Pepper the Clown's Story

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The small band of workers labored early morn to midday, setting up the grand big top tent and preparing for their night-time epic. It was an event that would last only a few hours, but one that would leave an impact for years to come. Spotlights roamed the clouds from evening to night, attracting patrons far and wide.

The residents of the Queen City of North Carolina, Charlotte, were totally unprepared for what they would witness that night.

Crowds hustled and bustled in the stands, gathering their popcorn, their peanuts, their refreshments, and holding fast to their anticipation. Then, at seven o'clock, the lights went dark. A lone man in the center of the room, with a top hat and crystalline cane, tapped the butt of his staff upon the dirt floor, sending sparking firecrackers flying out into the air, each one soaring high above the crowds before fizzling out into a crackling pop.

"Most esteemed ladies and gentlemen," declared the man, with a voice that boomed above the wondrous cries of the audience, "Tonight your eyes will play tricks on you." He overturned his staff, scraping its tip against the ground like a giant matchstick, and fire erupted from it as though it were a torch. It flickered like a candleflame, but glimmered with the brilliance of moonlight.

"You will see things you'll scarcely believe," he warned, "Europe's most dazzling circus, the finest talents taken from all over the world, such as to defy understanding, all gathered in one place - " A single glimmering firecracker shot into the air above them, bursting and sprinkling a shower of glittering embers down over the Ringmaster in the center. "For your bewilderment I present: the Impossible Cirque du Volés!"

There was a great explosion and flash of light. In an instant, the Ringmaster was now standing atop an enormous elephant, larger than life, grinning widely with a glint in his eyes as acrobats began dancing overhead between trapezes lit from below.

As they danced, so did the low murmurs of the audience drift to the air; imperceptibly, undistractedly, a bunch of varying sentiments expressing mixed degrees of amazement. The flying performers! The elephant! The light show! Far in the back, a short teenage girl could perceive it all... Or at least the sentiments, for she could scarcely see the performance past the sea of bodies.

"There's an elephant?" The girl asked, as she could not see past the sea of bodies. There was no seat for her, for she didn't have a ticket for the show. She was content nonetheless—she was going to settle for a seat outside of tent, out of sight entirely.

"Oh yeah there is! Look, Camille!" A boy many years her junior whispered, beckoning her to see. It was this friend of about three hours, Zachary, whose idea it was to sneak her in there. They may have been strangers who might have been forbidden from interacting before, but her desire to spend time with others at the circus happened to overlap with his—among few couple other—parents' desire for an impromptu supervisor.

Deciding to risk it to satisfy her overwhelming curiosity to find the source of that trumpeting noise, Camille slowly peered over and around the heads of those ahead of her—and the ordinarily jaded girl was awed by what she witnessed.

The trapeze artists dove to some unseen perch, no longer illuminated by spotlight, and from somewhere hidden away a band began to play cheerful, lighthearted music. Two clowns dressed in ostentatious oversized suspenders with bright white and red makeup to exaggerate their facial expressions marched towards the center, all the while bickering and jostling each other back and forth.

"Cirque du Volés, huh? Doesn't seem all that unbelievable to me," one of the clowns balked, placing his gloved fists at his hips and staggering like a drunkard. "This Ringmaster must be some kind of Charlottean."

The crowd instinctively began to boo, and a small team of other clowns began wheeling out a star-spangled cannon, one of them gleefully carrying a massive birthday cake in one hand. "Don't you mean 'charlatan'?" the other clown cried.

"What's the difference?" he declared, to great hissing and jeering from the audience. At that, the other clowns loaded the birthday cake into the cannon and fired, spraying batter and cream all over the instigator and whipping up the crowd into a wild cheer.

Camille didn't believe that a clown of all things could make her feel anything. They were just there to be showy and spout nonsense—and be kind of grating to listen to. And she figured she was a big enough girl to have outgrown such burlesque balderdash. Yet somehow, the dissenting clown had managed to make her giggle, and immediately won her over. It was funny because it was true!

These people truly were charlatans, praying on the vulnerable runaway teen at every turn. She spent all that time cleaning and hauling boxes at the General Store and barely saw a cent for her labor, with nobody sympathetic to her plight; a stranger who they called a beggar. To see these folk get called out on their bull, it got her to break out into a snorting fit... Although seeing the fool get disproportionate retribution in such an elaborate fashion, that was also pretty funny.

The show continued with more shenanigans, seamlessly mixing observational humor with raw slapstick comedy. Some time later, after the following acts wrapped up, a man in a mask fired glittering pixie dust blasts at the acrobats, appearing to enable them to fly in midair and soar above the audience without the aid of trapezes.

Eventually they came in for a landing in the center of the ring, where they formed a circle. Then, another explosive flash erupted from the middle of them, leaving nothing of them behind but their leotards, which drifted down to the ground...and the Ringmaster, who seemed to have teleported centerstage.

Above the applause, the man grinned and took a bow, then adjusted his top hat and held out his staff. The crowds went silent as he concluded the show.

"What you have seen is just the beginning. Our impossible circus is still incomplete. Could you be what we're missing?"

With its crystalline tip he wrote out letters in fire, T-Y-B-A-L-T. Then he swept the cane through them, dispersing the flames. "My name is Tybalt LeGrand. We hope you've enjoyed your stay..." he announced, before tapping his cane twice against the ground, triggering a ring of fire ten feet high. When it dissipated, the entire rest of the circus crew - including the elephant! - had all inexplicably appeared in order to take their bow. "...with the Cirque du Volés!"

Seeing people applaud all around her, Camille nodded and joined in. She had been absolutely entranced, almost forgetting where she was for a time. But, alas, the show was over, and she had to re-emerge from the tent to the world beyond. Unconsciously, she made to slip out on her own, following the crowd, when Zachary caught up with her.

"Hey Camille, didja like that show or what?" Zachary interrogated expectantly. Camille mouthed an agreement, nodding, somewhat tuned out as she listened to the conversations around her. The boy seemed pleased with the response despite the lack of enthusiasm, telling her, "Yeah, I betch'ya you're real glad I helped you get in, huh? I think that deserves a kiss, don't you think?" He gave a mischievous smirk as Camille snapped back to attention, balking at the boy's cheeky request.

'This again?' She thought to herself, as it hadn't been the first time the kid had asked, to which she had turned him down. Perhaps it was innocent enough for her to have waved it off the first time, but somehow she couldn't help but sense a degree of entitlement behind the request that put her off—an attitude she wasn't a stranger to. Camille was about to rebuke the snot-nosed brat, but found herself interrupted.

