Temporary Places ?

Tara Burgess does not realize until after she has returned to London that the address on the card given to her by Mr. Barris is not a private residence at all but the Midland Grand Hotel.

She leaves the card sitting out on a table in her parlor for some time, glancing at it whenever she happens to be in the room. Forgetting about it for stretches of time until she remembers it again.

Lainie attempts to persuade Tara to join her for an extended holiday in Italy, but she refuses. Tara tells her sister little about her visit to Vienna, saying only that Ethan asked after her.

Lainie suggests that they might consider moving, and perhaps they should discuss it further when she returns.

Tara only nods, giving her sister a warm embrace before Lainie departs.

Alone in their town house, Tara wanders absently. She abandons half-read novels on chairs and tables.

The invitations from Mme. Padva to join her for tea or accompany her to the ballet are politely declined.

She turns all of the mirrors in the house to face the walls. Those she cannot manage to turn she covers with sheets so they sit like ghosts in empty rooms.

She has trouble sleeping.

One afternoon, after the card has sat patiently gathering dust for months, she picks it up and places it in her pocket, and she is out the door and on her way to the train before she can decide whether or not the idea is a good one.

Tara has never visited the clock-topped hotel attached to St. Pancras Station, but it strikes her immediately as a temporary place. Despite the size and solidity of the building, it feels impermanent, populated by a constant stream of guests and travelers on their way to and from other locations. Stopping only briefly before continuing to other destinations.

She inquires at the desk but they claim they have no such person listed as a guest. She repeats the name several times after the desk clerk keeps mishearing her. She tries more than one variation, as the words on the card from Mr. Barris have been smudged, and she cannot recall the proper pronunciation. The longer she stands there, the more unsure she becomes that she has ever even heard the smudged name on the card pronounced.

The clerk politely asks if she would like to leave a note, if perhaps the gentleman in question were to be arriving later in the day, but Tara declines, thanking the clerk for his time and replacing the card in her pocket.

She wanders the lobby, wondering if the address is incorrect, though it is not like Mr. Barris to provide anything less than exact information.

“Good afternoon, Miss Burgess,” a voice next to her says. She has not noticed him approach, but the man whose name she still cannot recall the proper pronunciation of is standing by her shoulder in his distinctive grey suit.

“Good afternoon,” she echoes.

“Were you looking for me?” he asks.

“I was, in fact,” Tara says. She starts to explain that Mr. Barris sent her. She reaches into her pocket, but there is no card within it and she stops, confused.

“Is something wrong?” the man in the grey suit asks.

“No,” Tara says, now unsure if she remembered to bring the card, or if it is still sitting on a table in her parlor. “I wanted to speak with you about the circus.”

“Very well,” he says. He waits for her to begin, his expression bearing something that could be construed as very mild interest.

She does her best to explain her concern. That there is more going on with the circus than most people are privy to. That there are elements she can find no reasonable explanations for. She repeats some of the things she mentioned to Mr. Barris. The concern of not being able to be certain if anything is real. How disconcerting it is to look in a mirror and see the same face, unchanged for years.

She falters frequently, finding it difficult to articulate precisely what she means.

The expression of very mild interest does not change.

“What is it you would like from me, Miss Burgess?” he asks when she has finished.

“I would like an explanation,” she says.

He regards her with the same unchanged expression for some time.

“The circus is simply a circus,” he says. “An impressive exhibition, but no more than that. Don’t you agree?”

Tara nods before she can properly process the response.

“Do you have a train to catch, Miss Burgess?” he asks.

“Yes,” Tara says. She had forgotten about her train. She wonders what time it is, but she cannot find a clock to check.

“I am headed toward the station myself, if you do not mind an escort.”

They walk the short distance from the hotel to the train platforms together. He holds doors open for her. He makes empty remarks about the weather.

“I think it may be in your best interest to find something else to occupy your time,” he says when they reach the trains. “Something to take your mind off the circus. Don’t you agree?”

Tara nods again.

“Good day, Miss Burgess,” he says with a tip of his hat.

“Good day,” she echoes.

He leaves her on the platform, and when she turns after him to see which way he went, the grey suit is nowhere to be found amongst the crowd.

Tara stands near the edge of the platform, waiting for her train. She cannot recall telling Mr. A. H— which train it was she would be taking, but he has deposited her on the proper platform nonetheless.

She feels as though there was something else she meant to ask, but now she cannot recall what it was. She cannot recall much of anything about the conversation, save for the impression that there is something else she should be spending her time on, somewhere else to be, some other matter that is more deserving of her attention.

She is wondering what that might be when a flash of grey on the opposite platform catches her eye.

Mr. A. H— stands in a shadowy corner, and even with the distance and the shadows Tara can tell that he is arguing with someone she cannot see.

Other people pass by without even glancing in their direction.

When the light from the arching overhead windows shifts, Tara can see who Mr. A. H— is arguing with.

The man is not quite as tall, the top of his hat sits leveled like a step down from the grey one, so much so that at first Tara thinks the man is only a reflection and finds it odd that Mr. A. H— would be arguing with his own reflection in the middle of a train station.

But the other suit is distinctly darker. The reflection’s hair is longer, though it is a similar shade of grey.

Through the steam and the crowd, Tara can make out the bright spots of lace at the cuffs of the shirt, the dark eyes that catch the light more than the rest of the man’s face. Aspects settle temporarily and then vanish into distorted shadows once more, never remaining steady for more than a moment.

The light filtering in from above shifts again, and the figure quavers as though she were watching through a heat haze, though Mr. A. H— remains comparatively crisp and clear.

Tara takes a step forward, her gaze fixated on the apparition on the opposite platform.

She does not see the train.