Work Text:
Isobel is surprised when Celia requests the second chair at her table, but not unpleasantly so. As the illusionist sits, raindrops fading from her gown and hair before they can drip to the floor, Isobel finds herself grateful for the company. She has been waiting on Marco for some time (although that is her own fault, she scolds herself, for rushing in her eagerness and arriving early for their meeting), and the coffee shop is cosy enough that she might fall asleep without some diversion.
Celia smiles, and Isobel returns the expression automatically. She had tried to dislike Celia for a time, even to remain neutral to the opponent of her - lover? Conspirator? The knot of Marco can never be loosened without tightening elsewhere. But Celia cut through the cat’s cradle between her fingers, as easily as shears through silk, and they had settled into a comfortable friendship. The simple offering of kindness was hard to rebuke, and the circus did not allow distance between its performers, physical or otherwise.
In the dark, selfish space beneath her stomach, Isobel is sometimes glad that Marco remains so distant.
The two women order hot drinks, enjoying the warmth and shelter from the downpour outside. The cafe is busy, but the two women go unnoticed; she suspects Celia’s intervention. They exchange stories of interesting customers and exotic tour locations; stories that are as worn and familiar as favourite coats, but no less enjoyable for it. Isobel particularly enjoys hearing of the exploits of the Murray twins - many members of the circus take a special interest in the youngest members of the troupe, and Isobel both welcomes and resents the ache it leaves in her, to know that connection. For all the circus is a family, no one has failed to notice that it is one of very few parents.
“And then the kittens -”
“Fell into the caramel barrel!” Isobel finishes Celia’s tale with a smile. Celia pouts for a moment at being robbed of the story’s punchline, but betrays herself with a grin that cannot be restrained. She leans forward on her elbows, dark curls framing her flushed cheeks.
“I would have put them on sticks and sold them - candy kittens!” she confides, and Isobel laughs.
“I doubt even the sweetest caramel could cover up the taste of cat fur,” she replies, attempting to sound disdainful.
“Oh, but customers wouldn’t realise until they’d already bought them!” Celia says triumphantly, leaning back and sipping her coffee.
“A ruse!” Isobel gasps, hand to her heart. “Celia, I’m surprised at you! To think, you’ve been a scoundrel all along!”
Celia chuckles. “I’m an illusionist, Isobel. Being a scoundrel comes with the top hat and rabbit.”
Isobel shakes her head, her smile softening. “You are the most honest illusionist I have ever met, Cee.”
The magician looks taken aback, a moment of candor that few get to witness. “I think there is very little space for honesty in our circus, my friend.”
Isobel shrugs, and sips her tea. “I try to be honest, to a point. The cards can’t lie, in any case.” She carefully ignores the untruth beneath her very existence in the circus. At this point, she almost believes the lie more than reality.
Celia is quiet for a moment, considering. “I think the reaction is where the true honesty is. Not in what is revealed, but what is shown in turn.”
Isobel’s hands itch for her cards. Not the deck that she uses for her act, but for her cards, the ones that feel like extensions of her limbs. Sometimes, she can feel the meanings of the cards even before she turns them over, like feeling a presence behind you before seeing the knife. She makes do with pushing the tea leaves around her now-empty cup.
Celia’s grey eyes are kind and knowing, and Isobel is tangled once more.
“Maybe that’s just the performer in me,” Celia continues. “After all, it is satisfying to get a genuine reaction from an audience. It’s tough to fake that moment of surprise, or to conceal it.”
Isobel nods. “They try to hide it from me, most of the time. When I am correct, they don’t want me to know, in case I use it against them.” A small, sly smile appears. “I can always tell, of course.”
“We see more than we let on,” Celia agrees. Isobel wonders just how much the other woman isn’t letting on, and about whom. Celia gives an impression of youth, but all the circus folk have lived beyond their years. More than most, the illusionist seems to perceive what is hidden.
The card-reader has been loved, rejected, desired, discarded. She doesn't know that she has ever been seen.
Celia gently sets down her coffee cup and lays her hands palm-up on the table. Her gaze makes Isobel blush with its confidence.
“You know I don’t read palms,” Isobel admonishes. It’s not that she couldn’t, but it’s not her way. The cards are how she the world speaks to her.
“I know,” Celia nods, leaving her hands where they are. “But that’s not the only way to tell the future.”
