6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (6)
6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (6)
The Rose Windmill Cabaret was prestigious enough to be counted among the Six Great Theaters.
Chief Director Yug Maroine was a major figure in the performance world, and his team was renowned for its exceptional skill.
Yet no matter how splendid the show, a cabaret's soul was that of a brothel.
The performers' costumes were deeply revealing, and the songs and dances were heavily lewd. The establishment didn't advertise the sale of flesh outright, but it was common for the staff to negotiate with patrons and share their beds.
In a way, barring minors from entry was only natural.
Ella was already aware of this.
She just hadn't imagined the rule would apply to the competition's opening ceremony, too.
"This is ridiculous!"
Once Wonderstein explained the situation, she was practically hopping with fury.
Deputy Leader, for all the title was worth—and they wouldn't even let her attend the opening ceremony.
All because she was too young.
"No one would have guessed a sixteen-year-old girl was installed as Deputy Leader."
"They likely wondered what kind of villainous Troupe Leader would pull a stunt like that."
Wonderstein chuckled dryly at Ella's barb.
Today, his laughter struck her as especially insufferable.
Who'd sweated through a month of training, again?
Watching him now felt like having poured blood and sweat into growing a fruit tree, only for some undeserving bastard to saunter in and pluck the ripest prize.
The famed Rose Windmill group dance, the Cancan.
She'd really wanted to see it....
And a sixteen-year-old Deputy Leader was already going to make the troupe look like a joke to outsiders. Maybe she should have just tacked three years onto her age after all.
No, wait—the Rose Windmill people already know my face and name.
Ugh, so petty. Honestly petty.
She groused along those lines for a good while.
But this wasn't a situation anger could fix.
The theater's regulations were what they were.
Maya accepted the news far more calmly than Ella had.
"It can't be helped."
Her voice was as affectless as ever.
There wasn't the faintest trace of disappointment on her face.
But that was only the surface.
Inwardly, she was feeling deeply let down.
Up until now, only Wonderstein had been able to catch the subtle shifts in her expression at moments like these.
That had been true as recently as yesterday.
But as of today, it wasn't.
Ella's eye was sharp. Her observational skills weren't merely "excellent"—that word fell short. She was the one who'd noticed that the triplets were pulling a trick during practice, rotating their movements among the three of them.
It had taken a few days, but she had learned to read emotion even in Maya's seemingly expressionless face.
And that was why Maya irked her even more today.
Because every time the girl spoke of Wonderstein, the respect, the yearning, the intimacy she felt toward him was written all over her face in plain sight.
A foolish girl who doesn't even know what Wonderstein truly is, yet lets a few scraps of kindness sweep her into believing she understands him.
That was Ella's first impression of Maya, and her opinion hadn't changed one bit.
Still, catching that flash of disappointment just now had caught Ella off guard internally.
Unlike Ella, who threw herself into everything with fierce drive, Maya coasted through everything with flat indifference. Ella had naturally assumed she'd feel little passion for the Circus Grand Prix either.
Yet here she was, having looked forward to the opening ceremony this much.
It was a surprise.
Watching those slender fingers fidget with the sketchbook, Ella could feel just how much lingering regret the girl was nursing.
"So if we're both locked out, you'll end up attending alone with the Viscountess?"
"It would seem so."
Ella stole a glance at Yurakne, who was currently helping Sven assemble his bone props.
She must have overheard the exchange, but she showed no sign of being stirred by it.
If anything, Ella caught a faint, almost smug smile flit across her face.
What's that about?
Didn't she used to get all jittery around this man?
Has the infatuation finally worn off?
That was when it happened.
Their sponsor descended into the garden, flanked by her bodyguard.
Anais Bergson.
The moment her green hair appeared in the distance, a silent curse flashed through Wonderstein's mind.
The venerable old garden had been reduced to a scorched wreck by the fireplay.
Yurakne had told him on the first day that most of the plants here were rare, expensive blooms.
All the damage they'd caused would have to be covered by the Bergson Trading Company. He could scarcely imagine the cost of restoring what they'd demolished today.
This was the woman who routinely chewed him out over every last budget detail.
How hard would she roast him over this one?
He could already hear her barbed voice ringing in his ears.
"Troupe Leader."
"Viscountess."
Wonderstein braced for the scolding.
But what came out of Anais's mouth wasn't a reprimand.
"I heard an explosion. Are you all right?"
It was unmistakably a consoling inquiry, laced with concern.
She smiled faintly, then swept her eyes over the garden.
"Were any of the troupe members hurt?"
"No. Everyone's fine."
"That's a relief."
By this point, even Ella could feel something off in the air.
She already knew the Viscountess harbored feelings for Wonderstein.
But this gentle demeanor was out of character for her. The woman's usual method of showing interest was to snap at him, sharp and prickly.
What's with everyone all of a sudden?
First Yura, now the Viscountess.
They say a sudden change in a person means they're dying.
Ella had the distinct feeling the Viscountess was quietly tidying up her surroundings before saying farewell.
No, that can't be.
Only Yurakne truly understood Anais's psychology here.
She couldn't deny that her own heart was beating with a sense of victory.
Tomorrow would likely be their last meeting.
So I won't interfere.
I hope you say your goodbyes well.
Whether she was aware of the gazes on her or not, Anais beamed brightly.
