CHAPTER 5

Thursday

Sprawled across his bed, Doyle woke with the new-born sun in his face and a smiling Basil on his chest. He raised a single finger in front of her nose, then pointed it unmistakably toward the floor. Taking the blatant "hint" with head down and tail flagging, she plopped onto the frayed rug, and slinked away to the kitchen. There, beneath the dining table, she came to lie, hurt brown eyes heavy on Doyle's face.

"Shit." Folding an arm over his head, Doyle contemplated crawling under the table with her. Instead he dragged himself out of bed, put the kettle on to boil, and went into the bathroom to wash up.

Clad in running suit, day-old socks, and green-stained trainers a few minutes later, he shared a cup of tea with Basil, before performing a few obligatory stretching exercises. Then he shoved open the door to officially greet the morning.

Their run of good weather seemed to be holding. The wispy fog of the previous night had crept away before the dawn, leaving a hazy, but discernibly bluing sky overhead. To the east, shreds of yellow, sienna, and ochre hung low above the horizon, gilded by the weak but gaining presence of the early sun.

Unimpressed, Doyle took a moment to consider his surroundings--including the caravan where Bodie resided and which now stood dark and silent. No one else was about, although faint sounds carried from the other end of the compound on the fretful breeze. Derek, probably.

Doyle pulled the door closed behind him, but did not bother to lock it. He had noticed that none of the others seemed to concern themselves with the possibility of theft. It was like that in circuses.

The hair lifted off his forehead as he took off at a slow trot. Basil, her spirits immeasurably improved, kept stride beside him, bright eyes searching out the slightest flicker of movement. Before long, Doyle increased his speed, concentrating hard on the uneven ground, having no desire to twist an ankle or pull a tendon. As the sun inched higher in the sky, and the sweat prickled on his chest and down his back, Doyle ran harder and harder. Soon he lost Basil when she took off after something in the tall grass. Up and down the hills he ran, pushing himself as he had not done in months.

Gauging his distance by time, after half an hour he started back, surprised then to see just how far he had gone. The circus compound lay at least three miles away, visible to him only because he had been steadily climbing out of the valley for the past several minutes.

Letting his mind idle, Doyle worked himself even harder on the return stretch. No one turned up to disturb him--least of all Bodie. Upon that thought, Doyle's tenuous peace of mind came unravelled. He shot forward, ruthlessly ignoring the protest of muscles and lungs already overtaxed, his footfalls pounding angrily and unfalteringly on the gravel road.

Insistent yapping finally broke through his preoccupation. Running full- out, Basil still lagged four or five yards behind. Doyle banked back his speed until the dog had caught up. "Lazy git, aren't you?" he said unkindly.

Basil's eyes gleamed bright with unquestioning allegiance.

"Christ," Doyle whispered. He bent over and lifted the animal up, offering her his shoulder. Panting heavily in his ear, she accepted as though this were owed, and remained perched there as Doyle walked the last half mile to the compound, through the tents to the caravan site, and at last, up to his own place.

Back inside he opened a tin of dog food and put half of it into a small container which he placed at her feet, freshened her water bowl, and filled a large glass for himself as well. His head was clearer now; it was time he rang Cowley.

---

By eight that morning, Doyle felt he had already put in a respectable day. After driving all the way into town to use a phone box, he had rung Headquarters only to be informed by the controller's secretary that Cowley was out for the morning. At Doyle's request, she had connected him with a recorder so that he could leave a detailed verbal report--not that there was really much to tell.

Once he had chronicled the very few bits of information regarding Alf Weatherby and the operation of Circus Sergei that Doyle had unearthed since his arrival, he had gone on to describe the circumstances surrounding Rose's departure the previous night, not neglecting the snatches of conversation he had overheard between her and her husband, Alf--nor Doyle's own blundering involvement.

Then he had passed on the address where he had taken Rose. Before ringing off, Doyle had considered conveying his observations regarding the circus troupe--not leaving out equipment handlers, trainers, and "groupies." In the end he had chosen to keep them to himself. As yet, after all, all he had were impressions, and in some cases, only gut instinct--nothing Cowley would want to be bothered with at this stage.

Back at his caravan with fresh rolls and a meaty bone for Basil, wheedled out of a couple of early opening shops, Doyle had then settled down to eat, feeling as though he had shaken off a small, but unwanted burden from his shoulders.

Afterward, having no desire to be seen a nuisance--or worse yet, a gooseberry--Doyle had given Bodie's caravan a wide berth, electing to deliver some of his rolls to Derek and Simon, along with the cup borrowed the previous night, as a kind of restitution. As he had suspected, both men had been up, if only one of them bright-eyed and bushy tailed. His offer of assistance had been taken under consideration by Derek for all of two seconds before being accepted. Leaving Simon half-drowsing over his cup of coffee--too groggy to inquire into Doyle's absence of the night before--they had gone off to see to the animals.

Derek's manner had not markedly changed, although he had taken care not to let Doyle stumble into a compromising position when they had gone into the tiger's cage to clean it. Sanjay, done with his breakfast, had watched them thoughtfully while according himself a thorough toilette. The raspy sound of the great tongue stroking a curled forepaw had struck Doyle as rather soothing--if nothing else, so long as he could hear it, he need not worry about being leapt upon from behind. Once the cage had been mucked out, fresh sawdust brought in, and the large water dish rinsed out and refilled, Sanjay himself had been seen to--the time had come for his morning's dose of medication.

Communicating by way of broad gestures and infrequent use of guttural language, Derek had brought Doyle to understand that he was not expected to put himself at risk if he did not choose to do so. Recognizing that he had overcome one of Derek's barriers, Doyle had been flattered to aid him in any way he could.

Following a few uneasy moments during which Sanjay had become restless and uncooperative, they had contrived to get the medication into his mouth and down his gullet--without either of them coming to grief. Then Derek had given Doyle the honor of feeding Sanjay a small treat, even though the cat had only picked over his breakfast a short time before. This the animal had taken with aplomb and perfect manners. Thrilled, Doyle had melted into a grin--which had grown even wider when Sanjay had given his fingers an appreciative lick.

After that the grooming of several horses could only pall in comparison, but as a diversion proved very effective. It was there, engrossed in the swabbing off of Tuppence's dock, that Bodie put in an appearance. Alerted by the prickling sense of being watched, Doyle glanced round, expecting Simon or Derek, but came face to face with Bodie instead.

"Enjoying yourself?" Bodie asked, amused.

"Why not?" The stiffness of his own voice annoyed Doyle; there was, after all, no reason for it. Not so far as Bodie was concerned, anyway.

"Forget our work-out?"

Still holding Tuppence's tail up as much for control as for ease of access, Doyle twisted his wrist to see the face of his watch. "Oh. Sorry. Must've lost track of the time."

"'S all right. What happened to you last night?"

Having explained the evening's events to Simon and Derek over a cup of tea after cleaning out the tiger's cage and before starting on the stables, Doyle had got his story refined to the barest details.

"Bloody hell," Bodie groaned, once Doyle had recited the condensed version. "That's just great, that is, mate. Sergei is going to have a coronary, you realize that, don't you?"

Doyle shrugged. "He hit her, Bodie. What would you have done?"

"You sure of that? Did you see it happen? No, I didn't think so. For God's sake, Doyle, you can't imagine this is the first time those two have had a go at each other?"

Biting his tongue against something unnecessarily scathing, Doyle sneered, "Such a hero."

"Don't give me that. I told you--remember, I told you--Rose keeps this place on an even keel. Without her--"

"That's a bit selfish, isn't it, mate?" Tuppence shifted her hindlegs nervously at Doyle's raised voice. "Look, let me finish here, eh? It'll only take another couple of minutes."

"Right." The pleasant set of Bodie's face--post coital contentment?--had given way to dark irritation. "See you in the tent. And make it snappy. Jesus."

His own hard-earned equilibrium effectively eradicated, Doyle rebelliously took his time with the mare. When her coat was smooth and gleaming, he set every hair in place by wiping her down with a damp sponge. Then, mindful of her back feet, he let himself out of the stable.

Derek waved him on when Doyle explained that he was running late. After a quick rinse in a bucket of the stables' water stores, Doyle hurried into the corridor joining the stables to the big tent, through the great red curtain, and into the main tent itself.

At the side of the ring where they usually set up, Bodie was already on the ground, bent forward in a torturous stretch. The net was in place in the center. At various points outside the inner curb, Hannah was working with her dogs; a couple of the children, supervised by their parents, were spinning from the webs; and Aidan, Zoe, and Falstaff were discussing the timing of their clown act.

Doyle had almost forgotten how well the performance had gone last night, but he could see it now in the faces of the performers themselves. Confidence had been given a boost and now ideas for minor adjustments and refinement were a joy to consider.

Ignored as he joined Bodie on the sawdust floor, Doyle fell into the pattern they had already established, although after the morning's activities, he considered a work-out superfluous. Since such a suggestion was scarcely likely to meet with approval, he did not bother to make it.

"Given any more thought to what we might do with you on the trap?" Bodie asked suddenly.

"No." Doyle did not think it necessary to point out that his remaining time with Circus Sergei could probably be measured in hours.

"I have. After we get warmed up, I'll show you what I have in mind."

"Fine."

As before, they went quickly from calisthenics to paired exercises, emphasizing those which incorporated smoothness of movement and concordance of thought. When both men were breathing deeply, their bodies supple and thoroughly responsive, they ended the work-out and headed for the upper rigging.

"Let's just go through a few basics first," Bodie called as soon as he had reached the catcher's trap. "Fly out and back, but think of yourself as--I don't know--a colt, say."

"A what?"

"You heard me." Unblinking blue eyes challenged him to snigger. "Young, vigorous, full of spunk."

"Spunk." Doyle fought back a grin. "Right."

Feeling exceedingly foolish, he nevertheless tried to put himself into the proper frame of mind of a colt: young, vigorous, full of spunk. Whereas under normal circumstances Doyle strove for a dignified fluidity, now he tried to invest his actions with extra energy--the sort radiated by children of every species.

As his hands met Bodie's, were caught and held, Doyle asked, "Like that?"

"Far as I could see, yes," Bodie said approvingly. "Now go back the same way."

"A colt," Doyle gasped. "With spunk."

A smile lightened Bodie's face. "That's it, sunshine."

Ridiculously warmed by the mild utterance, Doyle found it literally child's play to comply.

Back on the platform, he struck a pose for Bodie's benefit. "Now what?"

Sitting at an angle across his bar, Bodie instructed, "You've been injured. Deep inside. A mortal wound."

A frown creased Doyle's brow. "And I can still fly?"

"You're a warrior, Ray. You couldn't give up if you wanted to."

The picture took form in Doyle's mind. "Easy for you to say." But he swung away from the platform, visualizing pain, feeling it eat away inside him. It made him turn inward, extinguishing the fire of youth that had characterized his movements only a moment before. Taken in Bodie's grasp, he seemed to hang lifelessly--an illusion, for doing so would result in an unrealistic hardship for Bodie.

"That's it," Bodie breathed. "Keep it up going back."

Doyle did as directed, making himself look convincingly hunched, his body dragging from his own arms, hands only just grasping, then holding the bar.

"And now you're reborn," Bodie told him when Doyle stood waiting on his own platform once more. "A superhuman creature, no longer of this earth, stronger than a mere mortal, more noble, beautiful. Transformed."

This time Doyle did not question him, for the picture painted by Bodie's words came to him full-blown: A mythological hero. Like Viking warriors--childhood favorites--taken into Valhalla, there to await Ragnorak, the great battle at the end of time.

Standing on the platform, arm stretched out to hold the trapeze, Doyle's very posture changed; he seemed to grow taller, even larger, head held high and proudly, his face cast with determination.

"Yes." Bodie's gaze was piercingly intense. "Just like that." He pushed out to begin his swing.

Doyle stepped off the platform, a creature of the ancients, a warrior made indestructible by his gods. The hair lifted from his brow as he swept forward, leaving his face open and somehow inhumanly luminous. When he left the trapeze, it was as though he had been freed from the cloying bonds of earth so that he might enter his natural habitat--the nothingness of the ether. His hands came into Bodie's with a power that impressed them both; his entire being projected vastness of spirit. Transformed, Bodie had said--and that was what Doyle had become. Released, Doyle turned to his own trapeze; the bar took his weight as though it were insignificant. With the contained grace of a falcon, he alighted on the platform, came round and faced his partner.

Bodie, balanced on his bar, one hand wrapped around a cable for balance, regarded him with a measure of awe. "Exactly ri--"

"Doyle!"

The spell was shattered. Below them, standing in the center aisle, was Sergei. Even from here his anger could be felt, rising upward like waves of heat from a furnace.

Doyle shot Bodie a rueful look and reached for the ladder, taking the ropes because doing so afforded him a few seconds to brace himself for what was likely to be an ugly confrontation. The facade of boldness deserted him as he scrambled downward, so that as he put his foot onto the sawdust floor, he felt more the gawky youth Bodie had described than even his normal, contained self.

"Sergei," he said evenly.

The big man closed the few feet separating them, his face blustery with the tumult of his emotion, eyes hot and brimming with reproach.