"Zachary Tobias Granger," the boy's mother called him as she approached; "You get over here this instant!" He could scarcely give a goodbye before he was forcefully grabbed by the wrist and pulled away. Once his mother pulled him out of what she assumed to be earshot, she gave her child a hearty slap, rebuking him with point of her finger, "You know not to talk that kind of girl like that—not in public! It makes more than you look bad, understand?" Cringing as she heard to the kid start to tear up, she didn't care to eavesdrop into whatever horrible things his mother was probably saying about her. Camille wandered aimlessly, dejected, her reverie broken.

The audience began to pour out of all sides of the tent, spilling with laughter, their eyes still full of the sparkling glee that came with having seen something fantastical. They remained there in a circle, waving until a good portion had left, then, it was time to clean up.

The clowns grabbed the brooms, sweeping up sparkles, which still glittered with the memory of their flight. The air was still buzzing from another successful show, having sold every ticket and filled every seat.

Behind the curtains, sitting in the wings, were a group of performers plotting their next big show. Not inside of a tent, where the sky was covered, but outside with only the stars as their witness. "We will need to leave early tomorrow, if we are to pull this off tonight. Oui?" A blonde haired woman asked, braiding the hair of the child sitting on the floor in front of her.

They were waiting, preparing for their next big event.

And yet, despite clearly speaking in a private conversation where the words couldn't have left the tent, what was said couldn't be taken back. Their words danced around in auditory space, interfered with by the distance chatter of the guests, absorbed partly by nearby fabrics, and many of the vibrations escaped skywards to be consumed by the air... The stars were the only witness, but Soundspace listened.

Laughter, sobbing, and the song of crickets all mixed together in Soundspace, and no matter if Camille shut her eyes and held her hands against her ears to try and block out her own presence in the world, Soundspace still broke through reminded her of her existence. Acknowledging the futility of the act, she dropped her hands. And that was when, once again, she heard something she wasn't supposed to.

"Your hunch was right," a young man said under his breath, "They left it unguarded. The diamond's onboard."

Tutting in reply, a voice answered that was unmistakably the Ringmaster of the circus. "Good news, but you know better than to address such matters outside. There are birds about."

He was right, of course. All the more reason for the little straggler to remain behind even as they collapsed the tent and began the process of folding it up and stowing it in their airship. Could it be that the circus was striking back at the rich and well-to-do in this corrupt town? And he said they were looking for new members?

Just about everyone had gone home by now, and the only signs of life left on the field were movers carrying the last of their set back into the cargo area of their airship and the Ringmaster himself remaining behind to oversee the last of it. If she was going to speak up, now was the time.

"Hey, excuse me, sir!" The teenager called out, rapidly approaching as she clutched her ratty skirt, "I implore yuh, I need to have a word with yinz." She gasped as she stopped in front of the Ringmaster, giving him an awkward curtsy as she corrected herself, "With youse. Sorry to speak up outta line, um... If you'll allow me, I won't take none of your time."

The Ringmaster removed his hat and bowed in greeting, replacing it upon his head and smiling warmly. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. How might I help this most polite mademoiselle?" he asked. Up close and personal, the sharp-goateed Frenchman looked even taller than he did in the show, his shoulders wide and legs long. His showman's cane was certainly at least as tall as she was.

he short African-American girl returned the gesture with another curtsey, finding it difficult to look him in the eye. "You are the Boss, sir? The one they call 'Tybalt', the Ringleader?" She steeled herself, realizing that she was in no place to be timid, and resolutely demanded, "I wanna go with you—with your ship. Youse lookin' for more workers, right? I'mma hard worker." The teenager screwed her foot into the ground anxiously.

Tybalt raised his hand to his chin and scratched his beard. "I am the Ringmaster, indeed, and we are looking for new additions to our roster. Have you any talents in particular you might wish to showcase?" he inquired. As the leader of a diverse troupe of society's downtrodden, the man had little reason to look down upon her. In fact, he seemed positively cordial towards the potential new member.

"Talents? Umm..." The girl seemed a little hesitant. She absolutely didn't have any of the talent that all those showy performers had, nor any desire to even be seen in front of a crowd. Camille just wished to be anywhere but stuck here for the rest of her life. "I can clean," She began listing off workable skills she may or may not have had, "And cook, and help you get your tent set up... And I can blow real hard—y'know, in case you need more air to fill your big balloon." She puffed her cheeks and chest up and, as if to back up her claim. Then, with a tilt of the head, she added; "And maybe I know a thing or two about diamonds..."

Somehow, this ringleader seemed neither offended nor surprised by Camille's mention of the circus' more private affairs. In fact, he sprouted a wide grin. "So you are the 'little birdie!' But is it only for menial labor you are searching? You are most humble to do so, I will admit; yet with the upper hand, you would still seek naught but to cook and clean?" He pressed his cane into the dirt before him, leaning forward and propping himself up upon it to get a closer look at Camille.

"If I am to have you aboard the Rédempteur, I would be pleased to be able to address you by name," he said. Did that mean he had accepted?!

"Camille Woodrow Jackson, sir," She answered eagerly, pleading, "I'll do anything to go on your ship with you! Ain't nuthin' for me here." She wanted to see Paris and China and Constantinople, and all these other places she had heard of—and if she could do so with these performers who looked straight out of a dream, she could scarcely imagine being miserable again, or at least no less miserable than she already was. "M'not a bird, though," She added, a little perplexed by his statement, "Birds are over that way, and there." She pointed off into the treeline to where she could hear nightingales that were out of sight—and then she readjusted her finger to point at one of the Rédempteur's windows, where she noticed the magician's doves were occupying.

Tybalt chuckled at her response, supposing that it was intentional. "Clever, Miss Jackson! We may yet have use for you as part of the show, if you are so inclined. But if your true passions are spices and lye, I cannot object," he replied. Then he backed up off of his crystal-capped cane, giving it a showy twirl before tucking it beneath an arm. "We must embark to make our way to Atlanta on time. En route we will discuss the matter further with my advisors to see where best you might fit in. Should it not be what you expected, we can arrange for a later return to Charlotte. Though, by the sound of it, your mind is already made up."

"Naw, I don't live here," Camille shook her head, explaining, "I don't live nowhere. If you're gunna drop me off, it's fine if you drop me out of the balloon.... But I won't let you down, sir!"

The Ringmaster's smirk grew. "You have a talent for wordplay," he remarked. "If you will follow me, I have some dear friends in mind I would like you to meet." He gestured to the ramp of the airship, upon which the last few pieces of equipment were being loaded in. They were just about ready to leave.