"Did things go well at the theater?"
"Yes. It turns out two of our members are still underage and can't enter. That leaves just you and me to attend together."
"A date for two, then. How lovely."
Chatting about preparations for the next day's event, the two of them walked toward the far side of the garden.
Yurakne watched their retreating figures in silence for a moment before addressing Ella.
"So, what are you going to do tomorrow? Stay at the hotel?"
"No. I thought I'd head to the square and watch the other festivities."
Yurakne, however, did not take her at her word.
She recognized exactly what kind of mood produced that mischievous smile on the girl's lips.
"You're planning to sneak in."
"Yeah. I've gotten friendly with a few of the Rose Windmill staff over the past few weeks."
"When did you manage that?"
"Met up with them here and there. I'll ask for a favor, and they'll let me in through the back. It's a shame I won't be in the VIP seats, but what can you do?"
"Going alone?"
"If I ask, I can probably get one more person in. Want to come, Yura?"
"No, I'm fine. The reason I asked was...."
"Ah! I'll just go alone, then! Nice not to have anyone else to look after!"
Ella practically shouted it, loud enough for a certain someone to overhear.
Maya's hand, which had been toying with her sketchbook, stopped dead.
***
All day long, the police officers of Rouge patrolled the streets with a taut edge in their spines.
It was the day of the Circus Grand Prix opening ceremony.
The disturbances during the festival's preparation period alone had left the entire city aching. They dreaded what circle of hell might unfold now that the day itself had arrived.
As a contingency, every rider of the Mounted Police had been summoned.
The first firework shot up just as the sun vanished behind the rooftops of the western buildings.
The city's street lamps flickered to life.
At the same moment, the cabaret's rear doors swung open and a procession of dozens of musicians marched out.
The musicians were all fitted in uniform dress coats of dazzling color.
Perhaps in deference to the name Rose, crimson was the dominant hue.
To the rhythm of the percussionists' drums, brass instruments—trumpets, trombones, and the rest—blared their fanfare.
The crowd clapped and stomped to the music.
But the real roar didn't begin until what followed.
The famed dancers of the Rose Windmill had emerged.
Their shoulders and cleavage were laid bare without a hint of modesty.
Heads swiveled left and right as their long, straight legs whispered through the slits of their skirts. In beauty, in figure, not a single dancer fell short.
They danced with fervent abandon.
Every sway of their bodies sent their skirts rustling, scattering dazzling color through the air.
The stage they danced upon was built on wheels.
Horses pulled it.
The Rouge Mounted Police had willingly lent their cooperation.
The horses stayed composed amid the clamor.
The Mounted Police was, strictly speaking, a military unit, not a city one.
The animals were trained not to flinch even under cannon fire.
The cabaret's parade started at the Rose Windmill's back gate, swept through the square, curved past the front of City Hall, and concluded by re-entering the Rose Windmill's main entrance.
A second firework arced into the sky, and the orchestra on the central square's stage struck up its overture.
At once, the crowd surged toward the square like a tide.
Once the festival actually began, the tension drained quickly from the officers.
Contrary to their fears, the event was proceeding with remarkable order.
Not that it was quiet.
Even now, the area in front of the Rose Windmill Cabaret was as loud and boisterous as a market square.
It was jam-packed with festival-goers, bursting at the seams.
Fireworks of all sizes popped up here and there, and laughter never ceased.
In the tents lining the streets around the cabaret, acrobats not competing in the Grand Prix showed off their skills.
The officers' chief worry had been these performers, but to their amazement, the acrobats never once stepped out of line.
A lanky clown ambled over the heads of the Mounted Police, handing balloons to families who'd come to watch.
An acrobat deftly guided the onlookers aside, clearing a path so the police could pass.
A strongman—by now a familiar face from a few stints in the holding cell—threw a harmless joke at a female officer. She let out a small laugh and tossed one right back. The spectators answered with laughter and applause.
It was only then that Sabo, the deputy commander of the Mounted Police, grasped the nature of these people.
They craved gasps, cheers, praise, applause.
And because they craved it, they did nothing to endanger, anger, or offend the public.
Offstage, who knew—but onstage, they were consummate professionals.
"Glory be to Kirkeus."
If a priest heard me, I'd be in for it.
Eh, whatever. On a day like today.
Urging his horse on with that thought, Sabo rode forward. A rose flew in from somewhere and came to rest neatly in his steed's mane. A fairy-costumed acrobat skipping lightly over a tent top winked at him.
Completing a full circuit around the cabaret, he spotted a line of carriages pulling up to the front entrance.
Most bore the crests of noble houses or trading companies.
The sponsors of the Circus Grand Prix.
There were many foreign nobles whose names he'd never heard, but also a fair share of Charlotia's own luminaries.
The carriage that had just halted in front of the cabaret was one of the latter.
"That's the Bergson Trading Company crest."
"To be precise, the Bergson family crest. See, there's no 'From 1844' beneath it."
Five people stepped out of the carriage.
The lean woman with green hair was Viscountess Anais Bergson.
Behind her stood a gunman who was clearly her bodyguard. The two girls looked to be circus troupe members.
And beside them, the blond man in black.
That was Frank Wonderstein himself—the man of rumor.
The man Sabo was here for today.
His grip tightened around the truncheon in his hand.