Doyle stood his ground, arms loose, hands open and relaxed. "She asked me to take her into town," he said flatly, anticipating Sergei's accusation. "That's all."

"That's all!" The mottled complexion became an alarming shade of kiln- baked brick. "You put Rose up to it. She'd never have gone if you hadn't encouraged her to run off."

"I didn't encourage her to do anything. She was upset; I wanted to help."

"You should've minded your own business, you little fu--"

"Doyle's right." Bodie's voice, bitingly sharp and laden with threat, came from behind Doyle, cutting Sergei off mid-syllable.

"Stay out of this, Bodie," Sergei snarled, recovering quickly. "This is no concern of yours."

"Oh, but it is." Stepping forward assertively, Bodie aligned himself beside Doyle. "You've been giving Rose grief for years; she should've walked out on you ages ago."

White teeth flashed menacingly. "I'm telling you, this is between Doyle and me."

"He's right, Bodie. Leave it, eh?"

At this soft statement, Sergei narrowed his small, dark eyes, favoring Bodie and Doyle with equal animosity. "Where did you take my wife?"

"Into town," Doyle replied.

"Where exactly?"

"Sorry, Sergei. I can't tell you."

Bodie stood a little straighter at the expression that contorted Sergei's face. Unmoved, Doyle waited, half expecting Sergei to strike out.

"You could if you wanted to."

"Yes."

Composing himself, Sergei took a deep breath. "Did she say anything? About coming back?"

"No. In fact, she hardly said anything at all," Doyle said truthfully. "I asked her why you'd fought, and she wouldn't tell me. She said she had to leave and asked me to drive her into town. For all I know she only stayed there last night. She could be on her way to anywhere by now."

The tension began to drain out of the angry man, like air leaking from a slow puncture. "That's all she said?"

"That's right." Regarding Sergei without sympathy, Doyle remarked, "You shouldn't've hit her."

"I didn't-- I--" Sergei stuttered to a halt. "I didn't hit her very hard." His face darkened again. "And it's none of your fucking business, d'you understand? I should sack you for this."

"Give it up, Alf," Bodie advised, a tinge of boredom coloring his voice. "You need him and you know it. Rose'll be back. Just give her a few days, eh?"

"Fuck off, Bodie," Alf said viciously. He stabbed a finger toward Doyle's face. "But he's right, I can't afford to get rid of you. Don't you imagine there's any other reason I don't."

"And the reason Rose left?"

Sergei stared at him as though he had been slapped. In a low, harsh whisper, he hissed, "Watch yourself, sonny."

Aware of what he had done, Doyle dropped his head, shuffling his feet repentantly. "Look, Sergei, I shouldn't've said that, okay? I just have this thing about thumping women. I don't like it. Whatever you were arguing about, that's your affair--you're absolutely right. Just don't go hitting her while I'm around, okay? Makes me forget myself."

The other man subjected him to a long, unfriendly scrutiny. "I'll try to remember that," Sergei said with elaborate sarcasm. Without another word, he strode from the ring, up the center aisle, and out of the main tent.

"Whew," Hannah said dramatically, after Sergei had shouldered his way through the heavy curtain at the back of the stands.

A wave of twittering laughter followed, soon replaced by animated conversation, none of it so loud as to carry intelligibly to either man's ears.

"You're a hero, my boy," Bodie proclaimed grandly. This statement was met with a small round of applause.

Chagrined, Doyle twisted away. "He's a bully."

"But he does pay the bills--and your wages. Lot of other blokes would've been more careful."

"Yeah. Like you?" When Bodie only smiled at the gibe, Doyle muttered, "Look, we're wasting time."

Bodie clapped a hand upon Doyle's shoulder. "True. But I think we could do with a cuppa just now. My place or yours?"

The question stung. Doyle suggested tightly, "Yours."

"Mine it is," Bodie said without hesitation. "Come on, then."

---

The small table was strewn with slips of paper, each heavily covered with sketches and roughly pencilled notes, and here and there, the odd tea and butter stain.

"Make a meal off these, did you?" Doyle wondered aloud. In fact, he was hiding his surprise. Bodie had obviously spent a considerable amount of thought and time on his ideas for their new aerial act--an act which highlighted Doyle almost exclusively. In doing so, Bodie had reduced his own role to little more than facilitator--yet he seemed not the least concerned about removing himself from the public eye.

"Some clumsy oaf got his hands on 'em. So--what d'you think?"

An incoherent sound comprising both admiration and bemusement spilled from Doyle's mouth. "Fantastic, if we can pull it off. But you're not being very fair to the team, are you?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Don't play thick, mate. You've put the focus almost entirely on me. What about you?"

"It's flattering that you've noticed--but only an idiot would neglect your talents, Doyle. And there aren't many flyers capable of this sort of thing. Saw something like it done once, a long time ago." Bodie glanced down at his hands, at the oft-sharpened pencil held between them. "It was magical. Really something."

"Where was that?" The question was framed in an off-hand, almost indifferent manner.

"South Africa. Boswell-Wilkie Circus. Spent two winters there."

"Winters?"

Dark blue eyes flicked condescendingly over Doyle's face. "Southern hemisphere, sunshine. Our winters are their--"

"Summers. Yes, I seem to recall hearing tell of that curious phenomenon. Expect it must be a bit weird getting used to, that."

"Didn't hang about long enough to get used to much of anything, actually."

"Long enough to learn how to catch better than anyone I've ever flown with."

"That's just us, Doyle," Bodie said succinctly, something of the mocking look spilling into his voice.

"Not just us," Doyle argued good-naturedly. "You're bloody good, Bodie. And you make me look better than I am."

Bodie raised his mug and drank down the cold remains of his tea. "Tell me what you think of the idea, then--not just 'it's good.' I know we can carry it off. Give me some constructive comments."

"Okay." Doyle slumped back in his chair, hands folded across his waist, ankles overlapping. "There's the opening bit: The courageous young hero appears. That sequence's got to be filled with action, lots of stunts, spins, tumbles. That shouldn't be a problem; basically everything we've done to date.

"The death scene follows; slows things down very fast. If it's done wrong, we'll lose the audience through boredom--or we'll make them laugh, which would be far worse."

"Remember, we'll have Riley doing the narrative," Bodie interposed. "Imagine him speaking, that rich, chocolate brown voice of his. He'll give you time to languish on the ropes until the web can be dropped into reach. That'll be easy enough for one of the lads to take on--Des or Jeremy, they're both conscientious."

"They'll have to be. One misplaced rope and we're all going to look bloody stupid."

"The lighting'll help," Bodie pointed out. "When you've plummeted into the net, the fallen hero, there'll only be one spotter on you, the pale blue."

"Still," Doyle drew the word out. "You going to write the script?"

"Good Lord, no. We'll get Lily to do it. Would've had Rose do, but--"

"Yes, I know. I don't need another reminder, okay?"

Gazing broodingly down into his empty cup, Bodie did not at first respond to Doyle's self-castigation. "I didn't know he was thumping her," he stated at last. "Probably would've killed the bastard, if I had."

"Which wouldn't've done Rose any good," Doyle said; he spoke matter-of- factly to cover his surprise at Bodie's unexpected vehemence. "She loves the prick, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Not that he deserves it." Bodie's voice was low and cold. He looked sharply across at Doyle. "Steer clear of him, Ray. You've opened a Pandora's Box by leaving our Alf on his own. Told you before, you're just his type."

"Well, he isn't mine. And I can look after meself, thanks."

Bodie smiled, but not very pleasantly. "One of your charms, sunshine."

---

The remainder of the morning passed quickly. Doyle settled in to watch the various acts continue their preparations while Bodie worked out overhead on the fixed bar. Hannah's dog routine drew him once more. Keeping an eye on Bodie, he sidled over to have a clearer view of Hannah's hand signals and her use of body language to command her four- footed charges.

Having missed the bulk of the show the night before, some of the tricks were new to him. She was working with Aidan, Zoe, and Falstaff along with the animals now. Aidan and Zoe were slight and quick-footed; Falstaff was heavy-set and boomingly loud-mouthed. None of the dogs were intimidated by the huge man, however, performing leaps and tumbles around and on top of him. They executed their tricks with more agility than human acrobats--and with a great deal less fear.

Enchanted by the boisterous animals, Doyle was slow to react when a furry head came up under the palm of his hand where it hung between his knees. "Basil!" He patted his leg, and she scurried up beside him. "Didn't think you liked it in here, old girl." She licked his face in greeting. "Oh, that's right--no horses yet. Well, sit yourself down and keep your eyes on this lot. They really know what they're doing."

"What they were doing" at the moment looked, to the untutored eye, a lot like uncontrolled mayhem. Zoe, playing the role of robber, had just tied up Falstaff and Aidan and was attempting to make off with the loot. Unfortunately for her, one of the larger dogs, a standard-size poodle, had bowled her over and now she was being held in place, amid much squirming and flailing of arms, with the help of two terriers who, in fact, were providing more noise than useful assistance. Another terrier, distinctively marked with large black spots, and Aidan, were attempting to untie Falstaff with their teeth. It was the terrier who proved successful.

The skit came to a triumphant denouement with Zoe reduced to quivering terror, the dogs forming a pyramid on her back, and Falstaff chasing after Aidan, who had managed to bite the other clown, both of them trailed after by the heroic terrier, yapping deafeningly.

Unaware that he was grinning, Doyle tipped his head back to check on Bodie's progress only to find that he was even then hand-over-handing his way down the web.

"Hallo, Basil! How ever did you get her in here?" Hannah, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, came over to sit beside Doyle and the dog. Her large frame was handsomely set off by a long, grey skirt and a brightly flowered, overlarge blouse. At Doyle's querying glance, she said, without removing the cigarette, "Don't worry, love. Of course I know the rules. Never light up in here, do I? Just feels good between my lips-- and I can smell the tobacco. Hm."

Doyle laughed. "Was just wondering. They're incredibly good, your dogs. That business with untying Falstaff's hands--what'd you do just then? I must've missed the signal."

"As you were meant to." She looked hard into Doyle's face, raising a brow imperiously at him. When he only stared blankly back, she broke into a smile. "You just saw it. Watch again." Once more she slowly raised her brow--then nodded approvingly when enlightenment flared in Doyle's eyes.

"Ah! Does it matter which one?"

"Yes. The left. Falstaff's got a huge left eyebrow, so it works perfectly. Some people can't do it at all."

Waggling his brows industriously, but with little success, Doyle muttered, "You had to say that."

Laughing, Hannah pulled Basil into her lap. "You're looking good," she remarked to the dog and commenced an impromptu examination.

"That's because she's latched onto Mr. Softheart here," Bodie informed her caustically. "What are you doing?" This, as he spied Doyle's facial contortions.

"Trying to raise my left brow."

Bodie's left brow flew up in consternation. "Like this?"

"Exactly." Doyle growled peevishly, "Show-off."

"Frown, Ray," Hannah commanded, setting Basil on the ground at her feet.

He obeyed her at once, ignoring Bodie's snigger.

"Now bring up your left brow. There! That's not so difficult, is it?"

"What's all this in aid of?" Bodie demanded.

"Never you mind," Doyle said darkly.

"Don't expect it to work with Basil," Hannah warned him. "Bloody resistant, she is." She rose from the bench.

"Not with him."

Hannah looked at Bodie sharply.

"'S true," he went on. "After watching you yesterday, Doyle ran her through a whole slew of tricks."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Try it yourself, Hannah."

"Oh, I shall. Basil!"

The dog went to her at once, but it was quickly evident that she had no desire to perform for the woman. After much encouragement and exhortation, she dropped her belly into the sawdust and crept forward imploringly.

"Hm," Hannah drawled. "Your turn, Ray."

"I don't--"

"Oh, come on. I'm not going to get my feelings hurt, y'know. Sometimes animals develop a rapport with someone else, that's all. Give it a go."

Feeling uncomfortably conspicuous--more so, somehow, than when he was suspended from the trapeze or mounted on Tuppence's back--Doyle climbed to his feet and came to stand in front of Basil. The dog's tail stirred faintly, and her ears inched upward.

"Okay, Basil, do me proud." Awkwardly forming one of the hand signals he had observed Hannah execute, Doyle gestured to the dog, harboring little hope that she would comply.

To his gratification, she stood up at once. One trick followed another until Doyle had exhausted his limited repertoire.

"Well, I'll be double-damned!" Hannah exclaimed under her breath.

Squatting down beside the dog and cuffing her affectionately, Doyle looked up smiling. "She did it."

"She certainly did. That's amazing."

"What d'you mean? You just said--"

"Didn't mean a word of it," Hannah averred. Then she laughed, cackling like a hearty old crone. "Take that stunned look off your face, Ray. I'm only half-serious. It isn't exactly commonplace her doing all that, what with you being a stranger and all."

"Lerv at first sight," Bodie pronounced stirringly. He slung his towel over his shoulder. "He's got a way with furry things, Ray has; Sanjay likes him, too."

Hannah's eyes widened. "Sanjay?"

"Well--I guess it's liking when the bloody great brute decides not to eat your arm," Doyle put in.

"He bit you?"

