London, december 1902

P oppet Murray stands on the front steps of la maison Lefèvre, a leather briefcase in hand and a large satchel sitting by her feet. She rings the doorbell a dozen times, alternating with a series of loud knocks, though she can hear the bell echoing within the house.

When the door finally swings open, Chandresh himself stands behind it, his violet shirt untucked and a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

“You were smaller last time I saw you,” he says, looking Poppet over from her boots to her upswept red hair. “And there were two of you.”

“My brother is in France,” Poppet says, picking up the satchel and following Chandresh inside.

The golden elephant-headed statue in the hall is in need of polishing. The house is in a state of disarray, or as much disarray as a house crammed from floor to ceiling with antiques and books and objets d’art can be in its inherent cozy, cluttered way. It does not shine as brightly as it had when she ran through the halls with Widget what seems like more than a few years ago, chasing marmalade kittens through a rainbow of guests.

“What happened to your staff?” she asks as they ascend the stairs.

“I dismissed the lot of them,” Chandresh says. “They were useless, could not keep a single thing in order. I retained only the cooks. Haven’t had a dinner in quite some time, but at least they know what they’re doing.”

Poppet follows him down the column-lined hall to his study. She has never been in this particular room before, but she doubts it was always so covered with blueprints and sketches and empty brandy bottles.

Chandresh wanders across the room, adding the crumpled piece of paper in his hand to a stack on a chair, and staring idly at a set of blueprints hanging over the windows.

Poppet clears a space on the desk to put the briefcase down, moving books and antlers and carved jade turtles. She leaves the satchel on the floor nearby.

“Why are you here?” Chandresh says, turning and looking at Poppet as though he has only just noticed her presence.

Poppet snaps open the briefcase on the desk, pulling out a dense pile of paper.

“I need you to do a favor for me, Chandresh,” she says.

“What might that be?”

“I would like you to sign over ownership of the circus.” Poppet finds a fountain pen amongst the clutter on the desk and tests it on a scrap of paper to see if it is properly inked.

“The circus was never mine to begin with,” Chandresh mutters.

“Of course it was,” Poppet says, drawing a swirling letter P. “It was your idea. But I know you don’t have time for it, and I thought it might be best if you relinquished your position as proprietor.”

Chandresh considers this for a moment, but then he nods and walks over to the desk to read through the contract.

“You have Ethan and Lainie listed here, but not Tante Padva,” he says as he peruses it.

“I’ve spoken with all of them already,” Poppet says. “Madame Padva wished not to be involved any longer, but she is confident that Miss Burgess can handle her responsibilities.”

“Who is this Mr. Clarke?” Chandresh asks.

“He is a very dear friend of mine,” Poppet says, a soft blush warming her cheeks. “And he will take excellent care of the circus.”

When Chandresh reaches the end of the document, she hands him the pen.

He signs his name with a wobbling flourish, letting the pen drop onto the desk.

“I appreciate this more than I can say.” Poppet blows on the ink to dry it before she returns the contract to the briefcase. Chandresh brushes her words away with a lazy wave of his hand, walking back to the window and staring at the expanse of blue papers hanging over it.

“What are the blueprints for?” Poppet asks after she closes the briefcase.

“I have all of these … plans from Ethan and I don’t know what to do with them,” Chandresh says, waving an arm around at the multitudes of paper.

Poppet removes her coat, leaving it draped over the back of the desk chair, and takes a closer look at the blueprints and sketches hanging from shelves and tacked to mirrors and paintings and windows. Some are complete rooms, others are bits of exterior architecture or elaborate archways and halls.

She stops when she reaches a dartboard with a silver knife embedded in the patterned cork, its blade marred with dark stains. The knife vanishes as Poppet continues walking, though Chandresh does not notice.

“They are meant to be renovations to the house,” he says as she tours the room, “but they do not fit together properly.”

“It’s a museum,” Poppet says, overlaying the pieces in her mind and seeing where they match up with the building she has already seen in the stars. They are completely out of order, but it is unmistakable. She pulls down a set of blueprints and switches it with another, arranging them story by story. “It’s not this building,” she explains as Chandresh watches her curiously. “It’s a new one.” She takes a series of doors, alternate versions of the same possible entrance, and lays them side by side along the floor, letting each lead to a different room.

Chandresh watches as she rearranges the plans, a grin spreading across his face as he begins to see what she is doing.

He makes adjustments to the flood of Prussian blue paper himself, responding to her arrangements, surrounding replicas of ancient Egyptian temples with columns of curving bookshelves. They sit together on the floor, combining rooms and halls and stairs.

Chandresh starts to call for Marco, but catches himself.

“I keep forgetting that he’s gone,” he says to Poppet. “Left one day and did not come back. Didn’t even leave a note. You would think someone who was constantly writing notes would leave one.”

“I believe his departure was unplanned,” Poppet says. “And I know he regrets not being able to properly settle his responsibilities here.”

“Do you know why he left?” Chandresh asks, looking up at her.

“He left to be with Celia Bowen,” Poppet says, unable to keep from smiling.

“Ha!” Chandresh exclaims. “Didn’t think he had it in him. Good for them. Let’s have a toast.”

“A toast?”

“You’re right, there’s no champagne,” Chandresh says, pushing aside a pile of empty brandy bottles as he lays out another string of sketches along the floor. “We’ll dedicate a room to them, which one do you think they would like?”

Poppet looks over the blueprints and sketches. There are several that she thinks either or both of them might like. She stops at a drawing of a round, windowless room illuminated only by light that filters through the koi pond enclosed in glass above it. Serene and enchanting.

“This one,” she says.

Chandresh takes a pencil and writes “Dedicate to M. Alisdair and C. Bowen” along the edge of the paper.

“I could help you find a new assistant,” Poppet offers. “I can stay in London for a while.”

“I would appreciate that, my dear.”

The large satchel that Poppet had placed on the floor nearby suddenly falls to its side with a soft thump.

“What’s in that bag?” Chandresh asks, eyeing it with a certain amount of trepidation.

“I brought you a present,” Poppet says brightly.

She rights the bag, opening it carefully and pulling out a small black kitten with splotches of white along its legs and tail. It looks as though it has been dipped in cream.

“Her name is Ara,” Poppet tells him. “She’ll come when she’s called and she knows a few tricks but mostly she likes attention and sitting in windows. I thought you might like the company.”

She puts the kitten gently on the floor and holds her hand above it. The kitten stretches up on its hind legs with a soft mew and licks Poppet’s fingers before turning its attention to Chandresh.

“Hello, Ara,” he says.

“I’m not going to give you your memory back,” Poppet says, watching Chandresh as the kitten attempts to crawl onto his lap. “I don’t know if I could even if I tried, though Widge could probably manage it. At this point, I don’t think you need that weight on you. I think looking forward will be better than looking back.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Chandresh asks, picking up the kitten and scratching it behind the ears as it purrs.

“Nothing,” Poppet says. “Thank you, Chandresh.”

She leans over and kisses him on the cheek.

As soon as her lips touch his skin, Chandresh feels better than he has in years, as though the last of a fog has been lifted from him. His mind is clear, the plans for the museum becoming cohesive, ideas for future projects aligning themselves in ways that seem completely manageable.

Chandresh and Poppet spend hours arranging and adding to the blueprints, creating a new space to be filled with antiques and art and visions of the future.

The black-and-white kitten paws playfully at the curling paper as they work.

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