BACK ACROSS THE Thames, at Grosvenor Park station aboard the circus train, Madame Destine was alone in Quaint's office, sifting through the running order for the forthcoming show. The absence of both Twinkle and Prometheus was proving to be difficult to accommodate into the schedule. Destine's veil was discarded on the back of her chair, and her head was buried in her fragile hands. The pallid light from the lantern on the desk served to exaggerate the woman's pale complexion. Despite the spark that shone brightly in her misty-blue eyes, she looked drained. The long days of late had certainly taken their toll on her. But there was something else behind it all, like a tenuous memory that no matter how hard she tried to visualise it, she could never give it form.
Madame Destine had been a part of the circus long enough to know that it was pretty much a self-sustaining environment. All the crew and performers knew their roles, and everyone pulled together to make sure the show was a success. Even so, the days before the huge Big Top tent was fully erected, and the lesser exhibit tents were in place, were a strain on everyone. Even though the first show was not until the coming Friday afternoon, there was still a great deal of preparation to be done.
Destine sifted through reams of paper, sipping from a bone china teacup, idly staring out of the window of the train. Down at the platform below, several circus members moved about carrying boxes, tarpaulin and timber. It was now rapidly approaching eleven o'clock, and there was little left of the day. She yawned, suddenly yearning for the comfort of her bed.
Without warning, like a spear of electricity striking her, she sat bolt upright in the chair, her eyes wide, her mouth trembling. For the second time in as many days, Madame Destine was petrified. Her visions were becoming less and less clear, and more and more infrequent, and when they arrived, they came with such ferocity that it was like a million hot needles pricking her skin. This vision in particular, a fleeting slide-show of images lacking in coherence or substance, invaded Destine's mind's eye, flooding it with pulsating pictures, scents, sights and sounds.
The train's office quickly melted away before her eyes, to be replaced with an out-of-focus image of a large, open-plan building. It was seemingly empty, and the French clairvoyant soaked up the vision in all its detail. Wisps of mist coated the floor up to ankle height, snapping and curling like coiled vipers. A silvery light flooded into the building from outside, casting an electric-blue glare across the barren floor.
In the doorway a fluctuating, undulating image of a man suddenly appeared, his face shrouded in darkness. Destine watched breathlessly as the man walked into the building. He was clenching his fists and cursing madly. Destine couldn't make out the words, but she felt the emotion of the man all too clearly. It was hatred, pure and simple, coated with a frustrated lust for vengeance. The man approached closer, and with each footstep nearer to where Destine's spirit form was standing, she felt an unfamiliar sensation. She was suddenly taken by the idea that she needed to run.
Destine slammed her eyes shut tight and attempted to sever the connection-but something was wrong. Something was stopping her. The ghostly spectre of a man continued striding through the ghost-light, and then suddenly stopped stock still on the spot with his back to Destine-and then something happened. Something puzzling, frightening and something utterly impossible…something that had never happened before in all seventy years of Des-tine's life.
The man noticed her.
He turned his head and looked directly at her.
Somehow, he knew she was there. He was definitely aware of her. A fact that was confirmed as a thin smile crawled onto his face. That wasn't supposed to happen. This was a vision from the future. Destine was supposed to be a disconnected viewer, observing events yet to pass-it was impossible for her to be drawn into some moment of the present. She brushed the feelings away, but as he began slowly walking towards her, the man's face drove into sharp focus amongst the wisps of the mist and moonlight. It burned its image into Destine's brain; so much so, that it was the only, overriding thought that existed there, and it was like being frozen to death from the inside out. An overwhelming wave of fear crawled across Destine's body. The man was now mere feet from Destine's position. Close enough for her to smell his breath. A twisted, malevolent sneer washed across his face as he walked into the shafts of blue moonlight. Destine slapped her hands to her face in sheer horror, as the image of the man flooded her senses.
'C'est impossible!' she gasped, 'It cannot be…You're supposed to be dead!'