The Immortal Circus: Act Two Read Online Free PDF

least she’s not in the dark
about that too. But it doesn’t matter: I want to hold her and apologize
because my very existence within the troupe is killing her.
    Every time
Kingston asks how she’s feeling, when he wouldn’t ask anyone else because
everyone else is contractually obligated to be healthy, well … it’s a reminder
of just how unfair magic really can be.
    I glance
over to a flash of movement. A girl in sparkling violet spandex is running across
the lawn, her curly brown hair bouncing with every step.
    “Hey,
babe!” the girl calls out the moment she nears us. And then she wraps Mel in a
hug and they’re kissing like Kingston and I aren’t even there.
    He looks at
me and raises an eyebrow, and I’m reminded of the day Melody warned me away
from dating within the troupe. I’ve yet to bring it up because that was the day
she was kidnapped by the Summer Court, and I don’t know if she remembers any of
it. I tread lightly on potential minefields of memory. But I still find the
irony of her dating advice incredibly amusing.
    “Hey guys,”
Sara says, once she’s extricated herself from Melody’s arms. She smiles, and it
makes dimples appear on her artistically accentuated cheekbones. The fuchsia
makeup almost covers the scar by her left eye. “The new act was awesome,
Kingston.”
    He bows.
There’s applause within the tent. Time for the final bow, which, of course, I’m
still not really a part of. In fact, I should be getting out to my booth in
case someone wants their fortune read before heading back to monotony. One last
glimpse of the beautifully impossible before the real world claims them.
    Before they
go, Kingston wraps me in a quick hug. Then the three of them head toward the
backstage curtain, where the rest of the troupe is lined up and ready. I turn
to go to the front promenade. As I walk past them, Sara waves just before
ducking into the tent.
    Memory
burns, and my chest constricts.
    Something
about her is so fucking familiar. But then she ducks under the curtain,
and I’m left with nothing. I shrug deeper into my shawl and head for my booth.
*
    As expected, the crowd leaves
the tent and barely gives me a second glance.
    My booth is
more a small tent than anything else. The exterior is fairly nondescript, but
inside, everything is lush velour and dangling beads. The entry curtain is made
of amethyst and quartz—“genuine,”Mab admitted, when showing me my new
digs, “to enhance your skills” — and the light comes from a few dozen
electric candles flickering from standing sconces and hanging from the steepled
ceiling. I can just barely see the punters walk past outside; a few stop and
peer in. One child brushes past the curtain, stops in the center of the room,
and stares up at me, before her parents duck in to pull her out. I smile and
wait.
    Psychics
don’t seek out clients. They wait for clients to come to them. Then, as Mab
suggested, I say something like “I was hoping I’d see you” and give them a
mysterious smile. Mab gave me many pointers on how to be a winning psychic. Most
of them were just for show; the rest of it, the actual fortune-telling bit,
came naturally.
    A little too
naturally.
    As usual, I
just lean back in my chair and stare out across my crushed-velvet table and
shuffle a pack of faded Tarot cards. It’s really getting to me, the fact that
no one seems to remember or be bothered by Mab’s effigy anymore. It’s been this
way ever since people started showing up dead at the beginning of the summer
tour: Mab sweeps everything under the rug, and we’re left waiting and wondering
who’s going to be the next to go. At least those of us who are allowed to
remember.
    I glance
down at the cards in my hands.
    I’ve tried
doing readings for myself and gotten nothing but a jumble. But maybe, because
this reading is about the show …
    I shuffle
with intent now. The cards whir in my fingers, and a small part of me thinks
that this is stupid; I shouldn’t be