"Yessir," The runaway complied, "I've heard a few jokes. Said a few, too." Camille was already ready to bring all her belongings—namely, herself and the clothes on her back—with her up the ramp to parts unknown. It was terrifying, it was insanity, it was simply unwise to put her fate in the hands of strangers—ones she suspected were not entirely legitimate. Yet, being Camille Jackson, her fate was uncertain anyway. Camille was of the conviction that if misfortune was to fall on her, it was far better for it to be of her own making.

Compared to a life of misery, suffering, roadblocks, and a slow spiral from cradle to grave, those acrobats looked so alive, flying in the air and risking it all. Camille would have liked to meet them.

With long, confident strides that matched two or three of hers in length, Tybalt led the way, ascending the ramp and entering the cargo area.

It was like stepping into another world. They were in the belly of the ship, staring down a pathway that stretched on for what must have seemed like a full mile, flanked by tentpoles, supplies, equipment, even that patriotic cannon that Camille had heard going off earlier. The staff that had yet to return to their cabins were each tending to their own moving parts, strapping things down to prevent shifting in transit.

From here, Tybalt joined her in an elevator that would take them to the upper levels. It did not have a door, only a thin gate for safety purposes. Nevertheless, as they ascended together, each of the decks they passed looked substantially more luxurious than Camille could have expected. For a bunch of misfits, they certainly didn't seem to be lacking anything they truly wanted.

"Do you need anything? Water, food, rest? We must conduct a brief interview, but it would serve the both of us well that you are readied," he asked, before hearing a ding and opening the gate of the elevator and stepping off on a cabin deck. A long hallway proceeded before them, with long rows of numbered doors to their sides. This was ostensibly where most of the crew slept and performed other day-to-day activities; it was practically like a hotel with its many rooms.

Waiting for him expectantly on the cabin deck was someone out of place. She looked to small to be working among the performers, too delicate to be performing stunts on a high wire suspended above the ground.

Still in her performance costume, Etoile had made it a habit of waiting for Tybalt on the cabin deck after every show, knowing he liked to linger on the ground.

Even if she knew by now that he would not up and disappear into thin air like his card deck or scarves, part of her worried. So she waited there by the elevator until the telltale ding sounded that let her know he had returned.

With all of the energy of an exuberant puppy, she ran to greet him, taking pause when she noticed the stranger with him. Etoile looked her up and down, then to Tybalt, signed 《Who is this?》

"I'm a ghost," Camille muttered to herself under her breath, positively gobsmacked by the sights she had witnessed. She couldn't possibly have belonged in a place so high-class as this. The proportions of the rooms struck her as subtly off, only reinforcing the fact that this wasn't a structure built solely for the ground. Listening to crew move around all over, she felt a stranger in her own body. So often, Camille was used to the feeling that she was never where she was supposed to be, but now she truly was in denial that she was even present at all. 'I am a ghost, haunting everywhere I go.'

Tybalt stopped beside Etoile, ruffling her hair and drawing her to his side for a quick hug. "Etoile, this is Camille Jackson, our esteemed ghost - ah, guest." Then he held his finger out, tapping it with a finger swept upwards, beaming proudly as though he had accomplished something of note. "Lord willing, we will conduct an interview and she may wish to join our ranks and find a home here. Miss Jackson, this is Etoile, one of our performers. You two appear to be fellows of age and size. May you become fast friends." It seemed he treated traits such as skin color or nationality as trivia; Tybalt apparently did not even feel the need to mention it. Of far greater importance were the currencies of reverence and manners, which by the looks of things had already taken Camille far here.

"Pleased to meet'chya," Camille curtsied to the girl, breaking from her reverie to give an awkward smile. Her cotton dress looked so muted and plain compared to those around her, and not particularly clean to boot. 'At least Ma gave me my manners,' she thought.

Etoile clung to one of his legs, peeking out from behind him to look up at the stranger.

So, he had found another one? First Maria, now this Jackson. Etoile had none of her writing utensils with her, she had not been expecting him to recruit another.

《Hello》 She signed shyly. Etoile waved too, more than likely the stranger did not understand. There was a language barrier between them.

Camille wondered if maybe this girl didn't like her that much, given she hadn't yet said a word. Seeing her wave, however, somewhat assuaged that feeling. 'Maybe she's a quiet gal,' she thought, rather empathetic to that habit herself—a habit she intended to break if she was going to start making a better impression on people.

"It's alright to be stunned into silence," Camille joked to break the ice, "I get that a lot. I am a runaway princess after all." She flashed a grin.

"She says hello," Tybalt explained to Camille. "She talks with her hands. She understands both French and English perfectly well; if you two become better-acquainted, I'm sure you will pick up on what her signals mean."

He gently squeezed Etoile to his side, this time addressing her: "Miss Jackson, on the other hand, is a wordsmith. It will not always be easy to discern when she is telling the truth."

《Princess?》 Etoile signed excitedly, touching her thumb and index finger with her right hand and moving it on a diagnal across her chest.

Was she telling the truth? Etoile looked up at Tybalt. He said that it would be difficult to know, but some part made Etoile believe. Why else would she be here, seeking refuge on their airship?

Etoile tugged on Tybalt's pant leg. Wanting him to translate. 《Did she run away because she is like us?》 It would make sense. From what Maria had said, people did not generally accept those who were different. That was why they had to keep it secret.

"Unfortunately, while she may have the manners of a noble, I have my doubts she is royalty. Nevertheless, it may be wise to have a chat in private. If you'll continue along with me, Etoile et Camille, we shall convene in my office."

At that, Tybalt began to walk once more, one step after another, down the long hallway to one of the rooms.

Though the soundproofing on this deck was of high quality, Camille's ears could still pick up the chatter from the rooms collecting in the air. The conversations happening inside were primarily in French; at least, that's what it sounded like at first. A number of people were practicing their English, to...varied success. Just because Camille could hear it didn't mean that it was exactly intelligible.

Nonetheless, the soundscape was novel to her. Clearly, there was a lot she was going to have to learn if she was going to carve out a place here, and she was concerned about this interview. Camille didn't think of herself as particularly remarkable—but she couldn't say that. "I didn't know you all spoke French," She offhandedly mentioned as she followed close. "I thought people only used it to pardon their swearing!"

Camille decided, if she could keep people smiling at her like that—maybe she might overcome the barriers, and finally be accepted.

.............
......A shot through the heart and a shot through the head is all the same! Bear witness with bated breath..he cranes bullet and gaze alike as the tireur d'élite of the Cirque du Volés takes careful aim!

lawrence \\ sharpshooter \\ air current manipulation

dialogue: #CD7F32x thoughts: #C3C3C3

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Even as he lay close to present commerce, the sounds of saunters and jeers were muted by an ever constant ringing with his battered body hidden comfortably in the alleyway dusk from potential seeker. Despite the hardness, the floor he bled upon was amongst one of the more comfortable harsh surfaces he had found to rest, cushioned by brown dust and blanketed by numbing pain. Bruises marred his body, populated particularly around his sides with gash and fresh cut serrating his chest and back.

