Sunlight warmed my shoulders as I traipsed into the city, passing storefronts and street vendors on every block. From habit and curiosity, I extended my senses, searching for a raincloud or distant storm, but I might as well have been trying to smell a rose growing as far away as Inselgrau. My spirits improved when I reached the city’s outer perimeter and found Adaleiz grazing in a small paddock next to her stable. Much of the income Gideon, Marlis, and I earned had gone not only to paying our rent, but to covering the cost of boarding Adaleiz and Wallah, Gideon’s stallion. The horses lived in far better conditions than we had, but Gideon and I would’ve spent our last penny on our horses—we had that much in common, at least.
Adaleiz and Wallah strolled to the fence when they spotted me, and I fed them sugar cubes pilfered from the breakfast table. Their velvety lips nuzzled my palms, searching for more. They snuffled me, their warm breath tickling the sensitive skin around my neck. I stroked their soft ears and noses and inhaled their pleasant, horsey odor. The apartment in Tereza’s castle was lavish, but I might have been more comfortable sleeping in a pile of hay in the stables. The horses cared nothing about what I wore, how I behaved, where I came from, or who my ancestors were. They cared nothing for kingdoms or power, and I envied the simplicity of their lives.
“Dobré ranó, slečna.” Good morning, miss, said the groom, who stood in the stable’s doorway holding a lead line and a harness. He asked me something else—probably an inquiry about the reason for my visit. I pointed to Adaleiz and smiled. He chuckled and climbed over the paddock fence, toting a harness and line.
Working together, we quickly saddled Adaleiz, and I trotted out on the eastbound road. Gideon had not yet appeared, and I considered waiting for him, but Wallah ran as though he had wings instead of hooves. I’d left him an obvious trail. If he wants to find me, he will.
Adaleiz and I left Prigha in our dust, heading east over a gently rolling road surrounded on either side by fields sprouting new shoots of grain. I closed my eyes and focused my other senses: touch, smell, sound. The clamor of the city and its oily industrial stench faded as the winds whipped around my face and neck. Adaleiz pounded the dirt, setting a rhythm that echoed in my heartbeat. Never did I feel more like myself than on horseback.
A temptation arose inside me, urging me to run and never look back, never stop, but Adaleiz abruptly slowed, and I rocked forward, unprepared for the shift in her gait. Adjusting my balance, I studied the road ahead, searching for the source of her restlessness. In the distance, the outline of a wagon train huddled in a circle near the roadside. Beyond the wagons, a conical pyramid of red and white fabric undulated in the breeze. The wind carried faint odors of salt, butter, and popcorn. The circus!
Adaleiz and I reached the ring of wagons painted in crimson, indigo, saffron, and emerald, all with arching roofs trimmed in metallic accents. The words Le Cirque de Merveilles Mécanique, printed in brash gold lettering, emblazoned the side of the largest wagon, a lumbering beast of deep, cobalt blue. A pair of brass pipes, twice the thickness of my arm, extended from beneath the wagon and jutted up the exterior rear corners, each ending a foot or so above the roof. Where I expected a driver’s buck seat and riggings for attaching a cart-horse, I found only a bit of unrecognizable mechanical equipment.
I led Adaleiz around the wagon circle and wound her reins through the spokes of one wagon painted with a mural of a dark-skinned lady in short, striped skirts and top hat. She was tiptoeing along a rope stretched between two poles. I stroked Adaleiz’s nose and ordered her to stay put. Threading my way through the maze of tents and booths, I searched for signs of life, but encountered no one, no performers, no animals, not even a groundskeeper to collect the bits of discarded rubbish swirling in the breeze. I paused before the entrance of the biggest tent, closed my eyes, and listened.
Somewhere nearby, a bird squawked, and something answered in a high-pitched, chittering voice. Opening my eyes, I followed the sounds, but before I could discover the source of the animal noises, a young man threw himself into my path. He flapped his arms as though he were waving back a herd of stampeding sheep.
I stumbled back and swallowed a yelp. The stranger drew himself up straight. A gleam of humor shone in the set of his lips and in the faint dimple in his cheek. A white cap sat at an angle atop his dark hair, giving him a rakish charm. He stepped back and bowed. “Omlouvám se,” he said in Bonhemmish. I’m sorry—another phrase I knew, although his tone gave his apology an insincere, teasing quality.
