“You must be Z’arta,” I said in Dreutchish, wondering if she understood. “I’m Evie.” She pressed her lips together and squinted as though she didn’t know what to make of me. “Falak said you had mending for me.”
Her expression eased into something less doubtful, but not much friendlier. As soon as I set down our lunch tray on the work table, Z’arta shoved her bundle toward me and rattled off terse instructions in a language I couldn’t begin to place. She snatched a pincushion from the worktable and balanced it atop the pile of fabric spilling from my arms. Several needles of various sizes prickled like porcupine quills from the pincushion. I tried not to blanch, imagining the hours of work in store for me.
Z’arta reached for a small wooden box on the worktable, popped open the lid, and revealed a collection of spools wound with threads in a rainbow of assorted colors. I nodded, showing her I understood. She harrumphed, turned on her heel, and snatched her lunch tray. She marched outside, leaving me in solitude while I ate my lunch and started a long afternoon of mending.
That evening, after the circus train rumbled to a halt, I climbed the steps down from the costumes wagon and discovered the caravan had circled around itself like a pill bug curling up to protect its vulnerable interior. In an open meadow alongside a worn and rutted road, the wagons had formed a concentric ring, protecting those who were most vulnerable.
Like ants from a disturbed mound, workers and performers poured into the small clearing at the center of the caravan ring. Under the darkening sky, they brought out seating, lanterns, and torches. Some queued at the window built into the side of Gepennio’s cook wagon. Others milled around the clearing, stretching their legs, greeting one another, conversing in a cacophony of languages, none of which sounded like Inselgrish. I recognized Camilla sitting like a queen upon a cushioned stool. Her acrobatic family surrounded her, fussing over her comfort. The little boy and girl I’d seen during my first visit to the circus chased each other in circles but never strayed far from their family group.
After taking my place at the end of the supper line, I slumped against Gepennio’s wagon and closed my eyes. The strain of squinting at small stitches had often given me headaches, and today was no exception.
“Langen tag, Evie?” Long day, Evie?
I spun to face Falak, who tried but failed to stifle his amusement at having surprised me. “The work is painfully familiar,” I said, “but the surroundings are a little uncommon.”
Over his shoulder, I watched several small children darting around the periphery of the clearing. The circus welcomed families, it seemed—possibly even encouraged the passing down of traditions and skills from parent to offspring, ensuring a renewable supply of well-trained performers. Standing alone at the edge of the group, a solitary woman with a forlorn smile watched the children play. She wore a long draping dress and a dark headscarf, and she stroked a large brass snake slithering around her arm and neck.
Falak must have seen the astonishment on my face. “Bashaya,” he said. “She’s a snake charmer.”
“But....” The dinner line shifted and we moved forward several steps. “It’s not real, is it? It’s mechanized like the animals in the menagerie.”
His lips twitched. “Perhaps you should ask her. If you’re nice, she might even let you pet him.”
“Him?”
“She calls him Ajej.”
The line shifted again. I shook myself and moved forward, close enough now to catch a whiff of Gepennio’s soup and the fresh baked rolls he’d set to rising before I left his wagon earlier in the day. Falak and I suffered a moment of awkward silence before taking our turns at the window, both receiving a small tray laden with a soup bowl, a huge fluffy roll, and a steaming mug of something that smelled of nutmeg and cinnamon. Compared to the fare I’d eaten when I was on the road with Gideon and Marlis, Le Cirque de Merveilles Mécanique fed its people like royalty.
“Sit with me?” Falak headed for the circle where everyone else had gathered. I followed him into the thickening crowd. Instead of taking one of the available seats, he crossed his feet and sank to the ground, balancing the tray in his lap. I eased down beside him, careful not to spill a drop. Inhaling, I savored the odors from the soup—an unfamiliar earthy aroma—and the tea, the meadow grasses, the evening breeze, and my companion who smelled of oil, coal soot, and something caustic like the polish the housekeeper at Fallstaff had used on the silver.
“The fact that you’re still here, and not halfway back to Prigha, says something about how you’re settling in, I think.” Falak raised his mug and sipped.
“I’ve been too busy to run away.”
He tore a hunk from his roll and dunked it in his bowl. “Maybe you don’t fully understand the concept of running away.”
He couldn’t know how wrong he was, that I was the grand champion of running away. Changing the subject, I clutched my mug and inspected its pale, milky contents. “What’s this?”
“You are not familiar with tea?”
“I know tea.” I frowned at my mug. “This isn’t tea.”
“Not Inselgrish tea, that’s for certain.” I shot him a sharp look, and he snorted. “It’s called ket, a staple from my home country. Gepennio makes it sometimes, when he’s feeling sentimental.”
I arched an eyebrow, demonstrating my skepticism of the cook’s capacity for sentimentality. “You and Gepennio come from the same country?”
Falak exchanged his mug for his bowl and swirled his spoon through the contents, stirring up meat and vegetable, most of which I recognized, even if the seasonings were foreign. He shook his head. “No. But his history is deeply entwined with mine, and my family’s.”
I waited for him to expound, but instead he sipped his soup. Undaunted by his sudden reticence, I pressed on. “So, where’s home?”