He should've known better to fail, known better to let his friend die, known better to run. The fruits of his mistakes lay present in skin and clothes lacerations alike. Even if he somehow lived, the chance for rest had escaped the moment he did.

Even with the limpness of a corpse, the will to stave himself from a peaceful death lay beating. Eyes glowing like a cerulean sky, Lawrence's faltering hand trembled as he commanded the air around him. Feeding smoothened oxygen into his lungs at set intervals to keep the blood flow consistent but not too quick, how long he'd hold out was unclear.

He could feel his blinks prolong, his breaths dampen and the muffled notes of...clown shoes?

In garish clothing yet no make-up, a short girl wandered somewhat aimlessly as stared skywards, watching the beanbags she was tossing. She was intensely trying to practice her Mills' Mess, softly breathing to the tune of 'Stella Ella Ola'. But something broke her concentration, sending her beanbags tumbling to the ground—and next to the body there.

"Argh, dang—Oh, Sorry, sorry..." the girl apologized as she quickly went to snatch them up, but she seemed to immediately notice that something was amiss. Steadily returning to a crouch from a respectful distance, she examined the man's face, calling out, "Hey there! Are you alright, buddy?"

His still expression stirred as the seeded sack fell and flattened in front of his vision. Existing in his floor-leveled gaze, his attention was momentarily swept up by the cushion in question before a vibrant girl crouched respectfully to take his view.

It was yet another mistake to have been found, this time by sterile eyes who didn't deserve to witness something so unsightly. Perhaps it would be kinder for Lawrence to rise and find another alleyway to die in but his current strength didn't lend itself to even rolling over.

With what little he possessed, the man craned his stare to the girl blankly before fashioning his own eyes into a defined glare. He was in no state to make such a poor first impression but she deserved a moderate dosage of wordless chastising for asking a dying man if he was "alright".

"... Is that a no?" The teenager remarked with a deadpan tone as she paced around him, trying to determine things with her own eyes. Common wisdom indicated that she ignored the destitute, who clearly wanted to avoid the prying eyes of others—yet despite appearances, this girl was all too empathetic with the plight of those who could turn to no one, whom society was willing to shed like dead skin. And closer examination revealed that the not entirely responsive state of the man couldn't simply be ascribed to public drunkenness.

"Ooh, that's... That's not good," The girl observed aloud, shifting her tone from condescending to encouraging as she paced for lack of decisiveness, "I-I mean, not great, but let's not get too dramatic, eh? Deep breaths, s'all gunna be alright... Can you move?" Before he could even answer, she cut herself off with a hurried gesture, demanding, "Actually, no, don't move... Well, I ain't your doctor, do what you will, but I'll be right back. I'm gunna get somebody who is... Well, not strictly speaking; more like a tight-rope walker, bu~ut... Ehh!" Waving noncommittedly, the girl suddenly ran off, clown shoes bouncing off the stones.

Perhaps he had been too harsh on a potential savior. If he had the breath to speak, he could justify his actions by pleading that his face just morphs that way naturally..though by the time he had finished a brief reflection, that girl had already sprinted off. Her spiel was difficult to comprehend, especially since she spoke faster than he could most likely process normally.

Regardless, he could piece together select phrases. "Don't move" standing among the few. Not inclined to be collected by authorities or whoever the squeaky stepped girl reported to, Lawrence attempted to push himself into a stand, only to go limp and slump back onto the ground. With a long hiss and practiced sigh, Lawrence relented to the girl's advice unwillingly.

True to word—albeit, with enough delay as to inspire doubt—the garish girl eventually returned, albeit with company. "This way," she urged, "He might be on the tight-rope of life and death!"

As fate would have it, one request led to another, and then to another, and by the time Lawrence's request was heeded, 'somebody' turned into several somebodies. Foremost of the company was a top-hatted man who led the crew, a familiar face and one of the last men Lawrence probably wanted visiting him in this state: Tybalt LeGrand, the Ringmaster of the Cirque du Volés, his previous target.

But there was no aggression in the man's eyes, nor in that of his companions. Did he not recognize Lawrence? He signed something to a small blonde girl beside him, and sympathetically said to another, "Maria, is there aught you can do for this poor man?"

With a halo of blonde hair and a smile that could calm even the fiercest of hearts, Maria stepped forward from behind the Ringmaster. "Oui, Tybalt, I believe I have just the thing." She knelt in front of the stranger and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, taking a close look at his words. "Excusez-moi," Maria frowned, touching the back of one warm hand gently to his cheek to see if he was responsive.

The cuts marring his skin were large and exposed, like a fly to honey, they were susceptible to infection. "This will not hurt, I promise Monsieur, but you may feel a bit tired afterwards." Like a butterfly's kiss, her fingers traced his skin and his wounds started to change, mending itself, the blood vessels repairing, the damage undoing its slashes and bruises; reverting to clean, healthy flesh.

His instincts screamed at him. The girl had not only succeeded in taking her time but she exceeded expectations by finding someone worse than the potential prospects he'd hoped not to witness his dying breath, a ringleader Frenchman with an oversized hat and oversized grin. He had simply referred to him as potential target, a conniving villain who had so shamelessly kidnapped Duchess Rien and even when evidence pointed otherwise, he still attempted to uphold his orders with weapon in hand. It was a cruel mercy to be saved by someone he had tried to murder previously, especially when he wore a warm gaze.

Still, the sight of the man alone caused his heart to beat quicker ever so slightly. Bleeding that had previously been kept quelled by rest began to flow and stain his ripped clothes. Coughing into his open palm, his eyes undertook their bluish glow. Causing the ever weightless air to somehow still further and easing his breathes, it was the same show of power that he had used that night of the attempted murder.

Fighting to stay conscious, the frenzied thoughts still lay prevalent even as his body couldn't manifest something worthy of caution. As the healer itched closer to quell his rivering wounds, his panicked stare refused to be swayed from the ringleader. A few moments passed as dainty fingers met calloused skin before Lawrence finally closed his eyes to sleep.

---

The room Lawrence was settled in was a small, windowless cabin that was sparsely furnished. Sitting across from the dangerous stranger was the woman from the night previous, wearing a white dress dotted with little red flowers.

She had spent the evening in the room with the stranger, checking to make sure that his wounds had closed fully and that he was still breathing. Currently, she was poised on the opposite side of the room, reading a book of poetry; waiting for him to regain consciousness.