Wearing jodhpurs, tall boots, and suspenders over his sweat-stained shirt, he looked like a laborer. Perhaps he was the missing groundskeeper I’d been wondering about. The stranger rattled off something else, but his vocabulary surpassed my comprehension. He must have read the confusion on my face because he fell silent and stared at me, dark eyes narrowed, lips pressed in a thin line. “Parlez-vous Gallcois?” he asked.
Because of my brief tenure in Pecia, I understood the gist of his question. “No. I don’t speak Gallandic. Inselgrish, or Dreutchish. That’s all, I’m afraid.”
His eyebrows arched. “Dreutchish?”
“Ja. Ich heisse Evie.” My name is Evie. I dropped into a quick curtsy.
He responded in kind. “Ich heisse Falak Savin.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, still speaking Dreutchish, “even if you did give me a scare.”
“I was trying to apologize for alarming you.” He spoke in an utterly unfamiliar accent, but based on his dark looks and his name, I guessed he originated from somewhere much farther south and east than Bonhemm. “But it’s not safe to be here when the circus is closed. Our first show is later this afternoon.”
I cocked my head like a curious dog. “Not safe?”
He indicated the circus grounds with a broad wave of his gloved hand. “Sometimes the animals get loose. Sometimes we rearrange things. We may need to move a wagon or any number of duties required to keep this place going. If you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, when no one expected you, you might be trampled, or pinched, or struck. You see?”
I nodded, blushing at my thoughtlessness. “Curiosity got the best of my common sense, I guess.”
Falak shook his head, nearly upsetting his cap. “It’s no concern. Come, I’ll take you on a tour, show you everything as my guest. This way, you’ll be safe.”
“No, no....” I stepped toward the wagons where Adaleiz was waiting for me. “I should let you get back to work.”
He huffed. “The work won’t go anywhere. Come. Let me take you.”
“That’s very generous. Are you sure?”
“I don’t get many opportunities to spend time with people beyond this little troupe. It’s a rare treat to talk to someone like you, Evie. Believe me.” The way his eyes sparkled suggested he meant something more when he called our conversation a rare treat. I raised my guard. Perhaps Falak had only offered a harmless compliment, but I’d learned never to assume.
He led me into the main tent first, past several rows of wooden benches. The space smelled of sawdust, smoke, and fresh paint. Three circular railings set in the floor marked the sections reserved for performances. Falak pointed up, and I gazed at the spired ceiling. A cluster of ropes and platforms loomed over us.
“The trapeze?” I asked.
He nodded. “And the tightrope.”
“I saw the mural on a wagon outside—a lady in short skirts and a top hat.”
“Ah, Melisandre.”
At the thought of stepping out on nothing but a thin line of rope, my stomach rose into my throat. “Has she ever fallen?”
He shook his head. “Never. She has wings on her feet, I think.”
“And the aerialists on the trapeze? Do they have wings as well?”
Falak waved me on, motioning toward an open flap in the rear of the tent. “No, not wings, just very hard heads. Come, you’ll meet them.”
Behind the tent, someone had arranged an impromptu dining area of folding tables and chairs. Brightly colored fabrics had been stretched between poles overhead, and sunlight cast colorful blotches of light upon the group gathered beneath. “The Flying Bianchis.” Falak gestured at the people who had paused their conversations long enough to consider me and my host. Women, men, and even a small girl and boy stared at me as though I’d grown a tail and feathers.
A thin, baldheaded man with a handlebar mustache barked a sharp laugh, elbowed the smaller man beside him, and said something in yet another language I didn’t know. A petite woman standing beside him swatted his shoulder, and her tone, when she spoke, indicated criticism. I glanced at Falak, hoping he might translate, but he only glared at the bald man. A deep red flush stained his ears.
Maybe I don’t want to know what he said, after all.
“That’s Giorgio,” he said, his tone bitter. “It’s good he speaks only one language. Most of the things he says aren’t fit for a lady’s ears.”
I sniffed. “Don’t worry about me and my ears. We’ve survived worse things than a little tasteless humor.”
Falak arched an eyebrow but did not question me. Instead, he switched between languages—Vinitzian, if I had to guess—and introduced me to the rest of the Bianchis, including several ladies whom Falak referred to as tissu danseuses—aerialists who performed amazing dances while suspended from long strips of silk. Finally, he brought me around the edge of the troupe and bowed before the family’s matriarch, Camilla, a wizened old woman whom, he said, oversaw production of the circus’s costumes.