"Nah. Just had a taste of me."

"Probably reckoned there wasn't enough of you to satisfy him," Bodie said unkindly. "Whoops--there she goes!" All three watched the blur that was Basil speed down the aisle and out of the tent. The slow clip-clop of horse's hooves from behind the red curtain provided the explanation for her lightning departure.

"That'll be Simon and Pat, and they don't need us hanging around. You want something to eat, Ray? I'm famished."

"God, yes," Hannah concurred. "Good Lord, is it as late as that? Come along, you lot. It's time mother had her ciggie--or three or four. See you lads later."

As Doyle and Bodie started out of the tent, Hannah clapped her hands to gather her flock. They tumbled over one another in their haste to reach her, each vying with all the rest for her special attentions.

---

Lunch in Doyle's kitchen was necessarily brief. Doyle kept Bodie talking about the prior evening's performance in between huge bites of a cheese and pickle sandwich--demanding every detail he had missed during his headlong run into town. For a man of so few words, Bodie seemed content to natter on--so long as none of Doyle's questions veered into the realm of the personal.

That never happened, Doyle having decided earlier that morning that he would not be the one to bring up the subject of Bodie's late-night visitor. Honoring that promise to himself was not easily accomplished, however. Being in such close proximity to the other man was a trial Doyle had not anticipated--he was coming to like Bodie entirely too much. And as he collected soiled paper serviettes while Bodie sleepily rocked the wooden chair off its front legs to lean precariously against the wall, Doyle was hard pressed not to slam the chair back down on the floor and demand who the other man was and how Bodie could have slept with him after kissing Doyle only hours before.

Only sanity and a refined abhorrence of looking unutterably stupid stopped him. Instead, Doyle took advantage of those few, still moments, by going about his tasks and studying the other man, unobserved.

The thought of someone else hungrily exploring that arrogant mouth filled Doyle with a fury out of all proportion to his present reality. He knew he had no claims on Bodie; Christ, he had only known the man four days--if he included today. But Bodie had kissed him, and in the doing, had awakened something that Doyle knew would never be completely quietened again.

That he could live with. What scraped at him was the possibility that only Bodie would be able to tame the newly roused beast. The notion was ludicrous. Doyle was a grown man who had slept with more women than he could possibly ever name. Presumably, there waited to be forgotten a myriad of unnamed men as well.

But he liked Bodie.

Putting the few soiled dishes on the sideboard, Doyle turned round and stared at the other man. Damn you, Bodie. Heart pounding hard and fast in his chest, Doyle gathered his resolve and, cautiously stepping over a groggily wakening Basil, went up to Bodie, placed both hands on the wall beside Bodie's dark head, and bent forward. Bodie's mouth yielded to his at once, a fact that suggested the other man had been dozing rather than deeply asleep. In fact, after a few seconds, Bodie let his head drift a little to one side to improve the angle of contact.

Doyle, however, was somewhat hazardously placed. Maintaining his balance with increasing difficulty, he waited until Bodie was actively encouraging his attentions before pulling back. Drowsy, smouldering blue eyes followed his departure, the soft mouth parted and silently inviting Doyle's return.

"Time to go," Doyle announced pleasantly. "We have to see Lily, remember?"

"I can think of better things to do." Bodie's voice was deep and vibrant, goading the hunger that lay coiled and waiting in Doyle's insides.

"But not just now." Especially after you spent the night with someone else. "C'mon, mate, shift yourself."

Pretending Bodie's kiss had left him unaffected, Doyle collected the corsair trousers he had borrowed from the dressing tent the night before, and strode, followed by a yawning Basil, to the door.

The front legs of the chair impacted lightly with the floor. "Right," Bodie said equably.

Doyle cast a sharp look at him.

Meeting that wide-eyed gaze with a slow, promise-filled smile, Bodie said, "That's okay, sunshine. I can wait."

---

The fitful start and stop of a sewing machine reached their ears before the two men stepped through the pinned-back entry flap of the dressing tent. Lily glanced up, peering at her visitors over the tops of dark- rimmed glasses. "So, there's the miscreant," she said by way of greeting.

"'Lo, Lily," Doyle said. "Sorry I didn't get these back to you last night."

"Don't apologize, Ray. Simon told me all about what happened with Rose and Sergei last night. You may not know it, but you're the local hero."

"Is he?" Bodie asked.

"The only better news would've been that she'd put the sadistic pig in his grave."

"Lily!"

"'Strewth, Bodie! You know the way he's treated her, always yelling, getting a leg over on anyone who'll lie still long enough--male or female, and God knows about the horses--not to mention fiddling her books. Hell's too good for that man, I'm telling you."

"And anyone else who'll listen probably," Bodie added, trying very hard to contain his laughter.

"Yes, you go ahead and laugh. Took the new lad here to set him to rights."

"Lily--" Doyle tried to stem the harangue.

"'E's the only one with enough backbone to help out poor Rose. If it hadn't been for--"

"Okay, Lily," Bodie broke in, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I believe you. In fact, you'll be happy to hear that this virile young bullock had me in a most compromising position not five minutes ago."

Lily stared at him, stunned into silence at last.

Doyle rolled his eyes and stuck his hands into his back pockets, turning around one hundred and eighty degrees on the heels of his trainers.

"And about bloody time," decreed Lily.

"Oh, my God." Doyle could feel the blood rush into his face.

"Don't hold it against him that he didn't complete the act," Bodie added, his voice falling an octave on the last three words. "But it wears a bloke out being all chivalrous, y'know."

"Bodie, you bastard, shut up," Doyle snarled.

Lily laughed, a delightful mixture of lewd-sounding throatiness and little girl high-pitched giggles. "You are a bastard," she informed Bodie.

"And if I ever manage to forget it, there are loads of people to remind me." He propped himself on the edge of her work-table. "I need you to write something out for me."

She clasped her hands in front of her. "A love letter?"

"That's personal." Glancing surreptitiously back at Doyle, he cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered loudly, "I'll let you know if the going gets sticky."


"Oh, Christ," Doyle moaned to himself. He came to rest against one of the four main poles, prepared for a long wait.

"But until then," Bodie went on, "what I need is a script for our aerial act."

"A script? You've come up with a new act, then?"

"Uh huh. Now listen closely, and tell me if you think you can do it."

---

"Why'd you do that?" Doyle asked.

"Do what?"

They were on their way out of the dressing tent. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the circus was gearing up for the evening's performance.

"Tell her that you and I'd been--erm--"

"Indulging in homosexual contact?" Bodie prodded delicately.

Doyle winced. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose."

"Well, I could've said we were snogging in your kitchen, but that might have offended her; very fastidious person, is Lily."

"Would've been nearer the truth," Doyle reminded him. "This way she probably thinks--"

"You were fucking me through the mattress. But, then--I like the way Lily thinks sometimes."

Seized by a spasm of pure lust, Doyle took a deep breath before looking at the man beside him. "Is that what you want? Me to fuck you?"

Bodie's forehead wrinkled with the effort of his thoughts. "I think," he replied slowly, "the idea holds definite appeal."

"With me? Specifically me, I mean?"

"Of course you. You don't think I'd be fantasizing about Lily, d'you?"

What about the bloke in your caravan last night?

Doyle closed his mouth tightly, half afraid the words had already slithered out. "'S nice to have a willing body close to hand, isn't it?" he said evenly.

"Second thoughts?"

The timbre of Bodie's voice had deepened noticeably, causing Doyle to raise his head and look searchingly at the man beside him.

"Early days yet," Doyle explained, his expression faintly troubled.

"Too right. But, Ray--"

"That's okay. Hell, Bodie, we hardly know each other. It's just--well, one of these days I'm going to want to go to bed with you. And when I do, I'd like to think I was the only one. Personal hang-up, y'see. Very boring." Doyle closed his mouth, more than a little appalled at what he had just admitted--mainly because that had come from him, Ray Doyle, private citizen, not Raymond Doyle, undercover CI5 agent, who was expected to fuck anyone in the service of his country.

Bodie heard him out, his face lacking all expression. "May happen sooner than you like, y'know."

"Maybe." Doyle pressed his fist against Bodie's shoulder, very lightly, very matey. "I'm off to the stables; want to see how Sanjay's getting on. Later, eh?"

"Yeah."

Quashing the urge to look over his shoulder, Doyle walked briskly round the back of the animal enclosure to the entry to the stables. As he stepped inside, he couldn't restrain himself any longer and shot a quick glance in the direction of the dressing tent.

But Bodie was gone.

---

Tricked up and ready for the ring, Doyle once more went into the animal enclosure. He had not seen Bodie since the afternoon, and although the other man's presence had been missed, Doyle had made good use of his solitary time.

Once his "smalls" laundry, dutifully scrubbed in the sink, had been hung out on the communal clothes-lines to dry, Doyle had tidied his tiny kitchen, taken a cup of tea with Basil, then had turned in for a much needed nap.

The morning, made awkward by the fallout from the night before, seemed a million years gone by the time Doyle had awakened, refreshed, just in time for a meal and another leisurely cup of tea. After that he had seen to his ablutions, praising the present for all the modern caravan conveniences that had been lacking in his early experience of gypsy living. Cleaned, coifed, and bedecked in full Regency gear, Doyle had urged Basil out, noted the curtain-drawn quietude of Bodie's unit, and had pulled the door closed behind him.

As expected, Basil left him as soon as Doyle got close to his intended destination. Musing over her whereabouts when he was otherwise engaged, Doyle laughed at the possible activities the clever little dog might get up to. That, for no obvious reason, brought to mind Bodie's comments to Lily--and subsequent remarks he had made regarding certain, very tantalizing, sexual activities Doyle had yet to sample--with Bodie, the taste of whose mouth Doyle could remember as though he were savoring it even now.

Feeling a certain constriction in trousers that had been restitched once already, Doyle turned his mind to other imperatives, inconspicuously adjusting himself with a thumb as he came round to the tackroom.

"Anybody home?"

"In here," Simon called.

The slight young man was seated before a folding mirror that was propped up on the table, expertly applying make-up.

"Beautiful," Doyle said.

Holding the mascara wand away from his face, Simon accorded Doyle a lingering once-over as well. "And you, petal."

"Thanks. I probably forgot to mention what I thought of your performance last night."

"You certainly did," Simon said archly. Then he leaned forward, face cupped lightly between red-tipped fingers, and smiled engagingly. "So tell me now."

"Fantastic. Wouldn't've thought such a routine could be pulled off wearing all those bloody skirts."

Pleased, Simon gracefully sank back in his chair, plunging the eye-brush into the depths of the tube. "I have very strong legs. Comes of all that stretching my knees up around my ears, y'know." He licked his lips and raised an eloquent brow.

"Hm. Lucky for you Derek is so cooperative."

"Cooperative!" Simon's eyes widened with mock outrage. "He's a bloody taskmaster."

Having heard boot heels thudding down the aisle between the stalls, Doyle stepped deftly to one side as Derek entered. The other man laid a hand on his shoulder in greeting, then continued past him. Looming over the small table, he bent forward and kissed an instantly sputtering Simon. "Oh, Derry, you bastard," he erupted after being released. "Now I'll have to start all over!"

Unimpressed, Derek took three steps to the teapot temporarily residing on the shelf at the back of the room, ruffling Simon's short hair lovingly as he went.

Simon's mewl of protest was rewarded by a caress upon the nape of his neck. "Hm." Simon curved his head forward. "Now, that's nice."

One-handedly pouring tea into his mug, Derek raised the pot in silent invitation to Doyle, who looked on with a twinge of envy.

"No, thanks," Doyle said. "Just thought I'd hide out here for a bit."

"Where's Bodie?" Simon's eyelids shuttered downward as Derek continued his massage.

"Still in his caravan, I expect. I think he may have been up a bit late last night."

"Oh." Simon grimaced. "His groupie, I suppose."

"Tall fellow, dark hair, grey-green eyes?"

Simon confirmed Doyle's fears with a terse nod. "That's the one."

"Come round often, does he?"

"Ouch!" Simon twisted in his chair, fixing his lover with an angry glare. "I am not gossiping. Doyle is Bodie's partner. He's a right to know about him." Sitting in front of the mirror once more, Simon went on, "And knowing Bodie, it'll be years before he'll ever tell you anything." Applying the mascara brush with a tremorless hand, Simon said, "Used to see that bloke all the time when we were in Manchester. According to Bodie, the chap was posted near there."

"Posted?"

"Army," Simon explained. "Think he was demobbed not long after. Not certain, though." Canting his head becomingly while surveying his image, Simon thought for a second. "Must've been a month ago since he was here last. Never stays for more than a day or two."

Derek sat on a stool behind him, resting his head against the canvas wall, one leg hooked around a support bar on Simon's chair.

Always near, Doyle thought.

Not unaware of Derek's presence, Simon reached back and gave his lover's dirt-encrusted knee a caress. "He's a nice enough bloke, I suppose. And I don't think there's anything serious between them."

"It's his business, anyway," Doyle said flatly, his brusque tone effectively putting an end to their conversation.