Expecting to manifest a deeper hiss as he woke, he instead could only muster up a throaty groan courtesy of soreness and nothing more. Whatever they had done to him, it was certainly more impressive than any modern medicine could hope to match.

A single stray breath would reveal that the air had unmistakable knots of rigid pressure, and a wayward glance out the rounded window would aid in quenching the question that was preceded by the former. He lay comfortably in clean sheets close-by as to where he had attempted to spill blood a few days prior. The soaring airship that hosted... willingly the Duchess and helmed by that man.

Patting for the knife that was previously strapped to his knee, he would notice the weapon resting comfortably on the nightstand by his side before his eyes narrowed to meet the delicate woman who remained on the opposite end of the room. She carried herself like a noble, and her body language suggested that she had remained close for much longer than a passing moment.

Clearing his bruised throat, the man slumped to rest his agitated muscles and spoke. Perhaps they all didn't recognize him, or they did and they were plotting a long, slow revenge. Regardless, he'd live in ignorance if he didn't open his mouth now. "It would've been easier to have fed me to a hospital close by... and on the ground-floor."

His gaze regarded her cautiously, on the cusp of a daggerish stare despite Lawrence's attempts to appear amicable. "The soft bed is appreciated, Madam, but could you share why I'm here?"

Maria looked up from her book at the sound of shifting, watching the stranger with curious interest. Maria rose, attentive to his needs, and poured a glass of water from the pitcher beside the bed.

"Soif?" She asked instead, "Are you thirsty Monsieur?" If he agreed, she would help him sit up to drink.

"It would have been, however, our ringmaster could sense something in you that sets you apart from most others. You are like us, Monsieur."

Maria went to the door, knocking once for the person on the other side to alert the Ringmaster that their... guest had awoken.

"I am glad to hear you are comfortable." Maria smiled.

Lawrence imparted a soft nod at the women's hospitality. Though instead of welcoming the extra attentiveness, he attempted to drink from the glass all by his lonesome. Taking the cup in hand and spilling the contents into his waiting mouth with minimal trembling, he placed the container on the nightstand next to his knife before thanking the noblewoman with the slight tilt of a bow. "Thank you, Madam."

Lawrence's expression grew vexed for a moment, directed at no one in particular but seemingly ready to lash out at the slightest stimulus. The last man who had similarly rounded up wayward souls with nowhere to go was the same noble who instructed him to take the ringmaster's life. The fact that he was alive now made it clear that it wouldn't be more of the same, but the parallels irked him regardless.

"Your answer doesn't lend itself to much, I'm afraid." With a lengthy sigh, Lawrence slumped back into bed, falling limp with a muted thump. "Whatever connects me to you kind folk hopefully justifies collecting children like trinkets."

Still laid comfortably in bed, he flipped his head to angle his gaze towards the door that she had drummed upon.

Maria came forth, producing a kerchief from her pocket to wipe up the spilled water. "We are more alike than you think, mystérieux étranger." Maria smiled, she retook her perch on her little chair, folding her hands in her lap.

Maria was not a fighter and she was no noblewoman. If Lawrence attempted to take up his knife against the healer, she would be utterly defenseless, but something told her that she did not need to worry about him hurting her.

The man's head still plopped square in the middle of his cushion, parting the supple pillow, he pointed his gaze skyward as he seeped word. "With all due respect, you seem in a league of your own, Madam." His idle stare studied the rafters of the room, the same perches he had hidden upon when he first snuck onto the airship. "To whisk away wound without even being bothered to leave a scar, though I wonder where you must take from to heal so potently..."

Turning his head, his eyes softened to apologize for droning on. "Pardon my listings, I would've been long dead without your intervention."

Not long after Lawrence's awakening, the door to his cabin slid open to reveal Tybalt flanked by the small blonde girl from earlier. He removed his hat, setting it upon a chest of drawers. His movements were slow and lumbering, graceful and composed; he was a tall and imposing man, but it was by his say that Lawrence's life was spared, and so he could not have been totally bereft of gentleness.

"It is good to see you awake," the man said, donning that iconic smile like a warm coat.

Breaking the conversation was the entry of the man himself. The enigmatic ringleader... yet again tailed by a little lamb. Lawrence propped himself upright to face him, his eyes sharpening into careful regard as he relayed a glance at his dagger that lay sheathed on the table to his side.

Not wishing to beat around the bush, a dance that was certainly the ringmaster's forte, Lawrence spoke in a slow but cautious tone. "Either it's water under the bridge, or you haven't figured out what to do with me. What's the reason for such kindness, ringleader?" His words were much sharper than the inflections he had taken with Maria.

"Is altruism not motivation enough?" he asked, raising his brows. But his response was in jest; he clarified his position by adding, "You were on the brink of death, and I had little desire for the world to be robbed needlessly of another soul. Especially not one imbued with the arts you possess."

He took one step forward and was halfway across the room. One more, and he was beside the bed, where he crouched down to meet eyes with Lawrence. "But I am curious as to the motive for the attempt on my life."

Tybalt scratched at his beard. His focused gaze remained on Lawrence, but his smile never departed. "I would introduce myself, but to raise a blade against me, you must know who I am. You have me at a disadvantage, good sir."

The little lamb stuck to Tybalt's side, looking at the stranger with suspicion in her eyes. Even if he was like them, he had still tried to hurt the person most precious to her and to Etoile, that was unforgivable.

"I find the extents of altruism to fizzle out quicker than a more transactional kindness, but it's reason enough." Lawrence slumped into his sit, loosening the blanket that clung onto his legs. "Regardless, I can't really ask questions, I'm at your mercy and generosity."

Leveling his gaze with the wall parallel, he let loose a deep sigh before opening his mouth to speak. "The noblewoman, Duchess Rien of the Corbeau family. I was tasked with her recovery, from the hands of you, ringleader."

His idle hands drifted to the sheathed knife that rested on the surface of the table. Taking it in both hands, he pulled the weapon from the leather to reveal the metal marred with rusted ichor. Lamenting silently how he failed to save the blade, he narrowed his eyes to the floor before bringing them towards the ringleader with his signature slit stare. "And to kill you to ensure her safety was encouraged."

"They had not known that she had went willingly... and even then they would've not cared. As for me, I could not afford to fail even in light of this revelation."

With another cut breath, he scabbarded his weapon before mindfully placing it on the surface of the table. "It is well beyond pleading that it was a misunderstanding, so I can only offer my apologies. My body, that has been saved by you, you are free to do what you must to it. Though if you even feel the slightest ounce of rage, I assure you to trust it more than your compassion."

The moment he reached for his blade, Etoile stepped forward, fully prepared to make him stop.

