Free The Invisible Circus by Jennifer Egan

macramé bag from under the table, the sunburned Hatter smoothing his hair and restoring his top hat. Faith smiled beseechingly at everyone. She looked frantic. Phoebe felt her sister’s desperation, her fear that the one good thing she’d found was about to be taken away. The Invisible Circus, Phoebe thought, the Invisible Circus, chanting the words to herself like a spell. But the group was standing now, ready to go.
    “Phoebe,” Barry said from the doorway.
    Her own name startled her; she’d forgotten that she herself was a presence in the room. She was standing barefoot on a kitchen chair. From the doorway Barry held out his hand. “Come on, Pheeb,” he said. “Let’s wait upstairs.”
    Phoebe turned helplessly to Faith, but all expression had dropped from her sister’s face like a pillowcase sliding to the floor. She looked as she had for months, indifferent.
    “Come on, Pheeb,” Barry said. “It’s okay now.”
    He spoke as if they were alone, but Phoebe felt the eyes of everyone but Faith upon her and stood paralyzed, anxious to please all of them, to rid herself of this unfamiliar power. She pictured herself imprisoned among Barry’s locks and drawers and keys—that wretched sound machine, their father’s forgotten sketches—while the Invisible Circus sailed away without her.
    Barry dropped his hand, uneasy. “Phoebe?”
    “I’ll come up later, Bear.”
    Something sagged in Barry’s face. He stepped backward through the doorway and hovered outside it. Phoebe stared at her bare feet, aware of having made an irreparable move. When Barry turned and bolted upstairs, she felt relief.
    Now the group went hysterical, giddy. The light flashed off, someone turned up the music, and a frenzy of dancing overcame them. The candles had never gone out; now they flung their honey light with rebellious zeal. Clutching the Mad Hatter’s hot, sunburned fingers, Phoebe danced without shame, music rocking her limbs like the bubbles moving the plants in Barry’s fishtank. She felt a breathless, manic joy. “Hurry,” Faith cried as light streaked the sky. “Hurry, let’s get outside.”
    They blew out the candles and scrambled upstairs with their plates of eggs, three flights, then a last narrow flight to the roof. Bursting into the open air, they threw themselves down on the pebbled tar and ate ravenously, tearing bread from two enormous loaves that Wolf had bought off a bakery truck. The roof was flat, and from its height a spectacular view arrayed itself, the scalloped shores of Sausalito and Tiburon, glassed-in houses flashing like ore. The Golden Gate Bridge was a slender red skeleton. The magician walked on his hands, cape dragging behind him. The sky seemed nearer than usual. Phoebe felt as if she could catch the gassy pink clouds with her hands.
    The wind blew up through her nightgown, chilling her bare skin. Wolf set down his plate and lifted Phoebe into his lap, rubbing her arms to warm her. She felt very small, as if Wolf’s body were a hand, she a leaf or an acorn clutched within it. “Poor Phoebe,” Wolf said, holding her tightly. Phoebe didn’t know why he’d said that, but did not contradict him. If Wolf knew how happy she was, he might let go.
    Faith darted around the roof, arranging piles of torn bread for the seagulls. Wind shook the jeans on her skinny legs, lifting her dark, tangled hair above her head. When the loaves were gone, she stood apart from the group and began jumping in place, facing the bay and just leaping, arms stretched to the sky, feet pounding the gravel. Everyone watched her at first, nodding, smiling at this overflow of spirits. Phoebe’s gaze remained on her sister long after the others’ had wandered. She couldn’t look away.
    Eventually Faith stopped jumping. Flushed, she lowered herself to the roof beside Phoebe and Wolf, a calm over her like a veil. The others were drifting to sleep, tangled together like cats. The Queen of Spades sang “Now I Lay Me Down to