nausea roiled in my stomach. My eyes focused on her lips. I wanted to kiss them. Desperately. But I was too frightened.

  "Done," she said, setting the brush aside. "You have rather delicate features for a man."

  The queasiness grew worse. To cover it, I stuck my tongue out at her. "So I look like a woman, you're saying?"

  She stuck hers back at me. "No, but you're pretty rather than ruggedly handsome. I like it, don't fret."

  I reached for her hand. She squeezed my palm, the calluses rough and hard. "I have to paint myself. I'll see you during the act."

  "Do you trust me?" I asked. "On the trapeze?"

  "Yes, of course," she said. She turned away and left, and I hoped she was not lying to put me at ease.

  • • • •

  It was such a strange feeling, to be behind the stage about to go on.

  The other performers treated me differently now that I was one of them. They looked at me rather than through me. Some told me to "break a bone," and a Kymri tumbler even clapped me on the shoulder. It was a bit unnerving to so quickly become noticed again.

  My unease grew as each act came on. Not only was I finally having the chance to perform on the trapeze, but Cyril was in the audience, watching. I peeked out of the tent flap and saw him sitting in the expensive seats. I stretched and tried to keep my breathing even.

  I wish we could have talked on our own. There was so much I wanted to say. I had sent a few letters, but they were all in heavy code and signed as Euan Rowan. We'd have to find a better way to communicate. I had started countless other letters to him, both in code and not, but they were still half-finished in my pack. I kept putting off finishing them, telling myself I would finish the next day, afraid that he would judge me, or that Mother and Father would open his mail. What must he have thought happened to me, with only my infrequent, cryptic letters as clues?

  I took a deep breath. He knows well enough now, I thought. Focus on the present.

  Aenea was next to me the entire time. We did not speak, but we had our arms around each other. Aenea ran her fingers along my arm when she noticed how badly I was shaking. Unfortunately, that only made me shiver more.

  Finally, it was our turn. "Here we go," Aenea said as we dusted chalk onto our hands.

  We walked onto the stage hand in hand. People cheered and I felt a heady rush. My mind seemed to float away, but my body knew what to do. Aenea and I climbed our respective ladders toward the platforms. The gramophone played its cheery, brassy tunes. I looked down toward Cyril, but he was merely another pale dot in the crowd. I grabbed my trapeze. Aenea nodded at me from across the big tent and we swung from our platforms.

  The wooden bar of the trapeze was smooth beneath my chalked fingers. My eyes caught the glare of the bright glass globes. There was a rushing in my ears. I reached the peak of my swing, flipped upside down on my bar, and began the long swing down. It was the first time I had looked at the floor far below from the perch of my trapeze and not through a net. A touch of vertigo spun away in my chest. I reached for Aenea.

  Aenea flipped off of her trapeze and I caught her. She climbed atop of me and we swung on the trapeze, back and forth, back and forth, before she jumped to her own swing, flipping around the wooden bar and distracting the audience from the fact that I could not do much except catch.

  After the trapeze act was finished, Aenea crossed the tightrope. I hung from my trapeze from one knee, arms and leg posed. I still both hated and loved to watch her do it. She looked so delicate, like a strong gust of wind could blow her away. She met my gaze and lost her balance slightly, wavering on the rope. I gasped, powerless on my trapeze. She was right in the middle of the tightrope.

  The parasol danced toward the ground. Aenea was flapping her arms, nowhere near graceful, desperately trying to keep her balance. She fell. I cried out. The audience below gasped.

  But one strong hand caught the rope. She hung, feet dangling. Sweat had melted her makeup into white rivulets. Her other hand reached up and grasped the rope. She hung there, panting. Cheers erupted beneath her. Most of them probably thought it was part of the act.

  "Aenea!" I swung onto one of the wooden platforms. "Do you need me to come help you?" My throat was tight.

  "No, no, I'm all right," she said, her voice faint. She folded her body up and wrapped her legs around the rope and made her way awkwardly to my platform, much like I had made my way across the tightrope when I auditioned for the circus. When she was close enough I helped her off of the tightrope and hugged her close. More applause sounded from below. I cupped her face in my hands.

  "Are you alright? What happened?" She was shaking, and so was I.

  "I don't know. I just slipped. It's fine. It's happened from time to time. I always catch myself. It makes the show more interesting." Her smile quavered. "Let's get down from here."

  "You first." She nodded and began to make her way down the ladder, and I followed behind.