---

That night Circus Sergei was inundated with patrons. Word had spread throughout the town following Wednesday's performance that here was an entertainment worth paying to see. By early evening the sideshow features were overflowing with jostling, exuberant people, children running wild, and teen-agers whose bored-looking façades occasionally crumbled to reveal unfeigned amusement.

Fortunately, the crowd was of a mind to be pleased. From the band's opening notes, heralding the arrival of Riley atop a marvellously rigged-out Flash, they blared their approval. Watching everything for the first time along with them, Doyle shared the audience's high spirits, breaking into spontaneous applause when the jugglers pulled off a particularly impressive trick, cheering the clowns in their manic routine, and hooting with glee at Simon's amazing striptease.

In the midst of the fire-eater's set, Bodie came up behind him and touched a fingertip to Doyle's shoulder.

"Oh, hello," Doyle said, overflowing with joie de vivre. He took in Bodie's appearance. "Very nice."

"Not so bad yourself. Is it going well?"

"Great. Where have you been? Thought you'd show up before now."

"Resting up. Had a late night."

"Oh."

At that moment, Derek appeared with Tuppence and Piper. Burying a sudden sharp anger deep inside himself, Doyle mounted while Derek held the horse's bridle. Eyes straight ahead, he was nevertheless aware when Bodie was in place beside him.

Enthusiasm reverberated inside the Big Tent. Then a hush fell as the crowd awaited the next act. Very softly, the band began to play.

They had not got far into the routine before Doyle realized that the horses were tuned into the crowd every bit as intensely as any of the human performers. Their ears followed every tiny sound, swivelling independently from side to side, each one tracking its own bit of interesting information. The boisterous ambience did not affect their performance, however; they went through each carefully choreographed movement with superb dignity and grace, as heedless of the men atop them as they were of their captivated audience.

As Doyle backed out of the ring, Tuppence bowing her sorrow for all to see, the crowd sighed its sympathy as one. Removed from view by the great red curtain, he heard a breathless pause as Piper contemplated whether to follow or to stay--his decision made for him when Tuppence whickered to him to follow.

Stunned applause filled the air; loud snuffles expressed the emotions of many. Standing at the curtain, Derek and Tuppence behind him, Doyle nodded to Bodie as he appeared. "I think they liked it."

Bodie grinned boyishly. "I think we could go out and sing rugger tunes and that lot'd like it."

He handed Piper off to Derek, who had already collected Tuppence's reins. "Thanks, mate." Bodie glanced across at Doyle. "You hanging about?"

"Yeah. D'you need anything?"

Bodie shook his head. "Nah. Just a kid at heart, aren't you, catching a peek at the circus?"

"Missed it all last night, didn't I?"

Groaning under his breath, Bodie said, "Don't I know!"

"Sorry." Doyle met and held Bodie's eyes. "Knock their eyes out, sunshine. I'm looking forward to seeing you up there."

Bodie raised a hand and touched Doyle's mouth. "It'll be better when we're both up there, eh?"

"Off with you, mate," Doyle breathed.

Bringing his hand up to his own mouth, Bodie kissed the finger that had brushed Doyle's lips. He winked.

Watching him stride away, Doyle realized that, after eradicating his good mood with only a handful of words, Bodie had restored it with no more than a fingertip.

"Bastard," he whispered.

---

As in a happy dream, the remaining acts performed flawlessly to enthusiastic shouts and applause. The liberty horse routine--horses running unreined while executing precise commands on cue--followed immediately upon Bodie and Doyle's act. Overseen by Derek from behind the curtain at least part of the way through, it was directed by Riley, aided by his long, wicked-looking ring whip and the shorter guide whip, neither of which were ever used to hurt the animals, but only to direct their movements according to the routine.

The horses were astoundingly well-trained and behaved. With the band matching their cadence, the animals formed a line and reared and pawed-- rather like a line-up of musical dancers. Upon command, they then pivoted to the left, all at the same time, and circled the ring, odd numbered horses nimbly switching places with their even counterparts. Taffy, the shetland pony, galloped up from behind and proceeded to weave in and out and under the horses, much to the audience's amazed delight.

Before long it was Taffy, with her mischievous antics, who had won the hearts of the crowd. Her pranks never failed to raise a laugh, the public willingly fooled into believing that she acted all on her own, whereas the other horses were more regimentally minded.

At the close of the act, the horses formed a pyramid using Flash as its base. Once all were in place, Taffy dashed round them, kicking and pretending to bite. As the audience howled, she collected herself and swung out in front of Flash. There she skidded to a stop, bent her near leg under, and with the off stretched out, very prettily performed an extended bow.

Riley signalled them to break up. The horses circled the ring, then one at a time filed out through the red curtain. Taffy energetically brought up the rear, pausing briefly at the curtain to look round before disappearing, raising a cheer from the crowd.

Even with the insider's unblinkered knowledge of what fired the engines of circus magic, Doyle was not immune to its particular brand of enchantment. The next two acts proved that incontrovertibly, as he was drawn into them as readily as any school child under the age of ten.

First was a clown balancing act, performed by Aidan, staged unprecariously but with hurtling energy upon a low wire. His crazed escapades were no less magnificently skilled for the seemingly lunatic way he went about them.

With the audience's mood nicely revitalized, the next act was unlikely to fail, especially as this one featured Flash as the "teacher" and Taffy, along with several of Hannah's dogs and Zoe in clownsuit and make-up, as his "pupils." The animals, prompted by Riley from the shadows, put on a marvellous display, never missing a cue, their timing impeccable.

At last Bodie majestically appeared, stripping off his voluminous cape and abandoning it with splendid arrogance to a fawning assistant, the sequinned flyer's costume glittering hypnotically in the bright lights. He went up the web hand over hand, the sheer power and animal suppleness of the man holding the audience spellbound long before he reached the fixed trapeze. There he paused just long enough to resin his hands, before flipping backward into his routine.

Gasps of startlement, wonder, and sheer enchantment came out of the stands as Bodie moved fluidly from one stunt to another. Doyle, looking on intently through a thin crevice between the red curtain and the canvas sidewall, narrowed his eyes when Bodie came out of a flip with a hint of a jolt. While nothing to disturb the audience, to the trained eye it bespoke possible damage. Nevertheless Bodie completed the set without curtailing any of his prepared routine, and the audience happily paid clamorous homage to his skills and impressive ability.

Doyle was waiting for him on the other side of the curtain in the dressing tent corridor. Head down, face set, moisture shining off chest and arms, Bodie did not see him until Doyle thrust the towel kept waiting there into Bodie's hands.

"Went okay?" Bodie asked, eyes brightening at sight of him.

"Went great," Doyle corrected him. "Are you okay?"

Bodie gave a little laugh. "Trust you. Yeah, I think so. Hot shower, bit of a rub down should put it to rights." He regarded Doyle hopefully. "You wouldn't consider giving me a massage?"

"Who, me?" Doyle asked coolly. "What about your groupie?"

"My group-- It was you came round last night, wasn't it? Why didn't you say something?"

Uncertain how to take Bodie's forthrightness, Doyle ignored the latter question. "Yeah, it was me."

"Thought it must've been. Murph's not my groupie, you idiot. Wish Simon would quit calling him that. He's an old friend from the Army."

Feeling ridiculously stupid, but also immeasurably pleased, Doyle said jokily, "The Flying Hussars?"

"The-- Oh, yeah. SAS, actually."

"SAS?" Doyle favored the other man with a wicked grin. "Thought they were fairly strict about who they let in?"

"You casting aspersions, boy?" Bodie asked imperially. "They are careful, y'know. I just made a point of never abseiling into Parliament to announce the fact that 'I'm that way inclined.' Can get on amazingly well that way."

"I'll bear that in mind. Come on, Bodie." Doyle tugged the ends of the towel down around Bodie's broad neck. "Get out of that costume before you catch your death."

As they started down the corridor to the dressing tent, Doyle said off- handedly, "So this bloke was visiting, was he?"

"Yep. Whenever he's running free, Murph looks me up. You should've told him who you were--or did the robe and those long hairy legs of his give you the wrong impression?"

Glancing down at his feet, away to the side, then back across at Bodie, Doyle merely shrugged.

"Like that, eh?" Bodie's voice warmed with understanding; he waved Doyle through the opening which gave access to the dressing tent.

"Expect so."

"That's why you've been so bloody stroppy today?"

"Wasn't being stroppy," Doyle defended himself hotly.

"You were, too."

"Wasn't."

"Were."

"Boys!"

Both men flinched at the high-pitched reprimand issued from Lily's Cupid's bow lips. "You had better be getting changed, Master Bodie, if you intend to ride in the parade."

"Yes, ma'am," Bodie drawled, his too-broad American accent earning him grimaces all round.

---

It was well after eleven before the last car drove away. The entire troupe had revelled in the rousing farewell given by their generous second audience of the season.

Since Bodie did not appear to be in any distress, Doyle had made no effort to encourage him to leave the tent following the parade. Punch- drunk with success, and sparking with surplus energy, everyone was slow to return home that night. But at last Doyle escorted his partner to his caravan, having noticed that Bodie was beginning to favor his left shoulder just a little.

"You want something to eat?" Doyle asked, as Bodie fumbled open his door.

"You cooking?" Bodie flung an arm wide in invitation for Doyle to enter.

"Why not? Wouldn't want to damage that arm of yours any more, now would we?"

"Depends on what 'we're' doing with it."

"Hold that thought," Doyle said wryly. "Get yourself in the shower, why don't you, and I'll nip round to my place to collect a few bits and pieces."

Wide-eyed, Bodie said, "Into that sort of thing, are you?"

"You should be so lucky, mate. Go on, off with you. I should be here when you get out."

"See that you are." Bodie leaned forward and pressed his mouth very lightly to Doyle's. "Bye."

Lips tingling, Doyle went out the door and tripped down the steps, looking forward to removing his too-confining costume. As he neared his own caravan, a sudden movement from the seat of the motorcycle brought him up sharply--but it was only Basil, curled up tightly and shivering in the cold night air.

"Bas, you mindless little bugger, what're you doing out here?" He strode over to her at once. "We'll just have to rig up some way for you to get in and out, won't we--now you've decided to move in permanent-like."

The dog unfolded and stretched from one end of her small, lean body to the other. Then she stepped up into Doyle's waiting arms, swabbing her tongue across his neck as soon as he was within reach.

"Silly prawn," Doyle mumbled, feeling unconscionably guilty that she should choose to suffer while waiting for him, rather than seek shelter elsewhere.

Shifting her onto his shoulder, Doyle turned back to the caravan door. With the advent of late evening, the temperature had fallen to notable effect. Doyle took a moment to pour some dry dog food into Basil's dish and placed it on the floor.

From there he went into the tiny bathroom and retrieved the bottle of liniment given him by Simon from one of the small shelves that ran down the wall between the toilet and the narrow shower. Checking in the mirror-panelled cupboard over the sink for anything else left behind by Roger that could be of use, Doyle's eyes were caught by the crumpled, half-empty tube of lubricant that lay on the lowest ledge. His hand came up, then fell back, still empty, to his side.

Clutching the soft-plastic container of liniment, Doyle strode into the bedroom and quickly removed the Regency outfit. He chose a pair of worn, skintight jeans, and a large flannel shirt. With the laces of his trainers neatly tied, he started for the door--only to hesitate at the bed.

Basil watched with curiosity as Doyle mounded the top edge of the bedcovers in front of the pillow, forming a small nest. Looking straight at her, he pointed a finger down at it. The dog leaped up in a single bound, tail wagging enthusiastically. Cupping her head in one palm, Doyle bent forward and rubbed his nose against her short, smooth muzzle.

"'Night, Bas. Don't wait up for me, eh?"

The glow from a few, dimly shining doorlamps pricked the night, making his passage over the gravelled surface easier than finding his way in full dark. Approaching Bodie's caravan, Doyle could hear water running at the back; the other man was still in the shower, washing away the sweat and strain of the day.

Inside, Doyle made himself at home in the cramped kitchen. After digging about in the refrigerator and Bodie's cupboards, he came up with the makings of a cheese sauce mixed with rice, chunks of left-over chicken, and an assortment of cooked vegetables, including peas, carrots, and something that may have been diced turnips--but as Doyle had no intention of sharing Bodie's repast, and harboring a distrust of turnips that had been established in early childhood, he did not bother to verify what it was.

The sauce was thickening and Doyle was shoving slices of bread into the oven to grill when Bodie stepped out of the bathroom, a plain terry- cotton robe wrapped round him. Working a towel over his hair, Bodie sniffed exaggeratedly and pretended to follow his nose into the kitchen.

Looking on approvingly, he said, "Smells great; what've you got there, then?"

"As you see," Doyle replied unhelpfully. "D'you like turnips?"

"Can't stand 'em. Why?"

"Never mind." Waving vaguely at the small dining table, Doyle suggested, "Sit yourself down. This'll be ready in a tick."

"Oh, goody," Bodie exclaimed as he spied the bottle of liniment. "Afters."

"Only if you eat all your supper," Doyle countered automatically. He busied himself stirring the glutinous mixture in the pan. Slowly adding grated cheese, he asked, "How's the shoulder?"

