Circus of Silence

A Name Without A Face, A Face Without a Name

~*~

Panic surges through you

and you reach down to tie your shoe

like it's possible you can retrieve it

~*~

                     Opening night was a roaring success- and it wasn't just because of Harrison's show. What it was, Rosalind knew she may never know! She didn't mind. The Circus Everlasting Marquee was a buzz, and all their troubles were behind. Last night, she'd learned she could grow tents out of the ground like daisies. Now, she'd make good use of her time away from the crazies.

Today, Rosalind intended to make good on her promise to Whisper.

And her new library was going to help with that.

She'd sung it up this morning from a tune that came to her in a dream. And now it was as perfect as peaches and cream. This was all a great magnificent scheme. Rosalind Maybrush, the Witch of the Circus, roamed the halls of her library alone, humming down books whenever she saw one of interest. Superbly stuffed shelves sensibly shoved supplies down to her as she strode by. When her arms were unbearably full, she sung up a cushioned reclining chair and flipped her way through the titles the Circus had wanted her to see. Every one was hand written by the old Witch herself. Written and crammed- each to their own bookshelf.

Rosalind reclined. "Release," respired she, ready as could be. She turned to the first page. "Aelfic, my dear Grandson." Rosalind tried, tasting the title on her tongue. Aelfic was a terribly, terribly old name, though she guessed his era was to blame. The page was dated in the time of the Anglo-Saxons... but for some reason, the language made perfect sense. "Release of the performers is a difficult subject to broach, though necessary, because your magic will automatically grants the immortality of a roach. You'll find out soon enough, if all goes well, that the only way to free a performer, is to send them to-" Rosalind slammed the book shut and turned to the next book, hoping that a more recent volume wouldn't encourage her to kill Whisper's poor brother. Surely, surely she'd find her answer in another.

This edition was dedicated to Andile, which her mind whispered was Zulu. His pages' parchment was of a slightly cleaner hue. It said the exact same thing. So did Ming-Hua and Mohammad and Rhiannon and Bast and Nikolai's. All of them. Every one. There was no way she could see, that she could set the Marquee free. Still, she had energy to look through one more book before her time, opening the Circus took.

Though when she picked up a random book and read its name, Rosalind's entire body shook.

"Dear Algernon," she read, feeling unwell in the head. Algernon. She'd known that name, someway, but it had been forgotten for so long. Like an echo of an old forgotten song. Algernon. Algernon. ALGERNON! Her relation to that name was all but gone. When the old Witch had died, the memories she'd stolen from Rosalind had died with her.... But these echoes? They stuck to her skirts like a troublesome bur.

Algernon's book was new- modern, the edges sharp and not yet frayed. The pages smelled like flowers, subtle and clean and- Rosalind turned the page, only to learn that was all her a thousand times Grandmother had to say to a man who had lasted little more than a day. The next page, crisp white and new, but what frightened her so was what was written in ink of the purest blue.

"Dearest Rosaline."

Realization did not hit her hard. Not like a brick, but perhaps a stick of lard? Cool terror slid down her face like butter. If Algernon had come right before she... well, who else could he be?