stepping out worth the chill in London proper.
Fanny thought I was asleep in bed, nursing my hurt and temper. I’d told her I was worn, and retired promptly upon arriving home. Betsy had gone home to her husband, so there was no one to know when I changed into my collector’s uniform and slipped away.
This time, I included a coat. I didn’t expect to collect anything tonight, and I wanted to be warm.
The air around the Menagerie was clearer, noticeably different as I stepped across the boundary from street to garden territory. I still wasn’t sure how they managed it, but something kept the worst of the lung-catching fog from infecting the grounds.
I shoved my goggles up onto my head, eager to be rid of the pressure around my eyes, and surveyed the estate.
A great deal of money had been put into the pleasure gardens. One part circus, one part park, one bit fair ground and all elaborate, it could provide whatever pleasure a man or woman with coin felt inclined to pursue on any given evening.
Exotic animals and strange foreign creatures from around the world? They could be seen. Midnight sweets, ripe for the taking and skilled in the art of lovemaking? Available for a price. Masquerades, drinking wells, elaborate dance halls where the corners were dark and the inhibitions few, all of this and more fell under the domain of the Karakash Veil.
Delicate paths crossed through elaborate fountains and sheltered groves. In the near distance, a large tent played home to the Menagerie’s circus. Lit, tonight, which meant I’d stay away from it.
As usual.
I wasn’t comfortable in circus tents. Even looking at it summoned to mind the din of chattering crowds, the cacophony of the music as it played out for every performer; the sticky sweat of fear and the dizzying rush of motion, of tensile strength and supple flexibility.
I remembered the tricks that had kept me useful. And well away from the bidding rings. I used them still, but never for applause.
Laughter, screaming and shouts echoed across the grounds, rising and falling so suddenly, I startled. My eyes focused again on the paper lanterns strung across the paths before me. Red and gold, blue and orange and white.
I knelt in the circle of light from a blue paper lantern, picking up a discarded leaflet in one gloved hand. I squinted in the pale light, studying the print. Tonight’s feature included sideshow freaks from the most exotic locations, aerial ballerinas and—I raised an eyebrow at the dark print.
His Highness Ikenna Osoba , the bold ink declared. Lion prince and far removed from the savage wilds of Africa.
A lion tamer, then. Dangerous work, even for the extremely confident. I’d only ever seen one, and this outside Monsieur Marceaux’s rings. For his part, my employer had forbidden the act. Too dangerous. Too much could go wrong.
Underneath the gaudy announcement, the usual fare of sideshow attractions: bearded ladies, acrobatic midgets, the tallest man in the world and his Thumbelina wife. A tragic love story, I was sure.
I crumpled the paper in one fist and dropped it. No amount of nostalgia would coax me to enter the circus. Besides the usual whisper of anxiety skimming across my already stretched nerves, I knew my quarry wouldn’t be there at the moment.
The ringmaster’s role ended when the headline act took the stage. Micajah Hawke would be there again eventually, but I didn’t want to wait.
And if I knew Hawke, he’d gone somewhere quieter in the interim.
I aimed for the private gardens, where I didn’t often go. For good reason. Where the rest of the Menagerie could be attained for some coin and eager company, the gardens were reserved for the truly decadent. There wasn’t even a pretense of propriety here, though there was plenty of privacy to be had. And, as I recalled, they were the favorite haunt for many of London’s gentlemen from above the drift.
Certainly the feeding grounds for more than one mistress.
Later, I would think
Fanny thought I was asleep in bed, nursing my hurt and temper. I’d told her I was worn, and retired promptly upon arriving home. Betsy had gone home to her husband, so there was no one to know when I changed into my collector’s uniform and slipped away.
This time, I included a coat. I didn’t expect to collect anything tonight, and I wanted to be warm.
The air around the Menagerie was clearer, noticeably different as I stepped across the boundary from street to garden territory. I still wasn’t sure how they managed it, but something kept the worst of the lung-catching fog from infecting the grounds.
I shoved my goggles up onto my head, eager to be rid of the pressure around my eyes, and surveyed the estate.
A great deal of money had been put into the pleasure gardens. One part circus, one part park, one bit fair ground and all elaborate, it could provide whatever pleasure a man or woman with coin felt inclined to pursue on any given evening.
Exotic animals and strange foreign creatures from around the world? They could be seen. Midnight sweets, ripe for the taking and skilled in the art of lovemaking? Available for a price. Masquerades, drinking wells, elaborate dance halls where the corners were dark and the inhibitions few, all of this and more fell under the domain of the Karakash Veil.
Delicate paths crossed through elaborate fountains and sheltered groves. In the near distance, a large tent played home to the Menagerie’s circus. Lit, tonight, which meant I’d stay away from it.
As usual.
I wasn’t comfortable in circus tents. Even looking at it summoned to mind the din of chattering crowds, the cacophony of the music as it played out for every performer; the sticky sweat of fear and the dizzying rush of motion, of tensile strength and supple flexibility.
I remembered the tricks that had kept me useful. And well away from the bidding rings. I used them still, but never for applause.
Laughter, screaming and shouts echoed across the grounds, rising and falling so suddenly, I startled. My eyes focused again on the paper lanterns strung across the paths before me. Red and gold, blue and orange and white.
I knelt in the circle of light from a blue paper lantern, picking up a discarded leaflet in one gloved hand. I squinted in the pale light, studying the print. Tonight’s feature included sideshow freaks from the most exotic locations, aerial ballerinas and—I raised an eyebrow at the dark print.
His Highness Ikenna Osoba , the bold ink declared. Lion prince and far removed from the savage wilds of Africa.
A lion tamer, then. Dangerous work, even for the extremely confident. I’d only ever seen one, and this outside Monsieur Marceaux’s rings. For his part, my employer had forbidden the act. Too dangerous. Too much could go wrong.
Underneath the gaudy announcement, the usual fare of sideshow attractions: bearded ladies, acrobatic midgets, the tallest man in the world and his Thumbelina wife. A tragic love story, I was sure.
I crumpled the paper in one fist and dropped it. No amount of nostalgia would coax me to enter the circus. Besides the usual whisper of anxiety skimming across my already stretched nerves, I knew my quarry wouldn’t be there at the moment.
The ringmaster’s role ended when the headline act took the stage. Micajah Hawke would be there again eventually, but I didn’t want to wait.
And if I knew Hawke, he’d gone somewhere quieter in the interim.
I aimed for the private gardens, where I didn’t often go. For good reason. Where the rest of the Menagerie could be attained for some coin and eager company, the gardens were reserved for the truly decadent. There wasn’t even a pretense of propriety here, though there was plenty of privacy to be had. And, as I recalled, they were the favorite haunt for many of London’s gentlemen from above the drift.
Certainly the feeding grounds for more than one mistress.
Later, I would think
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