Chapter 62 beautiful pain

London, November 1, 1901 Marco's apartment was originally plain and poor, but now it is crowded with all kinds of mismatched furniture.The furniture that Chandrash grew tired of at some stage was gradually incorporated into this makeshift shelter instead of being completely abandoned. There are not enough shelves for storage because there are too many books, so they are piled here and there on antique Chinese furniture and cushions covered in sari. The clock on the mantelpiece was Mr. Dyson's creation. As the second hand ticked toward three o'clock in the morning, the miniature book used to decorate the clock's face also turned its pages.

Marco walks back and forth between handwritten books, scribbled notes, and loose-leaf calculations, and the larger books on the table move at a less stable pace.Again and again, he crossed out symbols and numbers, discarded some books and searched for others, and returned again to the ones that had been thrown aside. The door to the apartment opened by itself, the lock dropped and its hinges swung wildly.Marco jumped away from the table, splashing the inkwell on the papers. Celia stood in the doorway, her curly hair scattered from her upper hairstyle.The unbuttoned off-white coat hangs loosely, too thin for this kind of weather.

As she entered the room, the door closed behind itself with a series of locking clicks, and it was only then that Marco noticed that the gown under her coat was stained with blood. What happened?He asked, the hand that was about to straighten the ink bottle stopped in mid-air. You clearly know what's going on.Celia said, her tone calm, but the dark surface of the pool of ink on the table was already beginning to ripple. how are youMarco asked, wanting to get closer to her. I'm pretty sure I'm in a bad shape.Celia said.The ink bottle burst open, spilling ink onto the document, onto the sleeve of Marco's white shirt, seeping into his black vest and disappearing.His hands were covered in ink, but he was still distracted by the blood on her gown.Scarlet blood screamed across the ivory satin, disappearing behind the black velvet fretwork that covered it like a cage.

Celia, what have you done?he asks. I tried my best.Celia said, but broke her voice, so she had to repeat.I tried my best, I thought I could fix it.I've known him for so long that I thought maybe I could make it go again like a clock.I know exactly what the problem is, but I just can't get it right.I know him so well, but it doesn't work. The sobs that were gradually rising in her chest escaped, and the hot tears that had been suppressed for a long time rolled down from her eyes. Marco rushed across the room to her, pulling her close and hugging her tightly as she cried. it's a pity.He echoed her sobs and repeated until she calmed down.She relaxed and snuggled into his arms, and the tense shoulders eased.

he is my friend.she said quietly. I know.Marco said, brushing away her tears, leaving streaks of ink on her cheeks.I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened.Something has tipped the balance, but I can't find out what. It's Isobe.Celia said. What? Isobe's spell on the circus, on you and me.I know it's there, I feel it.I didn't think it would do much, but apparently it does.I don't know why she chose to stop the spell tonight. Marco sighed. She chose tonight because I finally confessed to her that I love you, he said: I should have done this years ago, but I put off telling her until tonight.I thought she could accept it calmly, but it seems I was wrong.I had no idea what Alexander was doing there.

He will be there, by my invitation.Celia said. why did you do thatMarco asked. I want a verdict quickly, she said, tears welling up in her eyes again, I want this to end quickly so I can be with you.I thought that if he came to visit the circus, he could decide who was the winner.I don't know how else they want to decide.How did Chandrash know he was going there? I don't know, I don't even know what possessed him to go there instead.He was determined not to have me by his side, so I stalked to keep an eye on him.I'll talk to Isobe, it's only a few minutes after I lost him, and I'll catch up with him again

Did you also feel the ground suddenly move away under your feet?Celia asked. Marco nodded. I was supposed to protect Chandrash from hurting himself, he said: It never occurred to me that he could be a danger to others. What are these for?Celia asked, turning her attention to the books on the table. There are countless pages with marks and symbols drawn on them, surrounded by text torn from other places, stacked and stacked, and the words are written repeatedly. on top.In the center of the desk was a large leather-bound booklet with paper pasted on the inside of the cover, surrounded by a delicate and complicated hand-painted tree; Celia could only tell that the paper was a newspaper clipping, and could barely make out the word extraordinary.

That's how I work, Marco said: the book is the book that binds everyone in the circus.Guards, for lack of a better term.I put the copy in the campfire before the lighting ceremony, but usually use this copy to adjust. Celia flipped through the pages marked with names.She stopped on a page with Leni.Burgess's circled autograph, next to the space left by the removal of the same-sized piece of paper, is nothing but a bright, blank void. I should have added Mr Dyson, Marco said: I never considered it. Even if it didn't happen to him, there would be other people, and it was impossible to protect everyone.

It's a pity, he said again: I don't know Mr. Dyson as well as you do, but I do admire him and his works. He taught me to see the circus with unprecedented eyes. Celia said: Let me know what the circus looks like from the outside world.We have corresponded for many years. If I could find a way to put into words everything I want to tell you, I would write to you too, and an ocean of ink is not enough. But you built my dream instead, Celia looked up at him and said: And I built tents you rarely have the chance to see.There have always been so many you around me, but I have been unable to give you something that can keep you by my side in return.