Maria reached for her hand to stop her, giving a subtle shake of the head. It wasn't that Etoile didn't trust her Papa: it was that this man had already tried to pull something once.

She did not like strangers, not one bit.

Tybalt squinted his eyes, his smile crinkling to one side in thought. He restrained himself from responding hastily to Lawrence's obstinance of his knife; his leaving it in plain view had been a conscious decision, after all, though perhaps not the wisest one for the preservation of Etoile's calm. He brushed through her hair softly as he mulled over Lawrence's words in his head, pondering his answer.

Then, at last, he smirked. "Beaucoup de bruit pour Rien!" he announced, breaking into a hearty laugh that left him chuckling softly between words when he finally managed to recover his breath.

"I apologize; the Duchess will not soon live this one down," he explained. "I will have a meal in for you shortly. She may wish to see you as well. Will you stay awhile?"

Previously donning a sullen gaze, he had not felt the need to wield his caution until the Ringleader erupted into deafening laughter. Shortly after Lawrence described in detail his vivid instructions to end his life, and in riposte, this man was making a shameless ruckus. To think, that the healer girl had the audacity to compare someone like Lawrence to someone like her... and someone like him.

Wearing his disbelief famously, taking up much of the real-estate of his usual scowl pointed face. They had thought someone like him kidnapped a duchess. Anyone with ears could learn to follow this ringleader.

Similarly, Lawrence himself needed a breath to recover. Allowing himself to grow limp, his form fell back into rest pressed against the lulling mattress. The man oriented himself so he faced the windowed wall, scoff straying from his mouth.

"If you'll have me." His tone had found an uncharacteristic chipperness, and he couldn't stop his mouth from pursing into a soft smile.

---

---

Manhattan was unmistakable. A blanket of coal-fueled haze mixed with the beam of gas lights to bathe the whole of the city in a warm glow. Glimmering street signs and marquees lurked in every street, the fog disguising the buildings behind to give the appearance that they were floating in an endless sky; and in that sky, the lamps were as plentiful as stars of the night.

Other stars lived here, too. The port of New York and its venerable successes attracted great minds, great talents, and great wallets alike. Here, opportunities for growth and prosperity seemed endless, and the dreams of its inhabitants were as tall as the city's modern-day towers of Babel stretching towards the heavens for selfsame glory.

However, not all dreams were to the benefit of humanity. Not all wealth was good-gotten and not all that glittered was gold. Behind the façade of altruism, tycoons wrestled amongst one another for dominance over the twin industries of steel, coal, and its myriad of children. One such blessed child was the business of tincture mogul Elliot Maycoff. He manufactured and sold a cure for all varieties of ailment at a low, low cost. Little did his customers know, that their relief was placebo and their bodies and minds were being slowly poisoned by his so-called miracle elixirs. Yet, at a poker game with like minded businessmen, he let his secret slip. In doing so, Maycoff placed a target upon his back by those who envied his position - a target that Tybalt and his band of talented individuals would not hesitate to strike.

The Fifth Avenue Hotel counted itself among one of the most exclusive in New York City. By the growing fame of the Cirque du Volés, it opened its doors to Tybalt LeGrand. With some effort, he was able to ascertain when Maycoff would be staying - and when they could strike.

Assembling key members of his circus around a grand table aboard the Redempteur, he laid out the plan.

"Lawrence. Study the locks. Copy his room key. Leave it in the potted plant by his door, then rendezvous with Rien."

As Lawrence sauntered from the speckless windows to the equally as unblemished front-faced mirrors, he shamelessly grasped the opportunity to orient the embroidered collar that clasped neatly around his limber neck. According to the reddish gold-buttoned overcoat, the snowy gloves and dark slacks, he was hotel staff. According to the name tag he adorned that belonged to some poor bloke, passed out drunk in the alley two blocks down, he was Joe.

Legs trudging as he jostled a creaky cart constructed from springy Ashwood, Lawrence mentally recited the words of the Ringmaster in constant intervals. Mold the key and meet with the noblewoman. A woefully light role when accounting his expertise, but the grand plan was also breathed by his own machinations, and this type of work was done most efficiently by his hand.

Reading the rooms as he passed, Lawerence’s steps stilled. He met the fringe of the door that recited 476. After a customary head glance at each precipice of his jacket's pauldrons, he sank to one knee and began the operation in earnest.

Of course, he had tried to fetch a direct key when he had begun his ascent in the lobby. But the particularly crooked always held unfortunate neurotic tendencies, whether it was always looking over one's own shoulder or insisting on a room that skated out of the reach of both master key and present duplicates. He didn't appreciate the shrinking of options, but the excessively prepared Lawrence was not so foolish as to not have multiple methods to accomplish a single task.

Eyes glowing with fickle bluish flame, he brought his lips close to the lock and puffed a single instance of hot breath directly into the keyhole. Like pricks on his skin, he read... or more accurately felt the air complete every metallic indent. Working his hands simultaneously as he rapt his thoughts to what he picked up, he brushed away the curtain that covered his carriage to reveal an ornate contraption. A favorite of his collection, it could effortlessly mold key blank in a matter of seconds.

As he settled, the numbers droned into his mind. Drifting his hand to his device, he flicked the keycode into the respective combination reader and with a light hiss, the box opened up to reveal the freshly stamped key.

Wasting no time, he took the metallic trinket and patted it into the soil of the nearby pot, then ambled off with a cart to link with the Prince of Shadow.

Satisfied that Lawrence knew his role to play, Tybalt moved to the next members of the heist team.

"Rien. You will lead the acquisition team. Pepper and Karolin will accompany you to the room dressed in fine garments; the man is well-known for his affinity for women, so it will surprise no one that you three were granted entry. Once Lawrence gives you the signal, proceed up to room 476 and use the key to enter the room."

Once a lady, always a lady. It was easy for Rien to slip back into a role of refinement. Oozing with confidence and armed with a demure smile, the Duchess hid half of her face behind a fan clasped in her left hand. She used the right to wave teasingly to the doorman, who pulled open the glass door to allow them entry. Men were far too easy.

With gloved fingers, Rien pushed the button for the lift to take them up, snapping her fan shut as soon as it was safe.

The lift came to an abrupt stop at the top floor; where red carpet cushioned their steps, their heels silent against the plush ground. As soon as they parted ways with the elevator, a shadow detached itself from her Rien’s feet, slithering across the red carpet and to the closest potted plant, excited to do something. Her shadow slithered to a second and a third, rustling the petals of potted dahlias, searching for the key, before returning to the Duchess. "Nearly there," Rien murmured, knowing that Pepper could hear her just fine.

