Chapter 1 1 STRANGE HAPPENINGS (FROM OUR CORRESPONDENTS) London Evening Standard 12 October 1884 The thirtieth birthday of Mrs. Catherine Wells, wife of the President of the Brighthand Literary Association, abruptly ended in chaos. Held on the evening of the eleventh of October in Agricultural Hall, the forty ladies and gentlemen present at the occasion were rushed out of the venue just before dinner was served. According to eyewitnesses, a young man dressed in very meager clothing entered the hall uninvited and, with no apparent cause, promptly exploded in a burst of electricity. Somehow, the man kept his head. While the hall was in disarray, many bystanders reportedly caught sight of the strange man stealing chatelaine bags and metal coin purses from the waists and necks of several ladies as they ran. He then escaped in the pandemonium with these items in hand. A rational man would dismiss these witness statements as the ramblings of drunkards; but while Mrs.
Wells''s soiree indeed provided respectable amounts of alcohol along with tea, these stories hover too familiarly close to the unexplainable events occurring throughout the city and beyond. Despite this, the government remains rather quiet on such matters, particularly these days. Much more parliamentary attention is, as of late, being lavished upon Britain''s recent guests, the special envoys from Africa whose steamer docked at Plymouth two evenings ago. The delegates, said to be of royal blood, have come from the Oil Rivers region of the west coast to persuade the government to intervene in the National African Company''s mining projects in the lower Niger region. Though the government certainly has a duty to manage its colonial affairs overseas, there are growing concerns that the strange happenings at home have become entirely too frequent over the past decade to ignore for much longer. October 23, 1884 "She''s going to fall!" a girl cried. "My God, she''s going to die! I can''t look!" Iris picked the voice out from among the chaotic shouts in the alley twenty feet below her, though admittedly only because of its tone, a shriek so nasal that Iris thought she would slip off the tightrope from cringing. The rope itself was fixed from the third stories of two buildings--an old mill and a bakery.
It took all her discipline not to drift along with the devilishly seductive, sweet scent of bread rising from the red-bricked chimney. The fresh aroma signaled that there were still bakers who hadn''t yet rushed out of the building to witness George Coolie''s carefully planned morning spectacle. "Carefully planned," yes. Meticulously planned. One wouldn''t typically find a gorgeous, dignified lady like herself balancing on a string between two very tall buildings without a satisfactory reason, at least not so early in the morning. The Coolie Company needed promotion for their first show since returning to England, and London in particular had no shortage of entertainment. From Piccadilly to Westminster, it was a strange town with an insatiable appetite for freakery--and Coolie, ever the businessman, did his utmost to use this fact to his monetary advantage. Coolie.
As if her mind was punishing her, that money-grubbing man had snuck back into her thoughts, particularly his red face shouting at her at daybreak in front of all the other performers at camp. "You know very damn well how important this is, so I don''t want any mistakes. Not one . We need to get those bloody butts in the seats, you hear?" He''d seemed more agitated than usual, his square balding head dripping sweat, his gut jiggling with each swear. Coolie kept his appearance as tidy as he kept his manners. She shivered as a chilly breeze brushed past her bare shoulders and arms. Coolie had her in one of her performance costumes: a bright peppermint-green dress that hugged her chest and fanned out in layers of tulle, leaving everything past her knees bare. Skillfully sewn, courtesy of Granny Marlow, but not her attire of choice for such a cold morning, to be sure.
Not in the least a proper dress for a lady either, but the circus tended to have looser rules of attire than regular civil society. Besides, Iris was sure there was not a single soul in the gawking crowd below her that truly thought of her as a "lady" according to their traditional standards. "That colored circus girl is going to die for sure!" she heard a young man yell. "I''ll bet you money, she''s going to fall and crack her head open right here on the road." Just the usual. Iris sighed. The wind fluttered the boa feathers weaved into her black hair, which, despite its length and coarse texture, had somehow been pressed down and rolled up into an ordered bun at the base of her neck--once again courtesy of the hours Granny Marlow spent lovingly doting on her. Iris was a spectacle, to be sure: George Coolie''s own professed "African rope-dancer," a girl who, according to him, he''d plucked straight out of the Congo jungles, where she''d grown up among the lions and jackals--and after rescuing her single-handedly from the "heart of darkness," he''d trained her to become the greatest stunts woman England had ever seen.