  She held her hands up and bowed when she reached the ground, and the circus audience yelled and stamped their feet, startling the elephant in the animal tent into a trumpet. I followed and bowed as well, though I wanted to get off of the stage as quickly as possible. When I returned to the stage for the grand finale bow, Cyril was beaming at me. I was proud of what I had done, but the entire performance was soured by what had almost been.

  I left the big top as soon as I could, my patched coat thrown over my costume. I still wore my smudged face paint. Aenea had left quicker than I had, and I ambled about the carnival – attracting odd looks – not expecting to find her. She would be in her cart, and she wanted to be alone.

  The loud music of the funfair, and the chatter and press of the people made me feel claustrophobic. A man in a bowler hat almost tripped me with his cane as he hurried past. The juggler nearly hit me with the dolls he tossed about for three little girls with ribbons in their hair. I staggered from the crowd and fled to the relative quiet of the beach.

  With my sharp hearing, I could tell someone was following me from a long way off. From the stride, I also guessed who it was. I waited in the damp sand for my brother to catch up with me.

  Cyril, his broken arm long healed, swept me into a tight hug, not caring that I smelled of sweat and that he was getting greasepaint all over his cheek and the neck of his coat. I hugged him just as hard, tears streaming down my face and blurring the cosmetics further. My brother was here. My brother.

  "Cyril," I murmured. "I've missed you so."

  He released me and looked down at me, though he did not have to look down much. We were almost of a height.

  "You look so d
ifferent, and yet just the same," he said, tousling my hair.

  "You look just the same," I said, and he did. His golden locks curled about his face, and his cheeks were rosy with the salty breeze.

  "Are the others here?" I asked him, meaning Oswin and his other friends.

  "No, none of them were actually brave enough to sneak out."

  "How'd you manage?" I asked.

  "I used a trick of my sister's and used the scaffolding." He half-smiled.

  "You're not too afraid to climb anymore? After what happened?"

  He shook his head. "I reckon I won't climb on Penglass again anytime soon, but normal scaffolding is just fine."

  I hugged him again, breathing in Cyril's comforting smell and the lavender soap that the servants used to wash our clothes. The one person I didn't have to pretend with about anything. My truest, closest friend.

  "How have you been, Gene? It was such a shock to see you in the park today, and I couldn't think of anything to say in front of the others that wouldn't give it all away. And seeing you tonight… wow, Gene. Just wow. You were incredible."

  "I'm fine, Cyril, really," I said, and I told him of my time in the circus, glossing over the crueler of the pranks and my fear that Frit knew who I was. "It's wonderful, here, truly. And being an aerialist – it feels like what I was always meant to do. I'm not sitting about, waiting for decisions to be made about me. I'm out there, doing them."

  Cyril's smile faded. "That's great, Gene. But… do you know what it's been like for us, since you left?"

  I grew unnaturally still. "No," I whispered. I imagined that both parents would be angry at my leaving and scared for my well-being, and that perhaps they missed me… but Cyril's voice sounded as though it were more than that.

  "Mother and Father are in a spot of trouble with the law. You saw the newspaper article, didn't you?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, the Constabulary still thinks it's rather suspicious that they didn't report your disappearance for a few days. I'm not sure why they didn't, either. I suppose they thought you would come back. That's – that's what I thought would happen."

  My stomach twisted with guilt.

  "They've been fined quite a lot. And Mother has been beside herself with worry."

  I blinked at him in surprise.

  "She can be tough on us, Gene, but she's barely left her bed since you left, and she's developed a cough that won't go away. She finished off the laudanum for my arm. She ranted at me once, when she was on it. Mother blames herself for driving you away. She's moved into the old nursery and doesn't sleep in the same bed as Father anymore. She seems unwell, Gene."

  I felt as though someone had punched me in the gut. Mother had often been so cold, I almost expected her to be relieved that I was gone. No longer did she have to worry about me shaming the family by doing something too boyish, or worry about finding me a suitable husband and avoiding scandal. So stupid of me – a daughter running away was scandal enough. But a traitorous thought twisted through my mind.

  "Are you sure she's worried, or is she frightened?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "A doctor gave them a lot of money for me. What if he's mad that they were going to cut me, and that I ran away?"

  A sudden thought occurred to me: had the doctor been planning to come for me? I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth, fearful that I would puke.

  He considered. "Maybe she's a little frightened. But I don't think it's only that, Gene. I think she misses you, and regrets how she handled things."

  I did not know what to say to that. "And Father?"

  Cyril shrugged. "He seems much the same as he always is, but he drinks more in the evenings. He's sharp as ever in court when I go with him, but otherwise it feels as though he's going through the motions."

  I squeezed my eyes shut and bowed my head.

  "I think you should come home, Gene."