"Won't be a problem." Ignoring Doyle's invitation to sit down, Bodie went to the sink and filled the kettle.

"Tea's already brewing," Doyle informed him smugly.

The kettle came down on the sideboard with a thunk. Stepping up close behind Doyle, Bodie hooked his chin on the other man's bony shoulder and peered over the side into the pan. "You're good at that, aren't you?"

"Have to take care of meself, don't I? Look out, you're impeding progress here."

Bodie turned his head and slowly pushed his mouth up against Doyle's ear. "Maybe I've found something else I'd rather eat."

Eyes closing, Doyle leaned back into Bodie's warmth. Two arms came round his waist; a hand slid upward past the last closed button on his shirt and disappeared under the material.

"Nice," Bodie murmured, "warm, and furry." The other hand rode down the line of Doyle's left hip toward his thigh.

Floating on velvet sensation, Doyle hummed softly under his breath.

"You said you haven't had too much experience with men," Bodie reminded him a little tentatively. "How much is that exactly?"

The irresistible, liquid warmth generated by Bodie's touch gelled in Doyle's abdomen.

In response to Doyle's involuntary tensing, Bodie murmured, "'S all right, sunshine; just asking."

"I've--done a lot of looking." Doyle made a face at the break in his voice, grateful that his back was still turned toward Bodie.

"So, you've never had it off with anyone?"

"No men," Doyle muttered.

"Meaning, you've had women?"

"Yeah."

"Being bi's nothing to be embarrassed about, y'know," Bodie misinterpreted Doyle's silent chagrin, communicated to him through body language alone, for Doyle had said nothing. Then he clarified: "So long as you're careful, of course. Can't go flaunting it about."

"I know that."

"But?"

Doyle covered the hand exploring his chest with one of his own. "But I was too shit-scared to admit that I only ever wanted men."

"Oh." Bodie considered this for a moment. "What's made you change your mind just lately?"

Suddenly hating the lies that had shaped his life--continued to shape his life, Doyle wanted to say, "Cowley said I could." Instead, he whispered bitterly, "I don't know, Bodie. The first lad I ever fell for--" Doyle shut his mouth with an audible snap; the inappropriate words had spilled from his lips before he could call them back. "Only I didn't fall, he did."

"Keith Leland."

"Congratulations on an excellent memory. Yeah, Keith."

Bodie clasped his arms round Doyle's waist, and brushed his cheek against Doyle's neck. "That may explain more than you realize."

"Oh, yes?"

Warm breath coursed ticklishly over Doyle's collarbone. "I'm not a trick cyclist, mate--well, of course, I could be, but not the kind that messes your head about--but just think on it: You were in the circus when you lost him. Now you're back in the circus--"

"You're not a substitute, Bodie."

"Should hope not." There was nothing contrived about Bodie's affronted attitude. "But we've a freedom here we don't get anywhere else." A quiet wistfulness filtered into Bodie's words. He opened his mouth, and took another breath--then faltered.

When Bodie failed to finish, Doyle glanced back at him. "Go on."

Letting him go, Bodie said, "Nothing." He turned Doyle round so that they stood facing one another. "Told you before I'm in no hurry. When you're ready, you just say so. Okay?"

Melting with sudden yearning, Doyle leaned closer and kissed the other man long and hard. "That's hardly fair to you."

"I'll manage," Bodie promised, his smile bordering on saintly.

"C'mere, you," Doyle growled.

Bodie went willingly as Doyle reeled him near again and covered his mouth with his own hungrily searching lips.

A moment later, Bodie remarked breathlessly, "You're good at that, y'know. Very good." Grinning wryly into Doyle's face, he added, "But I think supper may be burning."

"Damn!"

The best portion of the meal was salvaged, although a fair amount remained on the bottom of the pan. Fetching plates from the cupboard, Bodie looked askance when Doyle told him he would need only the one.

"You're not eating, then?"

"Nope. Not hungry. Sit down and pull your robe off your shoulders, will you?"

Looking scandalized, Bodie remarked, "While I'm eating!"

"After serving with the famous SAS, you must've learned to do everything while you were eating."

"True." Seated in the chair at the end of the table, Bodie jabbed a fork into the steaming rice-sauce mix, and muttered rebelliously, "Not that I liked to, mind."

"Then why'd you let them second you?"

"Don't be an idiot, Doyle," Bodie stated thickly round a mouthful. "Not something you turn down. And it was good training."

"The best, I hear. Wouldn't've thought that sort of job would suit you, that's all." Standing behind him, Doyle picked up Bodie's towel and lightly rubbed it on his still damp hair.

"I've known worse. What're you doing up there?"

Doyle grinned. "Checking for bald spots." He danced aside, barely avoiding an elbow aimed lethally at his midriff. "Temper." After draping the towel over the door knob, Doyle again took up his place and began to pull the terry cotton robe farther down Bodie's shoulders, stopping just shy of making his arms unusable.

For the next few minutes, Doyle probed and prodded at the expertly developed musculature of Bodie's upper back and shoulders, while Bodie occupied himself with his plate.

"That's it," Bodie gasped, when Doyle settled on a particularly tight spot.

"Thought so."

It was no hardship touching Bodie's skin, which was smooth and finely pored, and, fresh from the shower, very warm to the touch. Doyle's fingers kneaded carefully as he worked the bunched muscles. He let his eyes roam over the back of Bodie's head and its healthy growth of thick, wavy, dark brown hair; the nape of the neck, which was long and curving; and the creamy white shoulders and back.

"This is interesting," Doyle said, speaking softly so as not to startle Bodie, who appeared to have fallen asleep.

"Hn?"

"This." Doyle placed the tip of a finger on a long scar that extended from the top of Bodie's left shoulder blade almost to its base, stretching along the inward curve.

"Old news."

"Don't want to talk about it, y'mean?"

"Not particularly."

"Right. You nodding off down there?"

"Yes."

"Finish your dinner?"

"I think so. There's nothing left on my plate, anyway."

"And you've had your shower and used the loo. Time for bed, I think."

Bodie rolled his head back and looked up into Doyle's eyes. "At fucking last," he said with new energy.

Doyle waved his arm toward the narrow bed. "Hm--I can see passion smoking out of your ears. Over there, sunshine; on your belly."

"Be still my heart."

"Will you shut up?"

As Bodie complied, Doyle stood transfixed, watching the removal of the robe and the revealing of the fair form that lay hidden underneath. Unselfconsciously, Bodie drew back the bedclothes and stretched out on the mattress. With a sharp tug, he twitched the soft fabric up around his hips, leaving himself bare from shoulders to waist.

"I'm waiting," he sighed, when Doyle did not move to join him.

Walking like an automaton, Doyle took two steps, then remembered the liniment. Fetching it off the table, he slowly twisted off the cap, his gaze returning to Bodie's unprotected back.

As he came nearer again, his thoughts whirled in a chaotic cyclone of images, needs, and fears. Allowing himself no chance to dwell on any of them, Doyle sat down on the edge of the mattress at Bodie's waist and poured a sizable quantity of liniment directly onto Bodie's shoulder.

Lying on his stomach with a pillow hugged to his chest, Bodie's respiration briefly spiked before resuming its natural rhythm. "Thanks for the warning, mate."

"Cold, is it?" Doyle asked briskly, hoping to conceal the tremor in his voice by speaking abruptly, but knowing his hands would betray him the instant they came in contact with Bodie's back.

"Prick."

Doyle pressed both palms over the broad shoulders; Bodie arched his back, encouraging the pressure. "Oh, that's it," he said in a husky purr. "Magic hands, Doyle. Anyone ever tell you?"

"Every woman I ever touched," Doyle lied, concentrating on the feel of Bodie beneath his fingers.

Wriggling slowly, Bodie turned his head on the pillow, trying to get a glimpse of Doyle's face. "Have there been that many?" he wondered.

"Thousands."

"That all?"

"What about you?" Doyle turned the tables, suddenly keen to take Bodie's attention off him. "How many men?"

"Men?" For a second, Bodie did not answer. "Oh--countless of 'em."

Doyle paused. "The way you said that, it sounds as though there've been women, as well."

"There have. You're not the only one who's played the part of the proper lad, my son."

"How many?" Doyle immediately prompted. The muscles under his hands were growing more relaxed by the minute.

"Thousands, of course."

"Of course."

Countless men and thousands of women, Doyle thought morosely. He fell silent after that, hoping Bodie would, too. In fact, Bodie dropped off soon after, so quickly and so deeply, that Doyle was surprised that he had been able to remain awake so long.

Ten minutes later, Doyle eased himself off Bodie's bed. Looking down at the strong form so defenselessly exposed, Doyle recognized the degree of trust that had been vested in him. Making not a sound, he pulled the covers up to the base of the dark-capped skull, his fingers allowed to feather through silky hair for only a few instants.

Then, switching the light off over the bed, he turned and went to the door. As he twisted the knob, Bodie's voice came to him, groggy and a little confused.

"Ray?"

"G'night, Bodie," Doyle said. "See you in the morning, mate."

"Thought...you might want to stay?"

A faint smile lifted Doyle's lips; Bodie was more than half-asleep.

"Get some rest, Bodie. Don't think I'm up to competing tonight."

"Compet--?"

Doyle closed the door quietly and with finality behind him. Hunkering forward against the sharp breeze, he strode swiftly across the caravan site, his emotions ambivalent and incomprehensible.

Perhaps Bodie was right about the influence of circus life on him. Five days ago, Cowley had instructed him to woo Bodie's attentions, and by extension, his trust. No emotional attachment, only sex, the Old Man had said.

But for the first time in ten years, Doyle doubted his ability to do the job and retain his self-imposed barriers. Something about Bodie-- Or was it something about him--Doyle--being back in this old, familiar setting--

What in hell was happening to him?

---

CHAPTER 6

Friday

High above the circus floor, Doyle crept spider-like across the web of rigging that supported the aerial equipment. Systematically he checked every tie-off and pivot point, hundreds of inches of cabling, and the integrity of even the least-used webs.

Rising before dawn, Doyle's first order of business had been to prop open the window over the kitchen sink for Basil's personal use. The sink itself was made passable by placing a cardboard box upside down inside it, which formed a platform for the dog to step across. The box had been scavenged amidst bird-song and rodent rustling under cover of pitch darkness from the edge of the caravan site where a communal skip had been set up. After that, he had wheeled the motor bike round the side of his caravan and parked it anew under the kitchen window.

The next priority had been to ensure Basil's understanding of the set- up. As usual, she had responded to Doyle's instructions with willingness and enthusiasm. Once he was content that she could get up onto the bike, bound from there to the sill of the kitchen window, then alight on the box in the sink without incurring disaster, he had called an end to their impromptu training session.

"Just don't turn the taps on, eh?" he had advised, ruffling her ears and giving her a treat. "Or I'll have to requisition another box."

After gulping down a forgettable breakfast, notable only for the speed with which he had consumed it, Doyle had chosen to leave off running. Instead, with Basil at his heels, he had gone to the Big Tent, which was already beginning to stir with activity, for this day--Friday--would see the first of the matinee performances.

Sergei's extra hands had already been hard at work. The circus floor inside the ring had been raked clean of the previous day's detritus, fresh sawdust and tanbark added, and the surface smoothed preparatory to the first performance. There were men on tall ladders inspecting the canvas for tiny rents, which could become huge tears if not speedily checked; and yet others, posted here and there, who were tidying the curtains and brightly colored valances.

Doyle had passed unchallenged and, though he knew better, apparently unremarked. Leaving Basil to her own devices, he had stripped off his sweatshirt and trainers, and folded them up neatly in a pile on one of the benches nearest the ring. From there, he had crossed the newly surfaced floor to the rope ladder. This he had climbed slowly to give his muscles a chance to warm up properly.

In the upper, wire-latticed region of the tent, he had hoped things might seem clearer. Nevertheless, as removed from this particular world as he could be and yet still be in its midst, he found it impossible to divorce himself from the growing intensity of emotions long buried--and even longer denied. This was only an assignment, no different from all the others. And yet--

Why Bodie?

Because he could fly like no flyer Doyle had ever seen before? Or because, when they flew together, it was better than the best magic Doyle had ever known? Or because, against all odds, they seemed able to communicate on an instinctive level that transcended verbal language? Or, more basically still, was it simply because Bodie was quite the most attractive man Doyle had ever known--and he had been ordered to seduce him?

In the middle of retightening a clamp which joined two cables, suspended at the highest point over the circus floor, Doyle closed his eyes and rode out a wash of yearning that raced through his system, leaving him flushed with sexual heat from head to toe.

He could not call it the embryonic flutterings of love, this heightened awareness that overcame him at the mere thought of sleeping with Bodie.

And yet--

He was an idiot. Chandra's death had shaken him more than he had realized, that's all. Three weeks had not been time enough to acknowledge the loss of a fine partner--even one he had kept at arm's length throughout their partnership.

It wasn't Bodie at all--not really. Although perhaps Bodie had been right when he had said, "We've a freedom here we don't get anywhere else." Freedom to be himself for the first time in ten years? Surely, that freedom had always been his.