The hallway was empty, save for the three ladies. In the daytime, however, the hallway served as a gateway to the bedrooms of celebrities and savvy businessmen who could afford to sleep in the lap of luxury.

Rien’s footsteps ceased in front of door 476. Her shadow swirled excitedly around the correct plant. Rien knelt down, relieving the ceramic pot of its treasure. Holding the copy-cat key made by their very own Lawrence, Rien turned towards their first real obstacle. The key slid easily into the lock and with a satisfying click! the door unlocked.

Rien ushered Pepper and Karolin inside, closing the door and locking it behind them. She tucked the key into the pocket of her gown.

"Alright ladies, let us get to work."

"The information we have suggests that the safe will be hidden behind an enormous painting of Roman nature. Karolin will assist you with the rearrangement of furnishings to the end of locating it, as well as the procurement of the heavy gold bullion said to be stored inside," Tybalt explained.

Karolin's gorgeous silk dress contrasted starkly with the sheer strength that it took to remove the described painting. Apparently, it weighed a few hundred pounds, given its solid gold frame and large size. It was less a painting than an entire framed mural, yet Karolin displaced it and set it aside as if it were little more than a child's drawing stuck to a wall.

Behind it was their next challenge.

"Pepper. Your target is the vault. It has a brand new Yale 6020 pin-tumbler cylinder lock. I will entrust it to your picks and capable ears."

Pepper’s belief was that everything had a song—it was just a matter of time, place, and occasion. Hence why she had been lightly humming a light tune to herself and her comrades, to pace their beating hearts. She repeated the same tune over and over, even if it was under her breath at points, and didn't stop—not until she began to sing in a whisper;

"Round and 'round the cobbler's bench
The monkey chased the weasel,
The monkey thought 'twas all in fun...
... Sing along if you know the lyrics!"

Regardless of her compatriots' responses to the attitude she was bringing to a serious task, she continued to sing softly as she fiddled with the lock with the lockpick she drew from her show. This was her mint-condition instrument—it could be manipulated in a countless number of ways, and each had their own notes. Yet, despite its boundless potential, this instrument was only built to play one song.

"A penny for a spool of thread
A penny for a needle,
That's the way the money goes...
... Hel-looo?"

The girl waved her had around expectantly, although whether she was making a demand of her cohorts or looking for something else, she didn't exactly make clear. The pace of her nursery rhyming wavered as she adjusted her rhythm, tuning herself as she tuned the safe in turn. To an outside observer, it may not have looked like much, but within Pepper’s sound space; all that was mechanical was laid bare. One only needed to prod at all the keys to make the notes come out—and once she knew all the notes, the song came naturally to her.

"A half a pound of tuppenny rice,
A half a pound of treacle.
Mix it up and make it nice..."
A few clicks of the tongue finished her verse—followed by identical clicks of the lock, only audible to her.

The clown-incognito finally went quiet for a moment, and was nearly still. However, it was yet another moment before she took her ear off of the lock and stood to face her friends to finish her song, bouncing left and right with a big smile, she operated the lock behind her, the clicking of clockwork mechanisms backing her vocals like a drum set.

"I've no time to plead and pine,
I've no time to wheedle,
Kiss me quick and then I'm gone..."

The singer then stepped out of the way as she pulled the safe open with a showy pose, cheering; "Pop! Goes the Weasel!"

The lock opened with a resounding click, the door swinging open on its hinges; giving way to the goods inside. It was a wonder how Maycoff traveled with such a hefty load. The interior of the safe was lined with every kind of dazzling jewel, an overflowing bag of gold, and documents that surely proved all of the fraud Maycoff had been committing.

Karolin stepped forward, it was her turn next. She reached into the safe with ease, lifting the heavy bag of gold as easily as if she had picked up a kitten by the scruff of its neck.

Rien summoned her void, gesturing for Karolin to drop the goods inside. One by one, Karolin deposited the gold and jewels into the shadowy mass on the ground, until the safe had been licked-clean of its treasures. When the safe had been emptied, Karolin replaced the portrait in front of the empty container, as if they had never been there.

It was then that a voice urged in a whisper in their ears like a gentle tickle, "Maycoff is coming."

They needed to move.

Rien threw open the window and in her haste, made a grave mistake.

Karolin had moved the other way, leaving out the front door while they fled down the metal fire escape.

The escape plan, the most important detail of all, was something Tybalt did his best to hammer into their minds. "If all goes well, you three will leave the room by the front door, make your way to the lobby, and exit, taking this route to the train station which will bring you back to port," the Ringmaster said, tracing a red line he had drawn across a map of that portion of the city.

"Commit the route to memory. If you are at risk of discovery, leave instead through the window and down the fire escape, then proceed to the station. You will not outrun the police on foot, so I will give you each the money you need to charter a horse and buggy if necessary." What he did not account for, however, was that Karolin would forget to change plans. She left through the front door, shutting it behind her and began walking towards the elevators.

Maycoff, accompanied by two policemen on his payroll, caught sight of Karolin attempting to pass him in the hallway. A paranoid glance at his doorway made his heart sink. His door had not closed all the way. "Stop her," he ordered, blowing air through his nostrils and clenching his teeth. His feet could be heard stomping indignantly in the hallway as he approached his room.

Pepper would have been with Karolin, had she not noticed Rien had not followed. She ran back to the window to tug on her arm, chiding her in a whisper, "Rien, why are you deafening—uh, defense-is-straight—why are you jumpin' out the window?!" She jogged back to the door. "The Big Cheese said we run out the way we came—like civilized folk, not get caught like rats. See, Karolin remembered—" The girl sucked in air as something seemed to disturb her. Seemingly not so trusting about her means of egress, she carefully peeked out the door and gasped at what she saw, before scampering back to the window, squeaking, "Nevermind, skedaddle! What are ya’ waiting for, let's go!" She was practically shoving at Rien to escape.

This would not be the first time a part of their plan had gone wrong. A high profile target was bound to come with complications. This was, however, the first time any of them had gotten caught. It would do them no good to go back, having them all arrested would be a travesty that would become a detriment to the circus.

By the time Rien and Pepper had exited the window, it was too late to go back. Poor Karolin was apprehended by the police while the rest of them jumped through the window frame; careful to close it behind them. The fire escape swayed, from this high up, the metal creaked with the cold of the winter chill. "Come on," Rien urged, still not having noticed that one in their party was missing. Down they went, from the highest floor in the hotel, to the first. The last rung on the ladder hung five feet above the ground. They needed to make haste, someone on the opposite side of the building was yelling for the police.