A lie. And of course people believed it. Well, according to Coolie, "Stupid people believe anything, my dear." Cruel, but accurate. The truth was, she''d found him in his office ten years ago after he''d put on a rather disappointing show in Blackburn. He was very drunk, and to get to his desk, she''d had to quite carefully maneuver around half-broken bottles of bourbon and strewn-about paperwork, some of which documented his never-ending gambling debts. Despite the mess, she''d asked for a job. Coolie had quickly realized the gift he''d been given after witnessing proof of her abilities--her uncanny senses, her hunter-like nimbleness.
And though this particular audience of gawking Londoners hardly deserved it, what with the unflattering names they shouted up at her, Iris completed her task as the job commanded and gave them the same wondrous sight she gave every crowd, every performance. To the gasps and screams of many, she tumbled upon the tightrope, her small bare feet gripping the rope with ease, staying in perfect balance. Coolie had once remarked that her instincts were otherworldly. Well, of course; rope-dancing was a dangerous art that required the utmost precision and, paradoxically, a certain sense of reckless abandon, a devil-may-care attitude that allowed the dancer to at least pretend that she didn''t care one way or the other whether she lived or died. Most dancers did care, even if they feigned otherwise. Iris did not. And she didn''t have to pretend either. Since she couldn''t die.
"Oh my, there goes the other one!" The sound of an excited woman down below signaled the arrival of Iris''s partner. Her foot had touched down at the end of the rope. She turned just in time to see the young man leap into the air from the ledge of the bakery rooftop, so high children were screaming. Surely he''d miss his mark, they must have thought frightfully. Surely the sheer force of the wind would blow him off course as he twisted his body like a gymnast in the air. Just a fraction to the right or to the left and he''d be reduced to a fleshy smear upon the pavement. But this was a trick the young man dubbed "Jinn" had performed many times before. Over his white body-length tights was a pair of beige billowing pants that cinched in at his knees; an orange vest hugged tight against his slender chest.
His white tights made it more difficult to grasp the rope, but his toes gripped it nonetheless, his feet steady. Iris''s eyes rolled quickly with just a flicker of annoyance as she heard swooning down below, likely due to her partner''s striking physical features. Very few of them could resist the sight of his sandy skin glowing under the sun or his chestnut-brown hair fluttering with the breeze. It happened after every show, like clockwork. The moment the curtains closed, a good handful of audience members, women and men alike, would discreetly find their way backstage to catch a glimpse of the bedazzling young man, a boy of nineteen, to gaze upon his sharp jawline up close, his long fluttering lashes, his slender build and angular nose. And each time they saw him, his dark, catlike eyes would stare back at them with a chilling, almost hateful expression that either chased them away or enticed them further. Iris gazed into them now, but only--as she inwardly insisted--to watch for her cue. Their routine was a complicated one.
Simultaneously, the dancers lifted their arms and waved to the crowd neither of them particularly liked. "The Nubian Princess and the Turkish Prince," Coolie dubbed the pair, because it was easy for Londoners to remember and exciting enough to bring in those with an appetite for the so-called exotic. Coolie had given Jinn his stage name for that exact reason as well. "You have a wild look in your eyes, boy," Coolie had once said in his growling tone while balancing a cigar on thin lips. "Like a tiger in a cage. The jinn are like devils to you people, aren''t they? The name will be a perfect fit. It''ll make you look even more dangerous. The audience will love it! I''ll bet they don''t see too many Ottomans in the circus.
" Coolie didn''t much care for sensitivity or accuracy. Jinn had silently accepted the name anyway, never protesting, never sharing his real name no matter how many times Iris pestered him for it, a.