I still have your shawl.Marco said. When she closed the book, she smiled gently.Ink spilled from the side of the book seeped back into the jar, and shards of glass reformed all around. I think that's what my dad called the outside-in, not the inside-out approach, she said: He always warned me not to do that. Then he must look down on the other room.Marco said. What room?Celia asked.The inkwell settled still, as if it had never been broken. Marco motioned her to go forward and led her to an adjoining room.He opened the door but didn't go in.When Celia followed his footsteps, she saw the reason.

It might have been a study or sitting room, not a lot of space, but cozy if not for the layers of threaded papers hanging from every surface. Thin wires dangled from the chandeliers, looped around the tops of the shelves, and then tangled together before cascading down from the ceiling like a net. On every surface, tables, desks, armchairs, are meticulously constructed models of tents.Some use newspaper as material, some use cloth.Fragments of blueprints, novels, and letterheads, folded, cut, and shaped into a mass of striped tents, all bound together with more black, white, and red threads.On it were parts of a clockwork, a fragment of a mirror, and a candle stained with tears. In the center of the room was a round wooden table, painted black but embellished with light mother-of-pearl inlays, on which stood a small iron pot.The fire in the cauldron was burning brightly, and the flames were bright and white, casting long shadows across the space. Celia stepped into the room, bowed her head to avoid the thin wire hanging from the ceiling.That feeling is no different from entering a circus, there is even a lingering caramel aroma in the air, but there is something deeper underneath, something thick and ancient hidden in the paper and thin thread. Celia cautiously shuttled around the room. When she peeked into the mini tent, she kept an eye on the swing of the dress, and delicately brushed over the scattered threads and clockwork with her fingers.Marco stayed there at the door. This magic is very old, isn't it?she asked. I only know this kind of magic.Marco answered.He pulled a thin wire by the door, and the movement echoed through the room, and all the circus models shone like a fire on splinters of metal.However, I guess that kind of magic should not be used for this purpose. Celia stopped by a tent filled with branches covered in candle wax.There she confirmed her orientation, found another shed, and gently pushed open the paper door to find a circle of miniature chairs, representing her exclusive performance space. Shakespeare's sonnets were printed on the sheets of paper that made up the tent. Celia let the paper door swing shut. She tentatively walked around the room, met Marco at the door, and closed the door gently. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the feeling of being in the circus gradually dissipated, and she was suddenly aware of the warmth of all the fires in the adjacent room against the cold wind that rushed in through the windows, and Marco's skin was covered with ink and cologne. Disperse the smell.Thanks for letting me watch that.she says. I imagine your father would be offended.Marco asked. I don't care what my dad approves of anymore. Celia swayed across the desk, stopped in front of the fireplace, and watched the pages of the book in a smaller version turn over time in the clock on the mantelpiece. A single playing card is placed next to the clock.It's two of hearts.There was no evidence that it had been impaled by the Ottoman dagger, nor that Celia's blood had stained the surface, but she knew it was the same card. I could talk to Alexander, Marco suggested: Maybe what he saw was enough to decide the winner, or the current situation could also result in disqualification.I'm sure by now he thinks I've let him down so bad he can just declare you a winner Stop, Celia said without turning around: Please stop talking.I don't want to talk about this damn race.Marco tried to protest, but his voice caught in his throat.He struggled to speak, but found himself speechless. He let out a silent sigh and dropped his shoulders. I'm so tired of trying to hold together what doesn't.When he approached Celia, she said: Tired of myself trying so hard to control what I can't control.Also tired of depriving myself of what I want for fear of breaking what I can't fix.They fall apart no matter what we do. She leaned on his chest, while he wrapped his arms around her and rubbed the back of her neck with his ink-stained hands.They remained in this position for a while, while the fire crackled and the clock ticked. She looked up, and he slid her coat off her shoulders, put his hands on her bare arms, and kept his eyes locked on hers. The familiar passion that would always come with touching his skin ran through Celia's body, and she could no longer resist, and no longer had the intention to resist. Marco, she said, fumbling with her fingers at the buttons of his vest, Marco, I Before she could finish her words, he pressed her lips against hers, hot and demanding. She unbuttoned it one by one, blindly tugging at the clasp and ribbon, refusing to let their lips separate. The carefully constructed gown spread out at her feet. Marco wrapped his wrists around the lace where her vest had been loosened, pulling her down to the floor with her. They continued to unload layers of clothing until there was nothing between them. Trapped in silence, Marco used his tongue to describe feelings of apology and love on Celia.Express everything that he couldn't say aloud, silently. He found other ways to express his affection to her, leaving faint ink stains where his fingers brushed.He savored every sound that emanated from her. When the two went to the cloud together, the whole room trembled. Although there were countless fragile items in the room, none of them were shattered and disintegrated. The clock above them continued to turn the pages, advancing the story in too small a font to read. Marco doesn't remember falling asleep.One moment Celia was curled up in his arms, her head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and the next moment he was alone. The dwindling fire was only smoldering embers.The gray dawn crept in through the window, casting soft shadows. On the two of hearts on the mantelpiece was a silver ring inscribed in Latin.Marco smiled and put Celia's ring on his little finger, next to the scar on his ring finger. It was only later that he noticed that the leather guard that had rested on the table was gone.