  I felt torn in twain. Realistically, I knew that I probably should. It was the life I always thought I was going to lead. When I left, I had not wanted to hurt anyone, and yet my whole family missed me as much as I missed them. They were in trouble because of me. But when I tried to imagine actually going back to life as Iphigenia Laurus, I could not. I was a different person now.

  "I'm not Gene anymore," I whispered.

  "What?"

  "I'm Micah Grey. I'm not Gene Laurus, and I'm not sure if I could be her again, Cyril."

  He looked away from me. "You could try," he said, as if ashamed to utter the words.

  "I could try, but then I'd lose all that I gained here. If I left the circus just after I've become a performer, they'll hire someone else. Someone with more experience as an aerialist." I stepped away from him and ran a hand over my face. "I don't know what the right choice is. It feels selfish to stay, but at the same time, I don't feel I should have to sacrifice all I have gained to return to a life where I don't belong. I wasn't happy as Iphigenia, Cyril. I mean, I love you and many people from my old life, and I mourn not seeing them every day. But… it never felt right. And I feel that this new life is right more and more each day. Can you understand?"

  Cyril's shoulders slumped. "It's what I thought you would say. But I had to try. I wish you would come back, though I understand why you don't want to. For me…" He trailed off and stared at the sea. "I feel trapped, sometimes, like you did. But not enough that I would consider leaving. Maybe I'm just not brave enough."

  I laid my hand on his shoulder, and remembered a proverb. "We all have different paths to follow. No matter which fork we take, it's going to be difficult."

  "You'll still write to me, won't you?"

  "Of course," I said. "As much as I can, though I'll have to write in a certain code and leave many things out. But I'll find a way to always let you know where I am and what I'm doing. And whenever I'm in Sicion, I'll come visit you, and if you're in Imachara any time this summer, you should come visit me as well. All right?"

  "It's a promise," he said.

  I took his hand and squeezed. "And don't worry about me, Cyril. I always land on my feet."

  He stayed a while longer and we talked of lighter subjects. But when he left and I saw his wide back disappearing up the beach, it was all I could do not to run after him and say I would return, despite the difficulty, just to be with my brother again.

  19

  SPRING: A MUDLARK'S SICION

  "Good morn, Good morn.

  The Sun Lord peeks his head,

  bidding 'good morn, good morn'.

  Good bye, Good bye,

  The Moon Lady waves her hand,

  bidding, 'good bye, good bye'.

  Good day, good day, Bid the clouds and the stars As they pass overhead. exclaiming, 'What a good, new day'."

  GOOD MORNING, LIA'S SONG FOR

  LADY IPHIGENIA LAURUS

  I wandered alone through the city of Sicion, fascinated by previously forbidden streets and sights I had only seen from behind carriage windows. It was an hour before dawn and I explored alleys choked with homeless men and women, through dark parks with rustling bushes, and along pungent docks. Not once did I reach for the small knife in my pocket. Knowing what I do now, I would never have walked through that area of town without a weapon in my hand.

  I had walked in the city dressed as a boy before when I went climbing, but it felt utterly different now. This time, I would most likely stay this way, introduce myself to others, and have to be convincing. On the streets, I observed the way the men walked and attempted to emulate them. Stiff, straight legs, shoulders back, head high, hands in pockets. In my head, I tried to imagine how my voice would sound as a male. Rougher, lower, more direct. I was terrified that I would not be good enough at pretending to be a boy. How could I hope to unlearn sixteen years as a female?

  Before long, I was lost in a maze of crumbling buildings and alleyways. There were no street signs, the roads were more dirt than cobblestones, and the gas lamps were almost all unlit or sputtering. Between the
dim light and the fog, my world had shrunk to a tiny sphere. The fear caught up with me. My breath came faster. There were no landmarks by which to ground myself. I was hemmed in by limestone on all sides.

  I turned, and out of the darkness three young men appeared. They were perhaps two or three years older than me, and they had obviously been drinking. Immediately, I sensed danger, backing away, hoping that they would not notice me and carry on. The fog hid me, and I watched as they drunkenly sang off-key. One fubbed a line of the lyrics and another took offense. Before long, they were tussling, and then brawling. The thump of fists on flesh, the grunts of anger.

  Keeping to the darkest parts of the shadows, I edged my way around them until my back was against an exposed gutter pipe. I dared not breathe. Eventually, the other two left, leaving the third on the ground. The bad singer had not won the brawl. I hoped he was only unconscious. I crept closer to him, until I saw blood, black in the moonlight. He groaned and rolled over, and I darted back to my hiding place.