The Circle

when she was arranging some sort of itinerary, she saw something
     that obliterated all else: the Funky Arse Whole Circus would be on campus, on the
     lawn next to the Iron Age, at seven. She’d heard of them, and their reviews and ratings
     were stellar, and the thought of a circus, that night, most matched her euphoria.
    She tried Annie, but she couldn’t make it; she would be in her meeting till eleven
     at least. But CircleSearch indicated a bunch of people she knew, including Renata
     and Alistair and Jared, would be there—the latter two already were—so she finished
     up and flew.
    The light was fading, threaded in gold, when she turned the corner of the Three Kingdoms
     and saw a man standing, two stories tall, blowing fire. Beyond him, a woman in a glittering
     headdress was throwing and catching a neon baton. Mae had found the circus.
    There were about two hundred people forming a loose fence around the performers, who
     worked in open air, with minimal props and what seemed to be a decidedly limited budget.
     The Circlers ringing the performance emitted an array of lights, some from their wrist
     monitors, some from their phones, out and aglow, capturing the proceedings. While
     Mae looked for Jared and Renata, and cautiously kept an eye out for Alistair, she
     watched the circus swirl in front of her. There seemed to be no definite beginning
     to the show—it was already underway when she’d arrived—and no discernible structure
     to any of it. There were ten or so members of thecircus, all of them visible at all times, all of them wearing threadbare costumes
     that reveled in their antique humility. A smallish man did wild acrobatics while wearing
     a terrifying elephant mask. A mostly naked woman, her face obscured under a flamingo
     head, danced in circles, her movements alternating between ballet and a stumbling
     drunk.
    Just beyond her, Mae saw Alistair, who waved to her, and then began texting. Moments
     later she checked her phone and saw that Alistair was putting on another, now bigger
     and better, event for all Portugal enthusiasts, next week.
It will be thunderous
, he texted.
Films, music, poetry, storytelling, and joy!
She texted that she’d be there and could hardly wait. Across the lawn, past the flamingo,
     Mae saw him reading her message, watched as he raised his eyes to her, waving.
    She went back to watching the circus. The performers seemed to be not just affecting
     the air of poverty but to be living it—everything about them seemed old, and smelled
     of age and decay. Around them the Circlers captured the performance on their screens,
     wanting to remember the very strangeness of this band of homeless-seeming revelers,
     to document how incongruous it was here at the Circle, amid the carefully considered
     paths and gardens, amid the people who worked there, who showered regularly, tried
     to stay at least reasonably fashionable, and who washed their clothes.
    Mae, making her way through the crowd, found Josiah and Denise, who were delighted
     to see her, but both seemed scandalized by the circus, the tone and tenor of which,
     they thought, had gone too far; Josiah had already reviewed it unfavorably. Mae left
     them, happy they’d seen her, had registered her attendance, and went looking for a
     beverage. She saw a row of booths in the distance and was making herway to them when one of the performers, a shirtless man with a handlebar mustache,
     raced over to her, carrying three swords. He seemed unsteady, and in the moments before
     he reached her, Mae grasped that though he wanted to seem under control, that this
     was part of his act, he was actually going to run into her with his arms full of blades.
     She froze, and he was inches away from her, when she felt her shoulders being grabbed
     and thrown. She fell to her knees, her back to the man with the swords.
    “You okay?” a different man asked. She looked up to see he was standing where she’d
     been.
    “I think so,” she said.
    And then he turned back to the wiry sword-man. “What the fuck, clown?”
    Was it Kalden?
    The sword juggler was looking to Mae, to assure himself that she was okay, and when
     he saw that she was, he turned his attention to the man in front of him.
    It was Kalden. Now Mae was sure. He had Kalden’s calligraphic shape. He was wearing
     a plain white V-neck undershirt and grey pants, as skinny as the jeans she’d first
     seen on him. He had not struck Mae as someone quick to fight,