“Celia-”
“What, you don’t trust a magician?” Her words are playful, but Celia’s grey eyes don’t leave Isobel’s - careful, always careful.
Isobel hasn’t trusted anyone in a long time.
She reaches out her hands and gently rests them on the other woman’s, as if they were in calling upon spirits. She almost expects the lights to flicker, or to hear a knock on the table.
Instead, there’s just the warm press of skin on skin. There’s just Celia, smiling at her like she’s done something wonderful.
“Here’s what I see in your future,” Celia murmurs, and suddenly there’s a rippling feeling under the soft skin of Isobel’s palm. She flinches a little in surprise, but the illusionist’s fingers hold her still. She brings their hands together, hers cupped under Isobel’s, and the feeling of movement increases.
“What are you -” Isobel’s query is cut off by a gasp. The magician lifts her hands away with a small, graceful flourish of her fingers, revealing -
A garden. Miniature but perfect in every detail, appearing to bloom from Isobel’s own flesh. Lush grass and bushes of hydrangeas bordered with daintily-scented herbs, clusters of violets following her heart line. As she looks closer, she can see movement, like a faint breeze is rustling the stems; and tiny bees move in and out of the petals, no larger than pinheads. As she watches, roses grow along her fingers, budding and blossoming in turn, their thorns rounded and harmless.
All of the circus had seen Celia’s illusions during their time together, but this is unlike anything Isobel had ever experienced. Even knowing of Marco’s sigils and skills, the flora before her is a dream beyond waking. It isn’t about realism or spectacle; this magic (as Isobel cannot help but define it) is a gift, freely given, for her own wonder. The simple joy of it nearly brings her to tears.
After many quiet moments, she tears her gaze away from the garden to her companion. Celia’s face is lit up with warmth, soft wrinkles at the corners of her eyes giving hint to her years of work at her craft.
“Do you like it?” she asks quietly, after Isobel fails to speak.
“Celia…” she murmurs, “this is the most beautiful thing I have ever held. I don’t dare move my hands - I would rather hold it here forever.”
If before Celia had been alight, she now appears almost incandescent, a smile lifting her cheeks and her head tilting back in laughter. She picks up Isobel’s empty teacup, leans forward, and passes her hand over the miniature garden. Isobel feels another ripple over her skin, and then loss, as her palms become empty once more. The teacup is placed before her, a capsule. She stares in awe, turns it slowly. The flowers, the bushes, the bees - they are all there, within the delicate china confines of the cup.
Celia straightens again, her cheeks flushed. “You need your hands to read the cards - this way the garden can stay with you.” The forever at the end of the sentence goes unsaid, but both women hear it, a single word containing more than can be expressed.
Isobel skims a finger around the rim of the teacup, then reaches across the table to grasp Celia’s hands. “Thank you, Cee. I will treasure it.”
Celia’s smile is smaller now, but no less luminous. “Do you want to know what I saw in your future?” she asks, a spark in her eyes.
Isobel snorts in an inelegant fashion. “Your gift implies that I’ll be taking up gardening, although I’ve never done well with it before.”
Celia laughs again, and leans closer, shaking her head in mock admonishment.“Isobel, you know the fates are never that literal! I’m trying to share with you my gift of sight!”
Isobel tries to school her face into a more solemn expression, although she can’t hide the twitch at the corners of her mouth. “I’m ready, oh wise and powerful seer,” she says, as evenly as she can manage.
The magician draws her in by their still-clasped hands, until their faces are merely a hands-width apart.
“I see cards and lives laid in front of you,” she begins, eyes wide and voice low, “and I see shadows dancing across smoke. I see growth and blossoms within you, around you, I see colour pushing through the cracks of the circus tents to lift you into the sky.”
Her voice drops even further, to almost a whisper. “Isobel, I see life .”
And then she closes that smallest of gaps between them, and presses her lips gently to Isobel’s. It’s warmth and care and pure belief, a wish wrapped up in ribbon, and Isobel can’t help but gasp before pushing forward, past gentle, towards certainty. Celia’s hands are mapping her arms, her face, her hair; never still, like they’re memorising every inch they can touch.
When Isobel pulls away for air, her hands are framing Celia’s face. They’re both breathing heavily, and Celia’s cheeks are flushed pink, her eyes bright, her lips apart, calling Isobel to return. Her mind flashes back to the gift, and she makes a quick revision.
This is the most beautiful thing she has ever held.