Frowning faintly to himself, Doyle precariously scampered across the cables to the last batch of connections he had to examine. With heavy hair falling onto his forehead and crowding round his neck, he swiped at a sheen of sweat beading clammily on his brow. This feeling, this out- of-kilter longing for something unnamed, would not last; nothing ever did, as he knew well from first-hand experience. But in the interim--

As though summoned, he raised his head and looked out beyond the stands to the main entry. Through the unpopulated seats, he could see him, knew him even in shadow.

Bodie.

Smiling wryly to himself, Doyle watched the other man come into the ring, head tilted back, eyes directed upward at Doyle. Those eyes would be a deep, lustrous, cobalt blue, if not even darker, shaded to indigo. Heart hammering in his throat, Doyle sighed softly. Somehow it was immensely galling to have lost a battle without even knowing war had been declared.

And you've won, Bodie.

"Ray? You 'bout finished up there? Or d'you need me to come up?"

"Almost done," Doyle answered smoothly. "Just be a couple more minutes."

---

The first part of the morning was given over to an abbreviated work-out. Once the net was erected, just after eight, Bodie talked Doyle through his ideas for the new act. They restricted themselves to the most basic of acrobatics out of deference to Bodie's shoulder. Still, they were able to utilize the movements to gauge their timing and to get a notion of the overall flow of the set.

"D'you really think we can get all of this put together before next Wednesday?" Doyle called, hoisting himself out of the net as Bodie brought himself down by way of a single rope.

"Sure. Lily was going to talk with Riley after she'd had a chance to piece together the script. I've spoken with Sergei about using a couple of extra riggers for manning the webs; he didn't have a problem with that. Might have to talk to Donal about the--"

"Donal?" Doyle echoed sharply.

"McShane." Bodie gave him a curious look. "Electrician. You've seen him: stumpy little bloke who works the lights."

"Oh, right. Knew a Donal Ead once when I was with Donny Devereaux's circus--real git, he was."

Doyle picked up the towel from an overturned tub and gave himself a quick rub-down. Hannah waved at him from across the ring, her dogs sprawled in various poses of indolence at her feet. He grinned back at her and tossed the towel to Bodie.

"What about costumes?"

Sitting down heavily on the bench beside Doyle's clothing, Bodie buried his face in the towel before answering. "Still thinking on that. Can't be too complicated. Oh, yes--Simon said he needs to see you today about finishing your leotard. Seemed a bit peeved you hadn't stopped in this morning."

"Did he?" After tugging his fleecy trousers up around his waist, Doyle plopped down on the bench beside Bodie and began to pull on his shoes. "Can we use the lights, d'you think? Y'know, to make up for fancy costume changes?"

"Now there's an idea." Bodie smiled up at him from cotton folds. "We could use different colored gels for spectacular effects; I'd intended to use them for certain bits anyway. Good idea, mate."

Doyle concentrated on tying his shoe. "Thanks. So all we have to do is choreograph our routine, time it with Riley doing a voice-over and your man Donal playing with the lights, not to mention the lad who'll be working the web for the great ascension scene--did I leave anything out?"

"Cynic. Want some tea?" He raised a brow when Doyle appeared ready to object. "We'll go round to visit Simon and Derek. Give you a chance to look in on Sanjay."

Doyle laughed softly; had Bodie learned to read him so well in a few short days? "I could murder a cup of tea," Doyle admitted.

"Is that your dog under there?" Bodie wondered.

"Very likely. That you, Bas?" Doyle asked, peering under the benches. Two bright eyes gazed back at him. Yanking the sweatshirt down over his head, Doyle bent toward the dog.

Basil lunged forward, lifting her forepaws onto the bench.

"C'mon, then," Doyle said, clapping his hands. "Bet you could take a cup as well." Basil sprang into Doyle's arms and was ferried to his shoulder.

"Until you get near the horses or Sanjay," Bodie argued, "then she'll skedaddle off to parts unknown."

"Clever dog. Avoids a great deal of work that way."

As they started toward the main opening, Bodie asked quietly, "What happened to you this morning, Ray? Missed you on the run."

Doyle looked across at the far side of the Big Tent. "Wanted some time alone, I reckon."

"Everything okay?"

Green eyes turned Bodie's way. "Everything is fine, Bodie."

---

Doyle, attired in a pure white leotard, offset by glittering sequins which formed a star pattern on the torso, and small Catherine wheels on each hip, stepped out of the tackroom with a flourish.

"I expect that'll do," Bodie remarked.

"'Do!'" Simon exclaimed from behind Doyle. "He looks absolutely exquisite!"

Tipping his head a little to one side, Bodie gave Doyle a closer look. "Well, now you say so--I suppose there is something vaguely exquisite about him. Just there, on his right shoulder."

"You are positively wretched beyond words, Bodie," Simon complained.

"So sorry."

"You're not."

Derek raised his mug toward Doyle in silent appreciation. For him alone, Doyle performed a sleekly controlled pirouette.

"Oh, yes," Simon murmured. "See how the spangles catch the light; imagine that on the trapeze."

"Especially his right shoulder; it's exquisite, you know."

"Barbarian."

"Will I have a cape to go with it?" Doyle asked. "Like Conan over there?"

"Better," Simon promised with malicious satisfaction. "With the cape I give you, he'll look a poor cousin in comparison."

"Now, see here--"

Abandoning Bodie and Simon to their squabbling, Doyle returned to the tackroom and changed back into his work-out apparel. "Thanks, Si," he called out, folding the fragile material into neat bundles before joining the other men. "The costume's fantastic."

"You are welcome." Simon cast an arched brow speakingly in Bodie's direction.

Bodie blew him a kiss. "That's what I love about you, Simon: You never sulk like some people I know."

Shedding his outraged facade, Simon giggled. "You're still a bastard, Bodie," he said. "Even if Ray likes you."

"Of course he likes me; who doesn't?"

"The list is too long to--"

Deeming it time to put an end to their bantering, Derek took a single step forward and silenced his lover with a thorough kiss. When he let Simon go, he gestured to Doyle to accompany him to the tiger's cage.

Receiving a similarly questioning look, Bodie shook his head. "Nah, you two go along and play with the big moggie. I want to see how Lily's getting on with her writing." He gave Doyle a little wave and struck off down the canvas corridor to the side exit.

Doyle handed the leotard over to Simon. "Keep this for me, will you?"

"Of course. Be careful, eh? Sanjay's been a bit restless this morning."

Glancing sidelong at Derek, Doyle asked, "He's not doing well?"

Derek rocked his hand graphically from side to side.

"Just be careful," Simon repeated meaningfully.

In fact, after rousing very briefly at their arrival, Sanjay fell back into his slumber. Doyle and Derek worked quietly and efficiently to muck out the great cat's cage. They managed to freshen the sawdust on the floor and clean out the water bowl, all without disturbing him.

"He's getting weaker, isn't he?" Doyle muttered.

Derek nodded abruptly while collecting the cat's medication.

Supporting the great head with a gentle grip, Doyle sensed Sanjay's wakening. The yellow eyes shuttered open, and a wide, pink tongue curled out to swab the tip of the broad nose.

"It's all right, big fella." Doyle looked up at Derek, who was watching him. "He feels warmer than usual."

With a flicker of the eyes and brows, Derek indicated his agreement. While Doyle braced the cat's head, Derek worked the medication into the huge mouth. As soon as Doyle freed him, Sanjay worked his jaws and swallowed. He gave a paw a languid lick and rolled back onto his side, eyes closing heavily.

---

Doyle stayed a while longer, helping Derek with the horses. At noon, he refused Simon's offer of lunch and started back to his own caravan. The circus grounds were roiling with activity; but Doyle wanted to distance himself from the hubbub. As he ambled past Bodie's unit, he noted that Bodie himself was nowhere in evidence. Mildly disappointed, Doyle continued on to his own caravan. Standing on the steps in front of his door, he was in the midst of turning the knob when a warm, large hand came to rest on his backside.

"Bo--"

"Not Bodie," Sergei said with a slow smile.

"Sergei." The politeness in Doyle's voice came from a long-established well of civility which he was forced to dip into from time to time. In his line of work, such a resource was a necessity.

Letting his gaze drift down Doyle's narrow frame, Sergei reluctantly withdrew his hand. "I saw you and Bodie this morning."

"Yes?"

"Very nice." He inclined his head toward the door. "Don't suppose you could spare a cup of tea? Don't get taken care of so well these days, now Rose has gone."

Doyle hesitated. Then: "Sure." He pulled the door open and stepped through, leaving Sergei to follow.

It was cool inside the caravan, despite the sunny day. After tossing the leotard and tights onto the table, Doyle unobtrusively removed the box from the sink, and leaned forward to look out the window at the bike. As he had suspected, Basil was there. She raised her head sleepily; at sight of Doyle, she began to stir. With a subtle hand gesture, Doyle signalled her to stay. She did so, stretching out on the leather seat again quite happily.

"Have you heard from Rose?" Doyle asked, conscious of Sergei stepping up behind him as he filled the kettle.

"Not a peep. You?"

"No reason she would." Plugging in the flex, Doyle turned round, hands braced on the lip of the counter.

"No?" Sergei's redolent breath spoke of considerable whisky consumption. "She trusted you to help her."

"Rose was upset," Doyle said flatly.

Under Doyle's flinty stare, Sergei sidled a short distance away. "She would've got over it."

"I expect she will yet. Bodie said you've rowed before; 's not uncommon with married folk."

"No." Wandering purposelessly in the small space, Sergei spied the leotard on the table and picked it up. "Simon does an excellent job, doesn't he?" he murmured. "Such a pretty lad, too."

Doyle said nothing.

"Y'know, I saw you last night." Fingering the closely woven fabric, Sergei shot him a look from under his lashes. "Sneaking into Bodie's caravan."

"Wasn't sneaking," Doyle said on a mirthless laugh.

"It was late."

"The grounds didn't clear out until late. What are you getting at, Alf?"

Drawing himself up to his full, but not impressive height, Sergei said, "I prefer that you call me Sergei."

"Sergei, then."

Bunched in the circus owner's thick hands, the leotard was thrust at Doyle. "I think I ought to see you in this--make sure that it is what we want."

"It is. And I've already tried it on."

"I would like to see it, all the same."

Doyle's first thought was to refuse in no uncertain terms--but he realized he must think carefully before speaking. If he protested, Sergei might do something irrational--perhaps even fire him, despite earlier remarks to the contrary. Cowley would have his head on a pike for that. But if he conceded, Sergei might try his hand--and Doyle did not think an ugly scene would serve his best interests just now. In any case, he did not intend for the other man to touch him again--not without coming to harm, anyway.

"Why not?" he said equably. He swung out a hand and snatched the costume from Sergei's grasp; in the mood Sergei was in, he might try to play keep-away once Doyle had undressed.

With the leotard safely stowed on the counter behind him, Doyle removed his trainers then peeled the sweatshirt and underlying t-shirt off in one, unbroken movement. With the same air of indifference, he stripped off his trousers, revealing the narrow band of nylon that served as underpants. A prickling annoyance spread through him as Sergei wet his lips with unfeigned interest. It seemed an age before Doyle had drawn the clinging tights up around his hips, longer still before the close- fitting bodysuit afforded any degree of decorum.

"Hm," Sergei said noncommittally; his eyes spoke far more explicitly. "Turn round, please."

Knowing with complete certainty what the other man meant to do, Doyle nevertheless obeyed. When Sergei's hand closed on his right buttock with painful ardor, Doyle was completely unsurprised, and perversely, allowed the liberty for one full second before twisting round and seizing the broad wrist in a brutal grip.

"I take it that means, you approve?"

Through clenched teeth, Sergei growled, "What d'you think you're--?"

The door swung wide behind them; Bodie entered, his affable expression belying the tautness of his posture.

"Ray. Sergei. Showing him the new costume, are you, mate?"

Doyle flung Sergei's hand away. "Yeah. And he likes it a lot. Don't you, Sergei?"

Cradling his forearm close to his body, Sergei took a step backward and swung toward the door. With a hot glare, he ordered Bodie to get out of his way. When Bodie did not immediately comply, Sergei snapped, "Now, Bodie."

Smiling with mock affection, Bodie remarked, "He's a little stronger than Rose, isn't he?"

At that, Sergei barrelled past him, knocking Bodie half off balance as he bolted down the steps. Once Sergei had disappeared round the front of his own caravan, Bodie shut the door, and clucking his tongue admonishingly, commented, "There goes your rise, sunshine."

"Along with a third of my right cheek."

"He never! Turn round; let me look."

Doyle scowled at him. "Don't you start. Miserable swine."

"Me?"

"Very likely; Sergei, certainly." He would have said more, but a soft whine had caught his attention. Glancing out the window, he found Basil staring back up at him, her ears at attention, eyes worriedly alert. "C'mon, then, you."

The dog leapt up at once; Doyle caught her before she could plummet into the sink. "Don't worry," he said meanly as she licked at his face. "I think your meal-ticket is secure through the evening performance."

"More like six months." Bodie plucked a sheet of paper out of a pocket and unfolded it, casually leaning over the counter to see how Basil had managed such a remarkable leap. Hmming to himself, he added, "You've got a contract, remember?"

