Dismissals

The party tonight is tense and quiet. The entire company is on edges, as though waiting for some calamity to take place and having difficulty wiling away the hours while they do. The conversation on the porch halts frequently, or dwindles into sparse pockets of discussion. The game, a previously popular topic for the market-folk, is avoided entirely and pointedly, and the guests are too distracted to maintain a conversation about art or theatre for too long. Many attendees grab a glass of champagne and disappear into the maze, drawing some close companions with them, to distract themselves. No one comments on the strange occurrences within the market of late, but they turn every corner with weariness, as though certain they will encounter a ghost of some sort.

Alice tries in vain to catch Eli’s attention, but he eludes her at every turn of the maze and later is lost in the collection of suits on the porch. He spends most of his time in the company of Bethany, only straying when he is persuaded into conversation with some other market-company member.

Mr.Marshall seems especially strange, and it catches Eli’ attention more than once. The proprietor stares at the lanterns or the flickering candles in their candelabras, then slips back into conversation, as though his attention has never wavered. He laughs rarely, and surveys the company with a haunted expression, which Vivienne can only coax him out of with excessive amounts of wine. His usually vivid countenance is faded.

It makes no difference except for the few glasses that Mr.Marshall seems to knock over when he is not paying attention. When a large decanter of brandy becomes a victim of Mr.Marshall’s careflessness, Eli catches it and rights it, setting it down on the spotless tablecloth. Mr.Marshall mumbles to himself about clumsiness and eyes Eli.

He continues to eye Eli as the night progresses, but Eli attributes it to little more than the numerous glasses of wine or brandy in his hands.

The arrival of the food is a relief; attendees can blame the lack of conversation on the delicacies rather than their own unease. Bethany stays by Eli’s side in the silence until Mako whisks her away to admire a particular bower of exotic plants in a corner of the garden.

Eli absently sips from his glass as he avoids Alice’s attention until Michael draws her into the maze to distract her.

“Mr.Kells, Mr.Marshall would like a word with you,” Vivienne says, suddenly at his elbow.

“Of course,” Eli says, putting down his glass. He follows the assistant inside and down a labyrinth of hallways to Mr.Marshall’s study, which Eli has visited only a limited number of times before. It is in even worse disarray now than it was then. It is littered with half empty decanters and bottles of wine, and paper on every surface. Stacks of newspapers from months ago sit in piles against the desk and walls. There is a path through the chaos toward the desk, though Eli cannot imagine Mr.Marshall having the capacity to work in such a cluttered space.

Mr.Marshall paces behind the desk. He does not look up when Vivienne deposits Eli in the middle of the room.

“Mr.Kells, sir,” she announces him.

Mr.Marshall does not respond except for a single wave of his hand, to which his assistant bows her head and turns gracefully on her heel. She leaves, and closes the door behind her.

“Is something the matter, Mr.Marshall?” Eli asks.

Mr.Marshall stops pacing and looks at Eli as though noticing him for the first time. “Is something the matter? You would have to be blind not to think it. Especially you.”

“Me, sir?” Eli says. The tenor of his voice does not change, but something akin to dread makes his hands tighten into fists behind his back.

“I want to know what… nonsense, you have been doing. How you do your act, and why you have come here,” Mr.Marshall says.

“I came here because I was hired as a performer, sir.”

Mr.Marshall hits the desk, slamming his palm against it sharply enough to upset a bottle of ink and send several documents flying off the desk. They fall to the floor with a rustled sound like flowing water.

“Do not tell me lies. I can tell when you are being dishonest with me. What is this?” Mr.Marshall holds up a locket, silver, with a long chain, and stained with something dark brown.

“That is mine, sir,” Eli says. His hands shake with the impulse to reach for the locket. “It was for a trick of mine that did not go exactly as planned.”

“Trick? What trick?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with, sir,” Eli says.

Mr.Marshall drops the locket to the desk with a clatter. The chain slides over several piece of paper and half off the desk.

“Not my concern? Everything that happens in this market place is my concern. What has been going on behind my back?” Mr.Marshall says.

“Behind your back, sir?”

“Do not try to dissuade me. I know you have been doing something, making some… mischief, vandalizing the market. I have a right to know what goes on in my market.”

Eli grits his teeth. “Nothing has been going on in the market that has not been going on since the market’s inception, sir.”

“This has something to do with your act. Is it those beasts of yours?”

Eli does not respond.

“You have unleashed ghosts on my marketplace, sabotaging the entire game. With that girl and her monsters. For what purpose?” Mr.Marshall demands.

“I cannot say,” Eli replies, meeting Mr.Marshall’s gaze steadily.

“Why would you keep it a secret? Deception will do nothing for you at this point,” Mr.Marshall snaps.

“I cannot tell you, because I do not know the purpose of our game, myself. I am little more than a puppet in this affair. And how very apt you are to call them ghosts and monsters, as though you did not condone the raising of ghosts and monsters everyday for entertainment. They have plagued the market since opening night, as constant as all. And I cannot be dismissed. I must remain here and conclude my game.”

“And who else is playing this game? Is it the Fairchild siblings? Or that monster-girl? Miss Morgenstern?”

Again, Eli says nothing.

Mr.Marshall moves around the desk, clutching at its edge as he wavers on his feet. He stands as tall as he can while he addresses Eli.

“You can leave, now,” Mr.Marshall says, his voice rising. “And you can take that harlot of yours with you.”

The doors slam shut of their own volition, rattling on their hinges. Several crystals hanging from the chandelier shatter into dust. Eli glares at Mr.Marshall with darkened eyes.

“Do not ever, ever, call her that again,” he says.

Eli steps closer to the desk and to Mr.Marshall. “This game will conclude, and I am being kind enough to try not to let the market conclude with it. You will continue with your management and fancy dinners as you always have. You will.”

Mr.Marshall can barely stammer a response. His tongue feels heavy and his mind is foggy as he tries to formulate words.

As he stutters, Eli reaches for the locket on the desk and slips it into his pocket. He pours a glass of brandy from the decanter on the desk, which is splattered with ink, and presses it into Mr.Marshall’s hand.

“Have a drink, sir. To settle your nerves,” Eli says, as he wipes his inky fingers on his black vest.

Mr.Marshall nods, looking confusedly between the glass and Eli.

Eli pats the pocket of his coat once more, before turning and departing the room.

Mr.Marshall raises his glass to his lips once, then hesitates. He sets it down and looks at the desk, eyes flickering back and forth across its surface as though searching for something.

“She was here,” he says, to himself.

Text by Lucie MacAulay