The moon hung low over the canals, silver light cutting through the haze of sea salt and peat smoke.
As the final lanterns of El Gloriosa were extinguished, a heavy, satisfied silence fell over the square.
The tally was in: eighty percent of the tickets had been sold on the very first day.
It was a triumph that eclipsed even the most profitable seasons in the Duchy of Saxe-Weimar, specifically in the city of Weimar itself, where the crowds were noble but far less numerous than the teeming masses of Amsterdam.
At the edge of the grounds, the group of bellboy-fools gathered to strip off their heavy, bell-laden coats. They were a colorful, exhausted bunch, their white makeup smeared by sweat and harbor dampness.
"It's just a numbers game, kid. Don't let it go to your head," one of the older fools muttered, flicking a piece of stray confetti off his shoulder. He looked at Mephisto with a weary, cynical eye. "Amsterdam is more populated than those German forests you crawled out of. You were good today—for a newbie—but don't think you're a legend yet. I saw a dozen merchants walk right past you without so much as a glance at the gate."
The speaker, a man known as Jack, turned away, his movements stiff and bitter. He had been the lead "inviter" for the fair during the day, projecting a frantic, forced cheerfulness that had vanished the moment the sun went down.
"Ignore him," another fool whispered as Jack stomped off toward the workers' tents. "Jack's been in Gloriosa longer than any of us. He's been stuck as a bellboy for two years, watching people like you get the spotlight. He wants to be a clown—a real performer in the center ring—not just the guy shouting at the gate. He's just sour that you have the 'touch' he doesn't."
The fools dispersed into the night, seeking the comfort of their narrow cots.
Faust, however, turned toward the weathered, red-painted wagon of Wunder. Every step felt like he was walking on broken glass; his knees were numb from hours of the "drunken sway," and his arms, which he had strained to keep fluid and "snaky" for the crowd's amusement, felt as though they were only loosely attached to his torso.
He pushed open the heavy door of the wagon.
Wunder was sitting by a small oil lamp, cleaning a set of silver rings.
"First day is done," Faust sighed, leaning against the doorframe. He felt the "big dignity" of his former life crumbling under pure, physical exhaustion. "I feel as though my bones have been replaced by lead. Is the emotional drain always this heavy?"
Wunder let out a loud, barking laugh, not looking up from his work.
"Welcome to the life, Mephisto. It's a long, muddy road to becoming a real magician. You're learning that a smile is the heaviest thing a man can carry."
Wunder set the rings aside and looked at Faust with a predatory, teaching grin.
"So... do you have enough life left in you to learn some real magic, Apprentice? You've got the look down, but a magician needs more than just bells and a painted face."
Wunder reached for his vest pocket, his fingers searching for the gold coin Faust had "paid" him with earlier, expecting to find it tucked safely away.
His brow furrowed as his hand came up empty.
He checked the other pocket.
Nothing.
Suddenly, Wunder's face went a brilliant, startled red.
He shifted uncomfortably, his hand flying to the front of his breeches.
He felt a cold, metallic weight sliding against his skin, deep inside his trousers.
"How did you..." Wunder stammered, his eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and genuine shock.
Faust offered a small, weary smirk, the red-painted curve of his mouth looking particularly mischievous in the lamplight.
"You've got to watch your back when you turn, Wunder. Or your pockets. Or... well, everything."
Wunder let out a roar of laughter, reaching into his clothes to retrieve the coin with a look of stunned disbelief.
"You're a devil, Mephisto! A god-blinded devil!"
Faust watched him holding the gold piece, then held up a hand, his doctor's instincts momentarily overriding his magician's persona.
"Before we begin the lesson," Faust said, his voice regaining a touch of that old, professional authority, "please, for the love of whatever Gods you believe in... wash your hands."