deep into Lacey’s eyes, hatred etched on her face.
Reporters moved in close, filming, curious at the sight of the intense exchange. Paramedics turned their heads, raising their hands to tell us to let Aisha rest, to tell the reporters to move off. It almost seemed as though Aisha, Lacey and I were in a space all of our own—a toxic, locked space.
In the foreground, helicopters dipped and landed.
Lacey’s eyes closed. Her limbs froze.
The ground rumbled around her.
Reporters and police stared about them in alarm.
A shrieking wind blew out from the underground. Beneath our feet, a loud cracking sounded. Paramedics sprinted, rushing Aisha and me away and into the waiting helicopters. I jerked my head around, looking for mom. I caught sight of her, head held down by a police officer as he ran with her to my helicopter. She climbed the steps and sat beside me, her eyes large and terrified.
The helicopter lifted.
People scattered—fleeing for the forest as the front of the Fiveash house crashed to the ground. The room with the dollhouse sat exposed to the night. In the dollhouse, a tiny window lit—yellow against the darkness.
The house fell in on itself, bricks tumbling and flying out.
The walls of the old shed shot into the air like a pack of playing cards.
The earth began crumbling away.
Lacey stood, immobile, her eyes still shut. As if she could not hear the melee around her.
Or knew it wouldn’t harm her.
Detective Kalassi charged headlong for Lacey, tackling her into his arms as he ran.
The house and shed disappeared into the shifting earth—trees pulled down along with them.
I gazed down into a vast hole as the helicopter battled to stay upright in the wind.
Everything was gone.
At the ragged edges of the hole, an immense shadow slithered out onto the ground. It moved like blood—thick, filmy.
The helicopter dipped for a moment, then rose into the clear sky, the whirr of the blades cutting across my mind.
JESSAMINE
1920
9. SPARROW
People say they want to run away to the circus. I want to run away
from
the circus.
My name is Sparrow. My name is your-entertainment-for-the-night. My name is never Jessamine, except for brief snatches between shows and rehearsals.
The briny reek of the docks saturates the air as the men hammer in the pegs of the big top. The people of New Orleans gather in the darkness beyond the circus lights—undertones of speculation in their voices, always wanting us to give them more. More thrills, more excitement, more danger.
At age fourteen, I’m the youngest and smallest trapeze artist our circus has ever had. I suspect the crowds would pay to see five-year-olds on the trapeze if we had them performing for us. The dangers we face are not real to them. We’re mere performers—circus animals.
I slam the door of my trailer, shutting them out. It would kill grandfather if I ran away. He says I'm all he has left. His only child—my father—was killed on the Wheel of Death four years ago in St Louis. At the exact moment that
Mister Magnifico the Knife Thrower
threw his blade at the Wheel of Death, Mister Magnifico suffered an aneurysm. My father, strapped to the spinning wheel, witnessed the knife hurtling towards him but could do nothing to avoid it. The blade struck him in the right lung.
High above the wheel, my mother—the graceful
Lady Lark
in her highwire act—screamed at the sight of blood streaking from my father's chest. She fell like a bird with a broken wing. The net saved her, but just barely. She was never any good after that, not as a high wire act nor a mother. Not that she'd ever been much of a mother to me except in name.
10. THE FORTUNE TELLER
I unpack from my suitcase everything I own. It isn't much. I have six trinket boxes, three dolls, seven dresses and a dozen performance outfits. Circus people must travel light, and I’ve been
circus people
all my life.
My trinket boxes are filled with things from every state of America and countries
Reporters moved in close, filming, curious at the sight of the intense exchange. Paramedics turned their heads, raising their hands to tell us to let Aisha rest, to tell the reporters to move off. It almost seemed as though Aisha, Lacey and I were in a space all of our own—a toxic, locked space.
In the foreground, helicopters dipped and landed.
Lacey’s eyes closed. Her limbs froze.
The ground rumbled around her.
Reporters and police stared about them in alarm.
A shrieking wind blew out from the underground. Beneath our feet, a loud cracking sounded. Paramedics sprinted, rushing Aisha and me away and into the waiting helicopters. I jerked my head around, looking for mom. I caught sight of her, head held down by a police officer as he ran with her to my helicopter. She climbed the steps and sat beside me, her eyes large and terrified.
The helicopter lifted.
People scattered—fleeing for the forest as the front of the Fiveash house crashed to the ground. The room with the dollhouse sat exposed to the night. In the dollhouse, a tiny window lit—yellow against the darkness.
The house fell in on itself, bricks tumbling and flying out.
The walls of the old shed shot into the air like a pack of playing cards.
The earth began crumbling away.
Lacey stood, immobile, her eyes still shut. As if she could not hear the melee around her.
Or knew it wouldn’t harm her.
Detective Kalassi charged headlong for Lacey, tackling her into his arms as he ran.
The house and shed disappeared into the shifting earth—trees pulled down along with them.
I gazed down into a vast hole as the helicopter battled to stay upright in the wind.
Everything was gone.
At the ragged edges of the hole, an immense shadow slithered out onto the ground. It moved like blood—thick, filmy.
The helicopter dipped for a moment, then rose into the clear sky, the whirr of the blades cutting across my mind.
JESSAMINE
1920
9. SPARROW
People say they want to run away to the circus. I want to run away
from
the circus.
My name is Sparrow. My name is your-entertainment-for-the-night. My name is never Jessamine, except for brief snatches between shows and rehearsals.
The briny reek of the docks saturates the air as the men hammer in the pegs of the big top. The people of New Orleans gather in the darkness beyond the circus lights—undertones of speculation in their voices, always wanting us to give them more. More thrills, more excitement, more danger.
At age fourteen, I’m the youngest and smallest trapeze artist our circus has ever had. I suspect the crowds would pay to see five-year-olds on the trapeze if we had them performing for us. The dangers we face are not real to them. We’re mere performers—circus animals.
I slam the door of my trailer, shutting them out. It would kill grandfather if I ran away. He says I'm all he has left. His only child—my father—was killed on the Wheel of Death four years ago in St Louis. At the exact moment that
Mister Magnifico the Knife Thrower
threw his blade at the Wheel of Death, Mister Magnifico suffered an aneurysm. My father, strapped to the spinning wheel, witnessed the knife hurtling towards him but could do nothing to avoid it. The blade struck him in the right lung.
High above the wheel, my mother—the graceful
Lady Lark
in her highwire act—screamed at the sight of blood streaking from my father's chest. She fell like a bird with a broken wing. The net saved her, but just barely. She was never any good after that, not as a high wire act nor a mother. Not that she'd ever been much of a mother to me except in name.
10. THE FORTUNE TELLER
I unpack from my suitcase everything I own. It isn't much. I have six trinket boxes, three dolls, seven dresses and a dozen performance outfits. Circus people must travel light, and I’ve been
circus people
all my life.
My trinket boxes are filled with things from every state of America and countries
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