Guiltily, she withdrew a handful of paper flowers she’d gleaned off one of the carnival stands and hidden under her coat. “For Madelaine.”
“Don’t be stupid, girl,” the Bishop said roughly. “It’s just an elephant.” But he didn’t stop her from placing them on the newly turned earth.
The mayor waited for them by the train, straw bowler hat making a red mark around his forehead. The Bishop helped Mae onto the steps of the married sleeper car, Max catching her by the hands to lift her the rest of the way.
“We’ve passed an ordinance,” the mayor said, “banning circuses in Ashton. We don’t want to see the likes of you back here again.”
The Bishop laughed, the harshness of it making the mayor step back. “You have no need to worry on that account, sir,” the Bishop said. “There’s not a circus anywhere on earth that would ever come within a fifty-mile radius of this. town.”
The Bishop walked to the caboose, and remained standing on the platform as the train pulled out, leaving the mayor fuming in its wake. The conductor blew the whistle in one long, unbroken wail until the last clapboard buildings fell behind, lost in coal smoke.
They put a few hundred miles between themselves and Ashton before the next morning. When they finally stopped in a cornfield far from any station, Mae knocked on the side of the Bishop’s sleeper car. He didn’t respond, so she turned, about to leave, then heard a child crying from inside. She had to lift herself up by the rails and open the door, but was inside before the Bishop could exit the infirmary and block her way. He wore a white apron with sleeves over his suit, blood speckled at the cuffs.
“I’m rather busy at the moment, Mae,” he said. “Can it wait?”
She peered around him, getting a glimpse through the curtain, enough to make her push past the Bishop. A small child wrestled against the straps holding him down to the table, but in that clumsy manner of a patient not yet completely sedated, a linen mask tied across his face and the smell of chloroform in the air. Surgical instruments gleamed from a tray, linen bandages laid out beside a pan of steaming hot water.
“That’s the mayor’s son,” she said, recognizing the chubby boy who had fed a peanut to Madelaine.
“No, no. You’re mistaken. Just another orphan who’s run away to the circus.” The Bishop took her by the elbow firmly, steering her toward the sleeper’s door.
“What are you doing to him?”
“Giving him the future he wants.” It took every ounce of strength she possessed, but Mae shook him off. He stepped back, as if resigned. “Rosie will be big enough to wear Madelaine’s old howdah next season. All that’s needed is someone who can fit into it.”
As the meaning of his words dawned on her, she felt her knees threatening to buckle. “But you’re not a doctor, not a real one! You’ll kill him!”
“Ah, but I am a real doctor. Trained and certified with the best surgeons in Harley Street. I’ve cut hundreds of legs off lads barely old enough to shave while the Chinese fired so many shells we worked nearly blinded by ash and smoke, the fusillades so loud we had to shout to be heard.” His eyes had gone soft, memories turned inward, but there was little mercy in them. “Missionary nurses reading scripture to dying children as the hospital burned around us. Beds soaked with blood and pus and shit while we prayed and cut and prayed and cut. ” He blinked, as if awakening, then smiled at her kindly. “You have to go now, Mae. I’m very busy.”
“Please, sir,” she whispered, pleading. “Please. Don’t do this. What has that poor boy ever done to deserve this?”
He steered her down the steps, making sure she had her footing before he straightened in the doorway of the carriage.
“What have any of us? Everyone pays, Mae. Everyone. There are no free tickets in life. You should know that.”
He shut the door, this time locking it, while Mae collapsed on the broken rock of railroad ballast and wept.
THE FIREBRAND
by Priya Sharma
Henry Ellard, aged eighteen, can’t believe that he’s just witnessed three people die, only hours ago.
One of them was Rebecca Saunders. The Firebrand. How he loved to watch her as flames danced across her outstretched hands.
Henry strikes the pink head of a match against the side of the matchbox. There’s the flare and the familiar smell as sulphur and phosphorus combine. He passes a finger through the flame.
Bearable, he thinks.
Henry tries to hold his finger in the flame but fails. He throws the match into the ashtray and watches it burn to a shriveled stick, his scorched finger in his mouth.
Three deaths. What combination of murder, suicide, and accident has he seen?
The first time he saw Rebecca was as he wandered through the crowd. She stood, her sequined costume winking in the sunlight, handing out flyers. A remarkable woman, able to withstand flames and who looked right at him and smiled as though he were the most handsome man she’d ever seen. She reached out and touched the livid purple birthmark that covers the left side of his face with a fingertip.
Equally remarkable is that she’s died in a pyre that’s consumed both her and Leo Saunders. Henry could hear the man roaring from the heart of the inferno. The thing Henry doesn’t understand is that Rebecca didn’t scream. Not even once.
“Henry?”
He looks up to see a waitress standing over him. Her gaze flicks from his eyes to his birthmark. “I’m Katherine. From your history class.”
“Oh, hi.” He’s chosen this café to avoid such encounters.
“I work here,” she adds, as if an explanation is required.
Henry tips his face away from her to hide the unsightly port wine stain. The gesture makes him look reticent at best, dismissive at worst, but it’s instinctive.
“What are you having?”
“Black coffee, please.”
Katherine hesitates, as though she has more to say. He wants her to leave him alone. It’s too complex, trying to work out whether her friendliness is genuine, mockery, or from pity when his mind is so full of the recently deceased Rebecca, Leo, and Christos Saunders. He lights another match and stares at the flame until Katherine walks away.
Henry Ellard, at sixty-four, feels indignant that he’s had to start afresh. His new house has no claim to his history. It’s not where he embarked on or ended family life. It’s not where he and Katherine raised their child or where Henry had a heart attack, pain crushing him to the floor.
The house does have charm though. It’s at the end of a lane, single storied, with a veranda that wraps around the whole building. There’s a galley kitchen and two bedrooms, although the spare one’s never used. The lounge window overlooks the woods. The trees are company. The room’s unfit for entertaining as he’s made it his sanctuary. One wall’s covered with shelves laden with box files. The desk that was built for two dominates the room. Henry used to sit opposite Katherine, then his wife, as they marked student papers late into the night.
A single poster, an original, acts as the room’s sole decoration.
Something new and unique comes to Paradise. The Firebrand! The world’s only burning girl!
Rebecca Saunders has been rendered half woman, half phoenix in the illustration. Her costume’s pinched at the waist and her sloping tail is red and gold. She smiles, despite being on fire.
Henry always keeps his own personal copy of his book to hand. The Firebrand: Death in Paradise by Henry Ellard. His ex-wife once threw it at him during a fight.