"Somehow, I don't think anything involving ethics will carry much weight with our Alf." Doyle set the dog on the floor and resumed the process of making tea.

Lifting up the flannel running trousers that had been discarded on the floor, Bodie said aghast, "You undressed in front of him?"

"Didn't have a lot of choice, did I? If I'd gone into the bedroom, with only a curtain to keep him out, he'd've been in there like a shot."

"Expect you're right."

As Doyle placed the lid on the teapot and wrapped the towel around it, Bodie stated, "You are okay?"

"Sure." Doyle made a face. "You don't work with a load of laborers and not get into a dust-up once in a while, y'know."

"Yeah, I reckon. Not your refined company, like us circus folk."

Giving way to a smile, Doyle agreed, "Nothing like. What d'you have there?"

"Hot from the typewriter: Our new routine. Too bad the 'a' doesn't work all that well--would make a lot more sense, I think."

"Hand it over. I want to see that."

Bodie dangled the single sheet in front of him. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No, was met at the door by Our Friend." Doyle grabbed the paper out of Bodie's hand. "Think maybe he was even waiting for me." Doyle's eyes began to scan the sheet; Bodie was quite right: The unreliable 'a' made for a difficult read.

"Told you before. You're just what he looks for in a man."

With a retort poised on his tongue, Doyle chose to exercise restraint when he saw Bodie squatted down in front of the open refrigerator, gathering assorted items to his chest. Doyle muttered, "I'm sure you're right."

"'Course I am. Thought you had some brinjal pickle in here."

"Behind the pickles." Aware that he had gone from borderline rage to domestic contentment in record time, Doyle shook his head at himself, and tried once more to focus on Lily's text.

As Bodie piled sandwich makings on the sideboard, Doyle gave a low whistle. "This is heavy stuff. D'you really think the audience will buy it?"

Bodie snorted. "You've seen how they react to that silly horse gag. This'll be spectacular."

"Hope you're right. More than that, I hope I'll be able to keep a straight face while Riley's reading it."

"Faint-heart. Riley could read the ingredients off a tin of beans and wow that lot."

"He is good. Incredible voice." He looked questioningly at Bodie. "What's his story, then?"

"Story?"

"Background, history, whatever you call it."

"Don't know a whole lot about him, actually. Keeps to himself. Only person I've ever known him to talk to much is Hannah; and she doesn't pass on anything hugely personal. I do remember her saying something about him being married and having a family in New Zealand--and he showed me some pictures once. Other than that, nothing."

Frowning down at the teapot as he removed the makeshift cozy, Doyle mused, "Wonder why he's here, then?"

"Why are any of us?"

The question was unanswerable. After placing mugs on the sideboard opposite where Bodie was working, Doyle reached into the refrigerator and took out the milk carton. He slopped some of it into both mugs, added sugar to Bodie's, then poured the tea.

"By the way, you didn't just happen to come round just now, did you?"

"Eh?"

"You heard me." Doyle set the sugared tea at Bodie's elbow.

Bodie shrugged. "I'm not playing protector, if that's what you mean."

"Very good timing, all the same."

"Luck," Bodie said dismissively. "Better change out of that rig, y'know. Get anything on it, and Simon'll have your goolies."

"And then Derek would have his," Doyle said pragmatically. "How much longer are you going to be?"

"You can't hurry perfection, Doyle. Don't worry; I'm making enough for both of us."

"No offense, sunshine, but I've seen you eat." He laid a hand on Bodie's shoulder, seeking out the spot that had received his attentions the night before, and gently renewed his acquaintance with it.

Bodie grinned wolfishly. "So change quickly. Better still, just keep doing what you're doing. Maybe I'll fall asleep, and you can have it all."

"Sod." With a final caress, Doyle collected his clothing and went into the bedroom. Drawing the curtain that served as a partition between the two areas, Doyle let his thoughts stray to Riley, the long-faced ringmaster, whose family lived so many thousands of miles away. If Doyle ever found someone to share his life--although the prospect seemed fairly remote--he resolved that he would never leave him.

Not when there was so little time to be had--and even fewer 'him's.'

---

The first house of the day was rife with children. They squealed, they screamed, they shouted their amusement. There was something special in playing to them, something noticeably lacking when the audience was composed mainly of adults. Magic was a given with children, not something to be derided, as was characteristic of their elders. Somehow, too, their acceptance made the magic more real for adults, less foreign.

As before, Bodie and Doyle's equestrian routine came to a close amidst a telling silence. Waiting for the audience's response from behind the red curtain, Doyle broke into a pleased smile as cheers and applause filled the canvas structure.

Giving Doyle's arm a thump, Bodie bent his head toward the side exit. They handed the horses over to Derek, who gave them both a congratulatory nod. As he led the animals away, down the corridor back to the stables, Bodie and Doyle went through the opening into brilliant daylight.

Lily was waiting for them in the dressing tent. While Bodie made a beeline for the changing screen, she asked Doyle, "What d'you think of the script, then?"

"'S bloody good. Don't know if we can carry it off, though. Pretty sturm und drang-ish, y'know."

"Really?" She looked alarmed. "I can rewrite it, if you want."

"No. That isn't what I want," Doyle assured her. "It's me I'm worried about." He poked a thumb in Bodie's direction. "He's got this entire routine revolving around this character I'm supposed to play."

"Don't listen to him, Lily. Once we put those spotlights on him, he'll perk up."

Doyle gave a snort of laughter. "Sure of that, are you?" To Lily, he said, "I've never done anything like this before. Wasn't hired on as an actor."

"He's afraid they'll laugh the place down," Bodie said unperturbed. "And he doesn't think we have enough time to get everything coordinated before Wednesday. He's wrong, of course."

"You see what I'm up against," Doyle complained.

"Ah, c'mon, Ray," Bodie said with weary entreaty from the other side of the dressing screen. "You were all for it at first."

"So, my clay toes are showing, okay?"

"If you think rewriting it will help, I really wouldn't mind," Lily insisted.

Doyle gave one of her petal-soft cheeks a caress with the edge of a forefinger. "You couldn't've done better--the writing is terrific."

"Just ignore him, Lily." Bodie stepped out from behind the screen carrying his cape. "You wrote exactly what I want. I'm even going to see to it that you get a credit on the playbill."

Slumping back in her seat with a heavy sigh, Lily muttered, "Mr. Gerry Cottle himself. I don't know who's worse, you or him."

Blue eyes widening with disbelief, Bodie proclaimed, "Don't be silly; he is, of course." With unthinking arrogance he handed the cape to Doyle and turned round, regally showing him his back.

Casting a long-suffering look Lily's way, Doyle spread the glittering fabric wide and laid the collar with precision round Bodie's shoulders. "Anything else I can do for you, m'lord?"

"There certainly is, my boy." Bodie's voice dropped to a stage whisper. "But I'd rather not have an audience for that, what?"

"Moron."

---

A little later, while Bodie was finishing up on the fixed trapeze, Doyle took advantage of the circus' preoccupation to finally go through the second equipment caravan. Unsurprised to find nothing that could not be explained to the appropriate authorities, he nevertheless made a thorough search. His investigation was not entirely wasted, as he came up with a piece of plywood that measured the very dimensions needed to fit perfectly over his sink--and which would have a greater longevity and resilience than the cardboard box he was presently using for Basil's springboard.

Pleased with his finding, he came out of the door and almost stumbled over one of the equipment movers who was racing up the steps. "Whatcha doing in 'ere?" the man demanded.

"Taking this," Doyle replied bluntly. "I don't think you'll miss it."

"You lot don't have any business in here." Tall, with a brawny physique to match his height, the other man eyed Doyle with some distaste. "Well, go on, now you've done with your pilfering; take it."

"Right."

A few feet away, Doyle heard the man mutter, "Bloody poof."

Doyle froze mid-step. Then very slowly, he turned.

The other man stared challengingly down at him; the words had been spoken with intention.

This, the first encounter with malice based on his sexuality, left Doyle a little uncertain how to react. His immediate response was to plunge a fist down the other man's throat. On reconsideration, however, he concluded that that might prove a bit permanent for his heckler, not to mention painful to his knuckles. His next was to rip into the man with words of one syllable--just to be certain he completely understood Doyle's displeasure. In the end--his internal debate lasting no more than ten seconds--he realized the futility of striking back on the basis of such minimal provocation.

So, he said with a feral smile, "Ooh, lover! Big, strong lad like you-- don't reckon you'd be willing to say that down here?"

The man's eyes lit with unholy joy. "Wouldn't I just!"

He bounded off the steps, gauging Doyle's dearth of inches and slight carriage with smug confidence. Coming to a stop less than a foot away, he said sneeringly, "I said, you're a bloody poof. Not going to deny it, are you?"

"Not at all," Doyle assured him, throwing the piece of plywood a few feet away. Then he brought his left fist up and smashed it into the man's well-muscled abdomen, following the first blow with a right jab to the square jaw. Taken by surprise, the man yet proved himself a fighter and lunged at Doyle to forestall his attack. While Doyle would have liked to accommodate him, he knew he dare not soil the equestrian costume, and danced easily out of the other man's range, causing him to stumble.

Bloodlust glinted in blue eyes as his attacker regained his balance, a warning to Doyle that he would have to end the fray soon, or face Simon's--and Lily's--wrath. He fell back a step and kicked out as the man bulled toward him once more, the toe of his boot catching the other beneath the chin, felling him instantly.

As soon as the other had crumpled to the ground, Doyle crouched down beside him to check that no permanent damage had been done. But the man was already stirring, disoriented eyes slowly taking in his surroundings and his own ignominious placement.

"'Ow'd you do that?" he groaned.

"Me mum taught me. Look, I'm sorry," Doyle muttered, genuinely ashamed to have let his temper get the better of him. Still, he was not quite ready to let the other off the hook. "But you really shouldn't've said that, y'know?"

"You said it was true."

"Doesn't mean it's polite, mate. Any more than me calling you a big fucker, eh? Even though that's probably true, too, isn't it?"

Gingerly probing at his jaw, the man said blankly, "Yeah, 'course it is."

"There you go, then." Giving his opponent a dark look, Doyle said, "You wouldn't want a hand up, would you?"

Eyeing Doyle with equal suspicion, the man said with reluctance, "Not if you intend to thump me again."

"Don't need to, do I?" Doyle said reasonably.

"Well--no."

Doyle thrust out his hand. When the other man accepted it, he pulled him upright, then waited until he had got his feet under him. "You might want to see Derek about that lip. You're bleeding."

"Derek takes care of the horses."

"I know. But he might be willing to have a look at you, as well." Brushing off his hands, Doyle retrieved his piece of plywood. "Thanks for the bit of wood, mate."

Hannah stood outside the side exit where the dressing tent connected with the Big Tent. Inhaling deeply from a cigarette, she offered Doyle a crooked smile. "What was that all about?"

"He called me a poof."

"Oh. Bodie would've put the boot in for good measure, in that case."

"Then Bodie must be less forgiving than I am," Doyle said wryly. "How's the show going?"

"Wonderfully. But I couldn't stand it anymore and had to come out for a puff. Not that I'm needed for anything when they're in the ring; the others, Aidan and Falstaff and Zoe, put them through their paces just fine--or Riley, when it's his turn." She pointed toward the square of plywood with the glowing tip of her cigarette. "What're you going to do with that?"

"It's for Basil. So she can jump in and out of the kitchen window when I'm not around."

"It's quite amazing the way she's latched onto you, y'know." Hannah shook her head; dark hair swung down across her face. Pushing it back behind her ears, she asked, "Have you tried out the rope trick on her yet?"

"Rope tr--? Oh, you mean getting her to untie me? Nah, haven't had a chance, have I?"

"I will be very interested to hear how she does. May just have to bring you to a few practice sessions, so I can have my dog back."

Faintly stricken, Doyle said, "I'm not forcing her to stay, y'know. As you say, she--"

"Not to worry. It's true she wouldn't perform properly for me before. But it would be nice if we could convince her to work in the ring. Earn her keep."

"Maybe it's stage fright," Doyle proposed whimsically.

"Don't smile; it's not unheard of."

"Really? Oops--sounds like they're getting close to the parade."

Hannah cocked her head toward the Big Tent. "Yes, you're right. Off with you, then. And Ray--"

Poised half in the entry leading to the corridor, he paused. "Yeah?"

"That was a very impressive display of fighting back there."

Doyle summoned a weak grin. "Been around." He winked. "I'll let you know about Basil, okay?" With that he disappeared into the corridor, where he was almost run over by the young web spinners who were hurrying into position.

Bodie, dressed once more in his Regency costume, and mounted on Piper's back, gave Doyle a curious look as he passed the piece of wood to Derek for safekeeping before taking hold of Tuppence's reins. "Thought you were going to miss the finale again. What happened to your hand?"

For the first time, Doyle noticed that his knuckles were bleeding. "Must've scraped it on something. Hello, Tuppence, old girl. You ready for the parade?"

The horse whickered softly as Doyle lightly scratched behind her ears.

"I'm afraid to ask," Bodie said.

"Then, don't."

"Right."

