Den of Stars. Christopher Byford

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      Other acts were performed as the night wore on, some thrilling, some amusing, exhibiting a plethora of talents that coaxed exclamations of wonderment. The night was full of splendour with one delight following another.

      The Hare was waved down by an over-exuberant gentleman who spilt his mug of ale this way and that. Clearly he was drunk, being encouraged to keep himself in check by his tablemates, who sheepishly withdrew into themselves upon the Hare’s approach. The man tidied his hair and fixed his tie, mistakenly assuming that this would disguise his intoxication. He wasn’t drunk enough to cause trouble – yet – though it was these very individuals that security on the Morning Star kept an eye out for. A stray hand or baseless accusation of cheating was enough to warrant a strongly worded reprimand. Anything further and they would be escorted away.

      ‘Aha! Our gracious host! I wanted to extend our sincerest thanks for tonight, from my friends and I … It is a delight that you should visit us! I can’t remember when we had such a grand time.’ This praise was interrupted with a vomit-laden burp, not that it made any difference. ‘All are content, with the exception of my sour daughter Alis, sadly, but she is never one to be pleased.’

      The Hare was expressionless, now focusing on the hay-haired pale young woman at the table’s end who blinked in surprise, clad in a quaint butterfly-peppered scarf. She stammered a broken defence.

      The mask tilted to the side in question.

      ‘Boring, I think you said? Hm?’ The man slumped forward, in glee, suds spilling down the grooves of the glass and over his fingers.

      The mask tilted again, to the opposite side now.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Alis blurted out with a shudder, ‘but all this pizazz, this … this showmanship is hardly befitting of one who promises so much and delivers so little. I am allowed to be bored, as is my right.’ She crossed one leg over the other and turned in her chair, clearly uncomfortable at being the centre of attention.

      The gentleman whined, having seen this far too many times. He swilled his drink and wiped the remains with the back of his free hand.

      ‘The folly of youth, Miss Hare. I feel I should apologize for her. She uses all the long words – and at great length – when a single short one will do. She scoffs at your feats yet has the gall to praise that lacklustre carnival that traipsed through here some months back. I’m at a loss.’

      ‘Dear sir,’ the Hare said softly, ‘do not chastise one so young for having an opinion. She will grow and realize that all views warp and bend. She must be aware that all things have repercussions and whatever platform one elevates oneself upon are the foundations of ruin. Like you said, it is the folly of youth. We have all entertained the notion in our gentler years that we are above our betters. You are of course allowed to court boredom, and you are also allowed to leave.’

      Alis flushed bright pink at the suggestion. ‘I have no reason to go anywhere.’

      ‘So you remain in my hospitality, quite rooted at this table despite your objections, and I need not wonder why this is so. It is because you wish to be heard above all things. You wish to shout louder so your views weigh more. You slight me to remove the attention from yourself, lashing out to displace whatever it is you wish to displace. You think your self-worth is measured in the burly attention you childishly demand.’

      The Hare’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask.

      ‘I forgive you, miss, for I assure you that we have all seen your kind before.’ She licked her lips slowly. ‘And we do very much tire of it.’

      Flushed in face, Alis kicked her chair back, her lips tightly bound together in outrage. She stormed off, pausing momentarily to get her bearings and discover the exit, then marched in the relevant direction.

      The man erupted in laughter, slamming the base of his glass against the table in jubilation. ‘She has no stomach, that girl. That’s what time away for education does to you. Leaves you with … with a head full of delusions.’

      The Hare bowed modestly. ‘I apologize. I meant no offence to your party.’

      ‘Yes you did.’ The man grinned, gulping down the last of the golden liquid.

      ‘Yes,’ the Hare corrected, ‘I did.’

      ‘Will you join us?’

      The Hare politely declined, explaining how others were to be conversed with, playfully adding that there were numerous other insults to administer. But before he allowed her to leave, he asked a burning question that had been of some interest to those around the table.

      ‘Please enlighten us, we have been talking about it endlessly. Everyone beneath you seems to showcase a talent! May I ask what yours is?’

      The Hare paused, curious as to how to respond. The others at the table tried not to keep any sort of prolonged eye contact in fear of facing the Hare’s wrath.

      ‘I keep all what you see here ticking along. That is a special expertise in itself,’ she stated.

      ‘Nothing else?’ he drunkenly slurred.

      The Hare tilted her head. It had been quite the time since someone had challenged her so brazenly and as was her nature, and the nature of all of those aboard the Morning Star, challenges were to be risen to. Without doing so, there would be a danger of word getting around that their most gracious host was bland in comparison to those in her employ. This, of course, would not do.

      The Hare gestured with a grey-gloved hand to a man lighting his cigarette with a silver flint lighter.

      ‘If you would be so kind as to do me a favour,’ she requested, quite politely.

      Confused and intimidated in equal parts, he held out his lighter still aflame, the snifter of fire bobbing this way and that.

      The Hare pinched it as one would pinch from a bowl of spice, raised her hand, with the flicker of light now in her possession. The hand offered it to the other, which pinched at it, stealing the flame for its own. The Hare twisted her wrists so they were upturned, raising her arms now in a wide circle. The flame was returned to the opposite hand. The fingers snapped open, revealing the fire now adorning her thumb and every fingertip. They closed once more, transferring to a single flame, snapping wide once more showing just the one balancing on an index finger.

      This was repeated in the other hand, identically. As the hands jabbed at one another the flame transferred back and forth, then it became two, one for each hand, rolling in the palms, appearing, vanishing, appearing, vanishing, with every flex and thrust of the limbs. Then the flame separated, adorning both sets of fingers, was conjoined into one before being brought to the woman’s lips, balancing on the black and grey fabric of the glove.

      Tilting her head to the heavens, the woman spat a puff of air, jetting the flame out just a hand’s length but still enough to make the onlookers recoil in their seats. It faded away into nothing, leaving those watching in awe.

      The Hare took her applause graciously.

      The bar began to populate with drained glasses, and sales of fine alcohol eventually dwindled to naught. Cards were folded and final pots given. Those who gambled with too much of their pay had not the heart to try and win it back, embracing their defeat with dignity. Others who were up on their luck sauntered away with glee.

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