one has entered the circus -- ((london, england))
The sun was setting over the black and white tents of the circus. Outside the wrought-iron gates, the noise of the usual crowd outside the tents growing to a buzz audible even inside the circus. Widget looked out at the silhouette of the crowd through the gates and prayed that they would just leave, so that he and Isis could be in peace.
Today was a special day - there had been three already before this one. It was known by the Rêveurs as the day the artist cries. Little did the Rêveurs know that their recognition made the day both easier and harder for the artist to handle. For she was not the porcelain doll that they all knew - she was his Isis, and the constant reminder of the day being different made it all the harder for her to keep the peace that was her sanity.
It was so hard for her because this night was the night that her mother died. Her mum, the one who taught her how to make those exquisite paintings that the circus so loved.
And so it fell to Widget to help keep Isis together for the night, to help her survive until she could abandon her paints and find somewhere to grieve, alone or with him or with her remaining mother.
"There you are, love. Sleepy, I take it." He stood up and stepped towards his pale wife, feeling as though touching her just might shatter her and mentioning the day might bruise her.