---

A two-hour respite followed the closing of the first performance. While Bodie skulked off on his own pursuits, Doyle opted to spend his time with Derek in the stables, preparing the horses for the next show. Restoring sweaty equine coats to their usual luster was a singularly mindless task. And after his set-to with the man outside the equipment caravan, Doyle needed some time alone with his thoughts. Derek welcomed the assistance, asked no questions, and left him to it.

Picking out bits of tanbark from Mickey's left forefoot, Doyle suffered a growing sense of uneasiness as he contemplated the ridiculous little fray. Not that he regretted what he had done; more, actually the way he had done it. Hannah had noticed his unusual skill in bringing the big man down--and it was not a skill to be broadcast, even for an acrobat.

Had it angered him so much to be labelled a homosexual that he had forgotten his cover? To some extent, certainly; after all, that was the name he had denied for more years than he cared to count. Conversely, he had embraced it as his own, now: Would he fight everyone who dared speak it? Or would he learn to ignore them, as he had learned to ignore far worse--and in many ways more appropriate--pejoratives?

While taking the man down a peg or two had been completely warranted as far as Doyle--or any gay--was concerned, that showy bit of self-defense had been uncalled for, employed for expedience rather than absolute need. He had not wanted to get his costume dirty--what sort of excuse would that be, if he had to defend his actions to Cowley?

Squirming inwardly, Doyle resolved to encourage the next would-be bully he encountered to push his face in the sand. Seven-stone weakling, that's me, he thought gloomily, and startled rather badly when a familiar voice announced, "So that's where you've got to!"

"Shh, 's all right, Mickey," Doyle murmured, as the horse flinched away. To Bodie, he hissed, "You trying to get me trod on in here?"

"I couldn't've picked a better nag, if I were."

"What?"

"Mickey. He tried to take a chunk out of Taffy during the liberty routine. How's the hand?"

"The--?"

"Hand."

Giving Bodie an old-fashioned look, Doyle raised his fingers, splayed wide, for inspection.

"You'll live. Someone's jaw will look worse, you'll be pleased to know."

Returning to his task, Doyle muttered, "Hannah told you?"

"Tom."

"Tom?"

Bodie grinned maliciously. "The bloke you roughed up."

"He started it."

This statement was met with a low rumble of laughter. "By calling you a poof?"

Grateful for the horse's wide flanks, which hid the wash of red warming his face, Doyle growled, "Yes."

"He calls everybody a poofter, Doyle--all the performers, that is. Doesn't mean anything by it."

Doyle slowly stuck his head round, eyes wide and incredulous. "You're not saying I overreacted?"

"Don't need to say it."

"Ta a bunch, mate. I expect this Tom of yours has gone crying to Sergei as well?"

"Nah--Tom wouldn't do that."

Lowering Mickey's hoof to the straw, Doyle said archly, "He told you, didn't he?"

"Only because I asked him whose door he'd run into. Gave him a hell of a lump, sunshine."

"Yeah, well, I apologized, didn't I?"

Almost repressing a smile at this ungracious statement, Bodie remarked, "Very sportsmanlike of you. And here's him painting you as the villain of the piece."

"Me?"

"Said he caught you nosing about the equipment caravan."

"Nobody told me it was out of bounds," Doyle countered belligerently. He dropped the hoof pick in the grooming kit, unclipped the leadshank from Mickey's halter to release his head, and eased himself alongside the still skittish horse to the front of the stall.

"He didn't know who you were; could've been anybody."

With a scornful chortle, Doyle said, "Oh, I see. And just how many thieves roaming around in full Regency get-up d'you know?"

"That's not the point. It was the roaming round the equipment caravan that made Tom nervous," Bodie stated practically.

"Look, if you don't want me going in there, just say. And while you're at it, make sure you give me a list of everywhere else I'm not to go!" Doyle pushed past his partner, pulling the stall gate to behind him.

"No restrictions, Ray," Bodie said mildly. "Why should there be?"

"You tell me. Derek, I'm off," he called out, knowing the other man was in one of the adjoining stalls. A hand rose above the partition separating Jake from Flip. Not bothering to see if Bodie followed, Doyle took the grooming kit into the tackroom, stored it in its place, and wheeled round to leave. Halfway through the door, he remembered the plywood square and went back to retrieve it from the table.

"You can tell Sergei to deduct this from my wages."

Bodie arched a quizzical brow at the innocuous-looking object. "Tom did say you took a piece of wood; he thought it was bloody suspicious."

"It is," Doyle said tightly. "I'm going to make a bomb out of it, and blow up the whole sodding circus." Scowling blackly, he made to swing past the other man, but was brought up by a vice-like hand on his upper arm.

"You're beautiful when you're narked," Bodie proclaimed softly, as though discovering a new universal axiom. Foresightedly pinning Doyle's arms to his sides, he stepped close and kissed Doyle full on the mouth.

Remaining very still, Doyle made it clear by his lack of response that he was only tolerating Bodie's advances, no more.

Slowly Bodie drew back, heavy lids revealing smoky blue eyes. "Gonna use that blinding footwork on me now?"

The breath caught in Doyle's throat--more from the look on Bodie's face than the provocative words. "Bastard," he breathed. Deftly driving a leg between Bodie's thighs, Doyle hooked an ankle round one of Bodie's knees and jerked it forward, forcing him to stumble. Before Bodie could recover, Doyle was on him, shoving the heavier and taller man hard against one of the tackroom support poles, eliciting an ominous creaking sound throughout the structure. Chucking the piece of plywood to the trampled grass floor, Doyle took Bodie's head between both of his hands, and brutally brought their mouths together.

Bodie's cooperation was instantaneous and whole-hearted. A moan formed in his throat, but Doyle's demanding kiss allowed it no outlet. For long minutes they stood there, struggling to get impossibly nearer.


Trapped and feeling the discomfort of his position, Bodie finally wrenched his head free. "Jesus, Ray! Slow it down, will you?" He gasped aloud as Doyle gave his throat a sucking, biting kiss. "Ray." His voice cracked. "Ray, not here, for Christ's sake!"

Recalling himself to their whereabouts with something of a shock, Doyle released Bodie at once, but his eyes were abstracted, a soft, hazy shade of jade. "Sorry," he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his gaze to Bodie's mouth, glancing up sharply when the puckish lips formed a smile.

"Better be careful what I ask for, eh?"

"Complaining?"

"Not complaining, no. Impatient, more like."

Doyle bent forward and contritely nuzzled his mouth against Bodie's. "Expect we ought to be getting ready for the next house."

"Expect we ought."

"Oh, don't stop now!" Simon's voice carried plaintively across the small enclosure. "You two are more inspiring than the bluest video I've ever seen--even if you are about to bring the place down."

Peering round Doyle's shaggy head, Bodie asked dangerously, "How long have you been there?" He twisted a glance up at the pole behind him; as usual, Simon was exaggerating.

"Not nearly long enough by the look of things," Simon sighed. Dressed in flaring skirts and flowing blonde wig, his face expertly rouged and mascaraed, he looked every inch the fair damsel. Only his voice, a pleasantly modulated tenor, struck a discordant note--for a woman. "Do feel free to continue," he implored.

Doyle punctiliously withdrew from Bodie's arms. "Seem a bit inhibiting in here to you, mate?"

Agreeing with a prim nod, Bodie commented, "Show's over for the day, Si."

Picking up the cast-off square of wood, Doyle straightened to find Derek, his face split in a huge grin, lurking in the stall opposite the tackroom. "Not you, too!"

Derek winked, his knowing eyes plunging straight to Doyle's groin.

"Bloody hell," Doyle groaned. "Is there no respect in this place?"

From the stall at the end of the stable, Piper gave a noisy blow.

Bodie shook his head. "There's your answer, sunshine: straight from the horse's mouth."

---

By the end of the day, Doyle wondered if somehow he had got stuck on an emotional roller-coaster. After the morning's depression he had managed to re-establish a moderately normal state of mind, only to soar wildly in triumph after avenging his pride over Tom's petty insult. Bringing himself down to earth once more, his equable mood had then been shattered thanks to a bout of mindless lust in the stables with Bodie. Overcoming that diverting madness so that his performance in the ring would display some credibility, Doyle had then impossibly got sucked into their silly tale of wrenching, equestrian woe, and in the midst of acting it out had plummeted to gripping doubt as to what his next logical step concerning Bodie should be.

It plagued him to think that going to bed with Bodie had to be more than something he very much wanted to do--it was also an integral part of his job. After the passion, there would be questions: What can you tell me about Sergei? Have you ever known him to be involved in treasonous activities? Why did Rose run away? Not so bluntly worded, of course, but wheedled and coaxed out of the other man by whatever means of persuasion Doyle could bring to bear. And then he must report to Cowley, who would know where and how Doyle had elicited this privileged information--Cowley, who didn't give a tinker's cuss about anything so muddlesome as a man's emotions.

Sending him here had been a mistake on Cowley's part. The circus was as far removed from the mundane reality of life as the stars and the moon. And Doyle was falling deeper under its sway with every minute he remained. Or, in truth, had he ever actually been free of it, but rather simply managed to keep it at bay all this time?

Ten years ago, Doyle had thought the circus would be his future. That notion had been scattered to the winds along with Keith's ashes. Yet Doyle's first day under the Big Tent of Circus Sergei had reminded him of what he had abandoned all those years ago: The freedom, the camaraderie, the comfortable distance extended to everyone by everyone. In the circus, a man could be himself--or, in fact, anyone he wished.

Their lives were governed by a different set of rules. Here, Doyle's only objective was to please a public well-primed to be satisfied. Here, no one was likely to shoot him and leave him for dead in a puddle of souring milk and congealing blood--a scenario that, despite having been endured, visited him occasionally in unfriendly dreams. And here, for the first time in far too long, he could put that ever-vigilant, duty- bound homunculus that resided in his brain to rest, and be truly, all the way to the core of him, at ease.

After the parade, Doyle took Tuppence into the stables himself, absorbedly cloaked in unpleasant thoughts. Gallingly, it had not escaped him that his feelings would not be so turbulent were he required to seduce someone other than Bodie.

How to explain the rapport he had established with this man--and the uncommon affection and affinity that had formed so easily between them? Was such a rare bond to be callously dismissed for the sake of HMG's selfish interests?

As far as Cowley was concerned, no bond, however rare, could justify the contravention of his purpose. And just as certainly--if he knew the truth of the matter--Cowley would condemn Doyle for having put off the moment too long as it was. Never, ever, must Doyle forget why he was here. After all, he had experienced disillusion in trusting eyes before; could that unique shade of blue make his betrayal any less tolerable?

But, Doyle decided, it would not take place tonight--no matter what Cowley might say.

Bringing Piper alongside, Bodie laid a hand on Doyle's shoulder.

"You look like you could use a beer, Ray," Bodie said as he guided Tuppence into her stable. He pulled the rope-gate to.

"Ah-- No. Not tonight, thanks." Doyle shrugged, pretending not to see the flicker of dismay in Bodie's face. "Knackered, mate."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I'm away, then. See you tomorrow, eh?"

"Yeah. G'night, Bodie." As Bodie's footsteps thudded dully out into the corridor, a hint of movement caught Doyle's eye. Derek, hanging up one of the gaudily decorated saddles a few feet away, stood looking on, a vague frown heavy on his brow.

Doyle nodded at him--a parting salutation--and with a last pat on Tuppence's withers, strode out. A beer with Bodie would have led to bed with Bodie, and Doyle simply could not face that--and all it entailed-- just yet.

"You'd better hurry, if you're going to catch Bodie up," Simon announced, meeting Doyle in the corridor which led outside. "Although, maybe you'd be safer to wait a bit: He looked in a beastly mood."

"Thanks for the warning, Si. You were great tonight, y'know?"

"Was I?"

"You know you were." Doyle dredged up a cocky smile. "I think Derek's waiting for you."

Simon's smile beamed through his heavy make-up. "Ever since we interrupted you and Bodie--well, I've seen that gleam before."

"And it's good for keeping the legs limber," Doyle reminded him, suffering a pang under his heart as he wondered where Bodie would sleep this night. After all, Bodie had only said he would wait for Doyle to make up his mind--which Doyle had taken to mean Bodie would not force his attentions on him before he was ready. Undoubtedly, however, there were others who would count Bodie's amorous regard most welcome.

---

In the event, Doyle spent the remainder of the evening dining and drinking alone. At midnight, well in his cups and at the very nadir of the day's roller-coaster ride, he sought distraction by putting Basil through her paces. The dog responded willingly, her eyes swift to anticipate Doyle's every move. But she performed too well, racing through her limited repertoire before Doyle was quite ready to be done.

Intent on fending off the night, and despite the late hour and his abysmal state of mind, he remembered that he had yet to try out what Hannah had called the "rope trick." After using a curtain tie-back to loosely bind his wrists together--a feat not easily accomplished, even with the use of facile teeth--Doyle sat with arms extended in front of him and valiantly attempted to raise his left eyebrow--which at first seemed less than inclined to cooperate. Oddly, however, his somewhat impaired motor functions soon supplied a flexibility of movement usually lacking--although by then, Basil had already comprehended what he wanted of her.

She tore into