The effect was dazzling, and for a moment the crowd seemed to vanish. Even my urgent worry about Sandra faded. The performers would dip a ladle into a bucket of the metal, then fling it up in a burning swirl. When the metal hit the wall, it splashed outward, exploding into thousands upon thousands of glittering sparks. These fell in waves, like molten rain.
It was like fireworks, but somehow more primal. No gunpowder or smoke. Just buckets, a steady hand, and perhaps an unhealthy disregard for one’s own safety.
“It’s called Da Shuhua,” Tobias said. “I’ve always wanted to see the performance in person. The story goes that hundreds of years ago, blacksmiths in Nanchuan, China, had no money for fireworks. So they came up with something else, using what they had on hand.”
The performers threw with frantic energy, ladle after ladle—as if they were trying to stay ahead of gravity and get all the fire into the air at once. The explosions of sparks created streaky patterns in the air, like tiny sprites flaring to life for a mayfly existence—one brilliant moment of life and glory, before succumbing to the cold.
“That can’t be safe,” Ngozi said.
“Wonder and irresponsibility are often bedfellows, Ngozi,” Tobias responded. I glanced at him, watching sparks reflect in his eyes. “The name Da Shuhua translates to something like ‘tree flowers’ and implies that you beat the tree and the flowers appear. You take something ordinary and make it extraordinary. All it takes is two thousand degrees.”
We watched until the performance reached an intermission. The crowd in the immediate vicinity started to disperse, seeking out food vendors or nearby carnival rides. I checked my phone, showing it to the others. Sandra’s coordinates indicated a spot ahead near the edge of the fairgrounds.
“We should be careful,” Ngozi said. “What would J.C. say?”
“Probably something vaguely racist and/or threatening,” Tobias noted.
“No, no, he’d say something like…” Ivy adopted a husky voice. “‘Guys, stop. Look very carefully. Do you see it? Do you see that? Is that … funnel cake?’”
Ngozi chuckled. But she was right, we should be careful. Fortunately, I’d prepared for this. I rounded the dusty fairgrounds, eventually positioning us a close—but safe—distance away from the coordinates. Judging by my phone’s map, our goal was a small path running near some trampled grass. That bench, I thought. I texted Barb, then settled down near some bushes where I could watch the bench without getting too close.
“Ngozi,” I said, unpacking some binoculars she could use. “Give that spot a look. Tell me what you see. Pretend it’s a crime scene.”
“What good is that going to do?” Ivy said. “She can’t just pretend there’s blood around.”
“Forensics isn’t just used to study homicides,” Ngozi said absently, reaching into my pack with her handkerchief, then taking out another pair of binoculars. “The various forensic disciplines are simply studies of the way that science interacts with the law, or applying science to the law.” She scanned the area. “I usually start with a question. What about the scene is odd, out of place…?”
I unpacked the camera, then tried to affix it to the tripod—and failed. Damn it.
“That’s because you lost Armando?” Jenny asked. “You can’t even work a tripod now that you no longer have your photo expert?”
I looked up sharply. Yes, there she was, the aspect with the notepad.
“How did you get here?” I demanded.
“Uber.”
Sure, she could work it out and not get lost. I sighed, then gave up on the tripod. I probably didn’t need it anyway.
“How are you going to use that?” Jenny asked, taking notes, narrowing her eyes. “Isn’t it the flash that’s the important part—the part that lets you take photos of the past? We’ve set up too far away for that to work.”
She was right, but it was also true that I was likely to drop the stupid thing if I tried to take a picture. Losing an aspect left me bizarrely incompetent, particularly right after they left. Eventually, the others could compensate a little.
I’d still never be the same. But again, I’d allowed for that. As Ngozi continued her investigation, I stood up, looking past Jenny—trying to ignore her—toward Barb, who was approaching.
“Wow,” she said, chauffeur’s cap tucked under her arm. “Did you see those spark things? That was awesome.”
“I need you to do something that might be dangerous,” I said.
“Sure!”
I tried not to let her naive enthusiasm put me off. I should be glad she wanted to help, not annoyed. It was just that she felt like the others. Regular people. Who treated what I did as some kind of carnival act.
“There’s a bench over there near that hot dog cart. See it?” I handed her the camera. “Leave your cap and jacket here—they’re too conspicuous. Go over there and pretend you’re taking pictures of the stage and the crowds, but get the bench in every shot.”
“Cool,” she said.
“Here’s the important part,” I said, holding up the camera and showing her the dial on the flash that would change the time of day—in the past—that she was taking pictures of. “Rotate this one tick each picture, all right? It’s very important.”
She rolled her eyes, which didn’t inspire confidence, then handed me her coachman’s cap and jacket. She wandered off inspecting the camera, which was more user friendly than it looked. Arnaud simply liked a retro aesthetic. Theoretically, the … um … thing with the … er … other things … wouldn’t need … to be twisted … or …
Well, I was reasonably certain it would take pictures just fine for someone who didn’t know picture taking.
“Clever,” Jenny said. “Using a real person to do what you cannot.”
“I am a real person.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, scribbling some notes in her pad. “Why do you always insist on doing so much alone? If you had a team of real assistants, not just the occasional chauffeur forced to pitch in, how much further could you go?”
Tobias settled down on a boulder to wait, while Ivy demanded that I show her my phone to see where J.C. was—the app tracked the car I’d sent for him. It was at a stoplight nearby, though it appeared to have been caught in the traffic surrounding the festival.
Another round of tree flowers started as Barb was taking her photos. Well, that would just give her some extra cover. Ngozi watched carefully to see if anyone reacted to Barb, and so I took a turn with the real pair of binoculars. Naturally, Ngozi could only notice something if I saw it.
I watched the sparks. They seemed more … violent to me this time. Angry. The flashes from Barb’s camera and its unique bulb seemed stark to me, flagrant.
I saw no sign of Sandra.
Barb strolled back and delivered the photos, which were starting to develop. “Great,” I said, distracted as I looked through them. “Go wait in the car. Keep that camera safe.”
“That’s it?” she said. “That’s all I get to do?”
“Other than wait in the car? Yes.”