surrounded by tall hedges, the rows of vendor stalls for market events, the ornate façade of buildings that hosted various festivities—but none drew me, and repelled me, so strongly as that of the circus tent lit like a crimson jewel.
I tucked my fog-prevention goggles into a pouch designed to secure them, glowering at the tent as if it could somehow sense my distaste. I didn’t need to be inside to know what it would feel like. Cramped, trapped between an eager audience and the thin canvas of the tent above, the heat pulsating like a living heart. Fear squeezing my throat, my lungs constricting even as that first step over nothing is taken. . .
Even if I could not recall everything about my time in Monsieur Marceaux’s . . . let’s call it employment, I do nevertheless remember what it was like to stand before a crowd and wonder if the next step taken would be my last.
The skills I learned there, I would not perform.
I turned away from the tent’s meandering path, shaking my head hard. The cold air bit at my cheeks, and as I ran my gloved hand over my brow, I realized I’d broken into a sweat.
How close I stood to the crevasse of my past. And yet, I still came. Why?
Certainly not for Hawke.
And not a lie, that one. As the serpent of this earthly Garden of Eden, Micajah Hawke would be inside that tent, smoothly directing the crowd as all ringmasters must. I had no desire to talk to him; a decision with multiple motives. The less I saw of him, the less I would be reminded of my untenable position. And the less opportunity he’d have to remember that though he calls me Miss Black, my hair is red. He should know. He’d seen rather more of me than any other stranger.
I snapped out a word that would have had Fanny turning faint and strode instead for another batch of structures placed deep in the heart of the grounds.
I needed the sweets.
The women of the Menagerie were well cared for. Cleanly, healthy, pampered to a degree. The footmen protected them, and many were slightly more educated than the whores found by the docks.
The payment of such came in flesh—their own. Whether under a man or with a woman, whether by skin or conversation, each sweet fulfilled a role within the gardens that ensured money would continue to be spent. Lures and bait, temptation and more.
I’d bargained with the anonymous Veil to keep myself out of the sweet tents, yet I knew many of the women within and liked most. They tolerated me, even held me up as a type of mascot among them. A woman collector, how exciting.
I strode the path, wiping at my forehead and cheeks as if it would help. I imagined I’d smeared lampblack once more, but it didn’t bother me overmuch. Being dirty only dissuaded others from looking too close. I didn’t expect anyone to place the black-haired collector in red-haired Cherry St. Croix’s delicate kid slippers, but care still came easy.
I’d had my fill of unfortunate coincidence. Especially since the rival collector knew where I made my home. He’d said as much, even called me by name.
Zylphia, this collector, Fanny; the list of them what knew my double lives was already too long for my taste.
“Let me go!”
The cry pierced through the lantern light, shrill and more angry than frightened. Feminine, no mistaking. Without stopping to consider, I darted off the path and into the dark, a roundabout route to my destination.
A crack of sound, a sharp cry, and I heard masculine laughter. “Keep ’old, boys,” came the raspy, soot-stained voice of a man who’d spent his life at sea rather than study. Not a lordling, then, out for a tussle.
My fingers flexed as I crept closer, skimming a line of hedgerows. To my right, the path remained a golden trail—too obvious an entry point. To my left, buried amid the foliage, I heard the trickle of fountains, or perhaps something more decorative. A pond, a waterfall. I couldn’t recall.
“You leave her be!” Another woman, this one husky, as if
I tucked my fog-prevention goggles into a pouch designed to secure them, glowering at the tent as if it could somehow sense my distaste. I didn’t need to be inside to know what it would feel like. Cramped, trapped between an eager audience and the thin canvas of the tent above, the heat pulsating like a living heart. Fear squeezing my throat, my lungs constricting even as that first step over nothing is taken. . .
Even if I could not recall everything about my time in Monsieur Marceaux’s . . . let’s call it employment, I do nevertheless remember what it was like to stand before a crowd and wonder if the next step taken would be my last.
The skills I learned there, I would not perform.
I turned away from the tent’s meandering path, shaking my head hard. The cold air bit at my cheeks, and as I ran my gloved hand over my brow, I realized I’d broken into a sweat.
How close I stood to the crevasse of my past. And yet, I still came. Why?
Certainly not for Hawke.
And not a lie, that one. As the serpent of this earthly Garden of Eden, Micajah Hawke would be inside that tent, smoothly directing the crowd as all ringmasters must. I had no desire to talk to him; a decision with multiple motives. The less I saw of him, the less I would be reminded of my untenable position. And the less opportunity he’d have to remember that though he calls me Miss Black, my hair is red. He should know. He’d seen rather more of me than any other stranger.
I snapped out a word that would have had Fanny turning faint and strode instead for another batch of structures placed deep in the heart of the grounds.
I needed the sweets.
The women of the Menagerie were well cared for. Cleanly, healthy, pampered to a degree. The footmen protected them, and many were slightly more educated than the whores found by the docks.
The payment of such came in flesh—their own. Whether under a man or with a woman, whether by skin or conversation, each sweet fulfilled a role within the gardens that ensured money would continue to be spent. Lures and bait, temptation and more.
I’d bargained with the anonymous Veil to keep myself out of the sweet tents, yet I knew many of the women within and liked most. They tolerated me, even held me up as a type of mascot among them. A woman collector, how exciting.
I strode the path, wiping at my forehead and cheeks as if it would help. I imagined I’d smeared lampblack once more, but it didn’t bother me overmuch. Being dirty only dissuaded others from looking too close. I didn’t expect anyone to place the black-haired collector in red-haired Cherry St. Croix’s delicate kid slippers, but care still came easy.
I’d had my fill of unfortunate coincidence. Especially since the rival collector knew where I made my home. He’d said as much, even called me by name.
Zylphia, this collector, Fanny; the list of them what knew my double lives was already too long for my taste.
“Let me go!”
The cry pierced through the lantern light, shrill and more angry than frightened. Feminine, no mistaking. Without stopping to consider, I darted off the path and into the dark, a roundabout route to my destination.
A crack of sound, a sharp cry, and I heard masculine laughter. “Keep ’old, boys,” came the raspy, soot-stained voice of a man who’d spent his life at sea rather than study. Not a lordling, then, out for a tussle.
My fingers flexed as I crept closer, skimming a line of hedgerows. To my right, the path remained a golden trail—too obvious an entry point. To my left, buried amid the foliage, I heard the trickle of fountains, or perhaps something more decorative. A pond, a waterfall. I couldn’t recall.
“You leave her be!” Another woman, this one husky, as if
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