The Night Circus Read Online Free PDF Page B

opportunities to speak it aloud falling few and far between. He has written this variant of his given name combined with a form of his instructor’s alias so many times that it seems like his own, but adding sound to symbol is a different process entirely.
    The ease at which Isobel accepts it makes it feel more real.
    “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Alisdair,” she says.
    He should thank her and take his book and go, it is the sensible thing to do. But he is not particularly inclined to return to his empty flat.
    “Might I buy you a drink as a token of my thanks, Miss Martin?” he asks, after slipping the notebook into his pocket.
    Isobel hesitates, likely knowing better than to accept invitations for drinks from strange men on darkened street corners, but to his surprise, she nods.
    “That would be lovely, thank you,” she says.
    “Very well,” Marco says. “But there are better cafés than this particular one”—he gestures at the window next to them—“within a reasonable distance, if you don’t mind a damp walk. I’m afraid I don’t have an umbrella with me.”
    “I don’t mind,” Isobel says. Marco offers her his arm, which she takes, and they set off down the street in the softly falling rain.
    They walk only a block or two and then down a rather narrow alley, and Marco can feel her tense in the darkness, but she relaxes when he stops at a well-lit doorway next to a stained-glass window. He holds the door open for her as they enter a tiny café, one that has quickly become his favorite over the past few months, one of the few places in London where he feels truly at ease.
    Candles flicker in glass holders on every available surface, and the walls are painted a rich, bold red. There are only a few patrons scattered about the intimate space and plenty of empty tables. They sit at a small table near the window. Marco waves at the woman behind the bar, who then brings them two glasses of Bordeaux, leaving the bottle on the table next to a small vase holding a yellow rose.
    As the rain patters gently against the windows, they converse politely about insubstantial things. Marco volunteers very little information about himself, and Isobel responds in kind.
    When he asks if she is hungry she gives a polite non-answer that betrays that she is famished. He catches the attention of the woman behind the bar again, who returns a few minutes later with a platter of cheese and fruit and slices of baguette.
    “However did you find a place like this?” Isobel asks.
    “Trial and error,” he says. “And a great many glasses of horrible wine.”
    Isobel laughs.
    “I’m sorry,” she says. “Though at least it worked out well in the end. This place is lovely. It’s like an oasis.”
    “An oasis with very good wine,” Marco agrees, tipping his glass toward her.
    “It reminds me of France,” Isobel says.
    “Are you from France?” he asks.
    “No,” Isobel says. “But I lived there for a while.”
    “As did I,” Marco says. “Though that was some time ago. And you are correct, this place is very French, I think that’s part of the charm. So many places here don’t bother to be charming.”
    “You’re charming,” Isobel says, and immediately blushes, looking like she would pull the words back into her mouth if she could.
    “Thank you,” Marco replies, unsure what else to say.
    “I’m sorry,” Isobel says, clearly flustered. “I didn’t mean to  … ” She begins to trail off, but perhaps emboldened by a glass and a half of wine, she continues. “There are charms in your book,” she says. She looks to him for a reaction but he says nothing and she looks away. “Charms,” she continues to fill the silence. “Talismans, symbols  …  I don’t know what all of them mean but they are charms, are they not?”
    She takes a nervous sip of her wine before daring to look back at him.
    Marco chooses his words carefully, wary about the direction the conversation is taking.
    “And what does a young