Circus of the Grand Design by Robert Freeman Wexler

Author:Robert Freeman Wexler [Wexler, Robert Freeman]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: infinity plus
Published: 2011-09-05T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21: Costumes and Encounters

Lewis browsed fragments and tatters of discarded costumes, looking for...inspiration?...purpose? He wasn't a performer—why had Dillon picked him? Not a secret the horse intrigued him, but...In college, he and a roommate had taken a drama class, more to meet girls than from any desire to perform. Not likely there was anything he could pull out from that—too much time had passed. And the circus, the horse!, this was real, not some made-up scenario from a class. He stopped in front of the armor-covered mannequin. When Lewis was a child, his grandfather had read to him the tales of King Miltos. He had loved the magic and mystery, the swordfights.

He let out a fat groan of exasperation.

This situation came from Cybele's influence. He hadn't asked for her company, her intrusion into his privacy. She would find he wasn't someone who could be manipulated. She was probably sitting in his room, waiting to flaunt her mastery of him. Well, he was in no hurry to see her.

What act could he make from the armor? He lined a shoe up with one of the boots. Appeared to be his size. Might as well try them on. But to remove the boots from the mannequin required taking everything else off first, helmet, sword, chain mail, and tipping it over...He didn't like being in this claustrophobic storage car filled with ghosts of old costumes and long-dead performances. He would have to carry it all back to his (Cybele-free, he hoped) room to try on.

One of the lockers held an empty duffel bag. That would make the stuff easier to handle, and would keep it hidden—he didn't want to be forced to explain the armor to everyone he passed.

~

Barca sat at a dining car booth with Dawn and Leonora, maneuvering three plastic elephants across the tabletop. Lewis paused for a moment near the door, resting the armor-filled duffle on the floor. His shoulder hurt from carrying the bulky load, but he was afraid if he stopped to rest they would ask him what was in the bag. As if it was their business! No one ever asked if he minded being intruded on, not Cybele, or Gold, or Dillon; everyone assumed he was there to be maneuvered around like a toy. Did they think that was what a publicist was for? He lifted the bag to his shoulder and continued.

He wasn't the publicist anymore.

Dawn looked up. "Congratulations Lewis," she said.

How did she know? She smiled at him, and he noted the graceful curve of her arms and shoulders where they emerged from her dark blue tank top. She looked down again at the plastic elephants and started relating something to her companions. As she talked she stretched her arms up over her head. He couldn't stop staring at her underarms, feathery hair, the stretching of her deltoid muscles, the way they joined the biceps at the shoulder, the hollow underneath, especially the hollow, the armpit. It was like an extension of the breast, no, more the inverse of a breast.

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