He waved, motioning to the entire wagon train. “Here. Le Cirque has always been my home.” Something in his tone indicated he’d said all he was willing to say on the subject, and we finished our meal in silence.
Chapter 12
Someone brought out a fiddle. Next came a fife and a pair of bodrum drums. The music reminded me of Niffin’s little band, and my heart cramped with longing for Malita. Certainly, I wanted to find the Fantazikes for the hope that they could help me restore my powers, but reuniting with my friend was another great motivation. If the Tippanys still have her. If they haven’t already found a way to send her back to Agridan.
Falak collected my dirty dishes and added them to his tray.
“Will I have to wash those as well?” I asked as he started for Gepennio’s wagon.
“Someone else has that duty tonight, but you may rely on there being plenty for you to do in the morning.” He winked, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the crowd.
I groaned, fell against the grass, and studied the stars. A flock of wispy clouds shrouded the half-full moon. The Aeolus constellation winked at me from a slightly higher position than he had when I’d stared at him from the pirate’s wagon on my way to San Marena. What must my ancestors think of me, now?
A high-pitched tenor joined the band, singing in a foreign tongue. Although the meaning of the words eluded me, the tone sounded playful and animated. I sat up, fingers drumming on my knee in time with the beat, and I watched as individuals, especially the children, peeled away from the crowd and joined in the center of the wagon circle to dance. Linking hands, they stepped in a series of precise formations, sometimes stepping in close, sometimes spreading farther out. They let go and twirled around in pairs before coming together again as a group. More dancers joined until only a few outliers and I remained, observing, clapping, whistling and cheering.
I caught a glimpse of a dark-skinned young woman on Falak’s arm, her black curls swirling around her head like an ebony crown glowing in the torch and lantern lights. She stared up at him, grinning, admiration showing clearly on her face. I studied her closer, her features tickling something in my memory. A thought clicked into place, and I leaned back, peering at the mural on the wagon beside me. The figure balancing atop the tightrope closely resembled Falak’s dance partner. I examined the real-life girl again, picturing her in tights and striped skirts.
Melisandre, I presume. She looked like a doll, twirling in Falak’s embrace. I snorted and rose to my feet. No one would ever make that analogy of me. While Melisandre was obviously built for poise and balance, I was constructed from sturdier stock—made for controlling storms and wielding lightning. If I was jealous of her, it was only because she had a place, a home, and a purpose, and not because of the handsome young man dancing at her side. I had my own handsome young man...or, I did have one. I wouldn’t blame Gideon if he hated me for abandoning him, but I’d leave him a thousand times over if it kept him safe and alive.
Thoughts of Gideon chased away my good mood. I left the festivities, seeking solitude in which to brood. Winding my way through the wagons, I breached the exterior ring, and the music faded to a soft hum. In the distance, the humpback outline of a foreign mountain range rose like a great black wall, and I wondered if we would have to cross over them before reaching our next destination. A stiff breeze swept past, tossing loose strands of my hair about. The meadow grasses swayed, rustling against my shins. I closed my eyes and savored the fresh air, stillness, and quiet.
But a girl’s terrified shriek rose and shattered the night.
I spun around, eyes wide, searching for the source of the scream. Several yards away to my right, a massive shadow traced in moonlight roared and sprang forward. The girl screamed again. She stumbled, lost her balance, and fell to her rear. Reflexively, I reached for lightning, ready to illuminate the sky or attack if necessary. Instead, I found only the sensation of stepping off a cliff and falling into nothingness.
The beast lunged, trapping the girl between his forelegs. I raced toward the fight without a clue of what to do, but the urge to help, to try something, anything, compelled me. The beast’s oil and hot metal scent saturated the air as he raised a paw, starlight flickering on brass claws, and his victim shrieked as she scrambled to escape him. He slashed, batting her to the ground.
The beast—a lion?—roared again, and his victim rolled over, covering her head with her arms as he lunged down.
“No, Sher-sah!” Falak burst from the shadows before I’d reached the fight, and he threw himself at the lion as it attacked. Something squealed like rending metal, and I cried out, horrified at having witnessed Falak’s certain mauling. The ringmaster groaned and fell to his knees as the lion released him and froze, as still as a statue. My heart battered against my ribs as I scrambled to his side.
“Falak?” I grabbed his shoulder and peered in his face, although the pale moonlight had draped him in thick shadows.
He released a deep breath. “I’m okay.”
“But that thing nearly tore off your arm!”
He chuckled, but it ended in a groan. “I have one to spare, don’t worry.”
“What?” I began, but Falak turned to the lion.
“Back off, Sher-sah,” he said. The creature’s giant shadow shifted and backed away with preternatural grace and a subtle clicking of gears. The figure at the lion’s feet whimpered, but rolled to her knees and scrambled away from us. Although the darkness concealed her face, something about her seemed familiar.
Falak swayed. I steadied him as he rose to his feet. “I’m okay, Evie. It’s not as bad as you think.”
A small crowd had arrived bearing lanterns, and the light revealed the truth. His shirtsleeve had been torn away, exposing the gleam of brass that was a bit crumpled and mangled, but still recognizably shaped like a young man’s arm.