"What about Karolin? She went ahead and I heard..." Pepper was hesitant to elaborate, a hint of worry in her voice. Once she found her feet on solid ground, she took a deep breath and reassured, ”... She'll be fine, she's a good girl. And tough. We'll do a little rendezvous soon... But we gotta be quick, or she'll beat us there—I can hear her running in her cute little dress shoes right now! Let's go!" Pepper gave Rien's hand a firm grip and tugged her along, urging her to move quickly. Pepper’s palms were sweaty.

Rien jumped, offering Pepper a hand down. "Karolin?" The shadow weaver blinked, looking up at the ladder as if she expected the tall girl to be standing there, awaiting instruction.

"Oh… oh no." Pepper grabbed her hand, pouring on the speed towards the train station, where they were supposed to meet should they get separated.

"Pepper-" Rien pressed her lips together. If Karolin tried to run from the police and lead them right to the train station, where they were waiting; there would be trouble. "I do not think Karolin will be there." Rien spoke softly. She slowed, forcing Pepper to slow down when they reached the main street. They needed to blend in. Rien turned towards Pepper, fixing her fur stole. "There are eyes everywhere Pepper, you must remain calm." Rien took her hand once again, warm even through her gloves, and resumed the walk to the train station. Even if she managed to school her features into a calm expression, her heart was fumbling inside of her chest. This was her fault, Rien thought. She should have been more careful to check that Karolin was with them.

"Of course," Pepper sighed, smiling and looking around as she maintained a pretty stroll alongside her friend. "She must have taken a carriage, then, with the money from Mister Tybalt." She suggested rather optimistically, "So she could get home faster. Maybe one of those new carriages with no horse? What a scam! That must be like selling a clock with no hands—or a coffee with no cup! Must be some kind of city-fad; getting nowhere fast. Guess we'll get there first, after all."

"Still," Pepper sang, with a playful tilt of her head, "We promised to rendezvous, so we'll rendezvous!" She seemed to take a liking to the word. "... Even if it takes a little while."

Manhattan's Grand Central Station was a welcoming sight, with its stony exterior and warm interior. Even at midnight, everyone scurried like rats with a destination in mind. Steam trains entered and departed the station with a purpose. Passengers lugged large suitcases or small children in their trail, offering plenty of protection from prying eyes. "This way," Rien pulled Pepper to the side, where they were supposed to meet with another from their team before returning to the ship. No one would notice two women standing near one of the marble pillars. "We will wait here." Rien's voice managed to remain gentle.

Pepper maintained a chipper disposition—they got the job done after all. She didn't say much else, however. Whether or not she was disturbed by the possibility that they had abandoned one of their own, she wasn't vocalizing it.

The time ticked on; first five minutes, then ten, twenty, and thirty. The longer they waited, the more trains passed them by, and the more certain it grew that Karolin would not be joining them at the station.

Perhaps Karolin forwent the station and took a carriage all the way to port. Certainly, Tybalt had given her enough money to charter a ride straight there, but it would have been less conspicuous to take the train. Nevertheless, they hoped that they would find Karolin at home aboard the Redempteur, for the last train of the day was pulling into the station.

"All aboard!" came the call of the conductor, sounding his bell through the station.

"Come Pepper, we mustn't keep them waiting," Rien lifted the hem of her dress, leading Pepper up the train steps and onto the carriage that would return them to their home. The train deposited them a few blocks away, at a stop with a flickering lamp on a quiet street, well past midnight. Once situated on the ground, Rien rid herself of her heels in a most un-lady-like manner and unfurled her hair from its intricate coif.

"We are nearly home," Rien murmured, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Her nerves were coiled. Even if their gathering exploits had been successful, Rien could not help but blame herself for not keeping a closer eye on her compatriots.

The ship loomed at its spot in the port, its girth casting a welcoming shadow. One night had managed to stretch to feel like a century. At long last, they were back.

Boarding via the front ramp, the girls found the ship carrying on business as usual. There was always a bit of tension in the air when a heist was carried out, but only those who needed to know about it were ever made aware of it. The fewer loose ends, the better; and those with vulnerable consciences were protected.

The usual crew were kept at least somewhat in the loop when one was planned, in case one of them needed to be substituted on short notice. Memphis was one such crewmember made aware of the plan, though Tybalt had yet to make use of his talents on a heist. Why was Karolin chosen to participate before him? According to Tybalt, it was because his particular talents—and rambunctiousness—were ill-suited to a mission of stealth. And though Karolin was a bull in a china shop on the best of days, she could at least keep quiet when needed.

Still, it must have rubbed him the wrong way to be passed up.

The audacity. Memphis's most outstanding achievement as the family traitor was so clandestine that he could not even take credit for it. Mayhaps, Tybalt was saving the best for last.

Memphis blocked the returning duo's route with arms stretched wide for an embrace that was unlikely to happen and a discreet congratulatory grin. "Welcome home! I missed you, missed me?" He said, his eyes entertained by the fine garments they donned for their heist. As a duchess, the look fit Rien like a glove, but Pepper, he had to stare a little longer to be sure.

Arms dropped, along with his confidence of mind. "Hold on, Call me blind; I only see chuckles and the love of my life…" Memphis did not miss the opportunity to fill the remainder of the day, annoying Lawrence, the bellboy. Another person was missing from the count.

"Where's Karolin?"

There was one waiting in the wings upon their return. Memphis's familiar face was a welcome sight. "How could we not?" Rien teased in reply. If one looked closely, they could see the signs of fatigue wearing down her features.

Rien's complexion was pale and there were circles beneath her eyes that the pressed powder she wore had trouble covering. Fatigue went hand-in-hand with use of the Void.

Memphis’s next question made Rien's heart sink. Pepper too, must have been saddened to hear she had not made it back. Even if it was unrealistic, some part of Rien had still hoped that Karolin would find her way home.

"Karolin was caught." Rien's voice was soft and low. Pepper would have heard it because she was Pepper, but had anyone else been near, they would have missed her words. "Where is Sir Tybalt?"

"She'll be home soon," Pepper reassured in a whisper and a light smile, before she walked past Memphis without another word—looking to make herself scarce. She didn't have very many smiles left to give for the night.

Word spread quickly aboard the close-knit ship, but Violetta was waiting in the bay, ready to relay the message even quicker. She and Lawrence had arrived earlier; now she whispered for Tybalt to present himself.

It was only a minute before the Ringmaster presented himself, chin-up yet stoic. With Violetta's words to steal him; he stepped across the deck in his tall black boots, standing dignified before Rien, Pepper, and Memphis.

"Welcome home," he said, bowing his head and removing his hat in greeting.

Rien stepped forward. From his expression, he had already been briefed on the situation. ”Our evening exploits have been semi-successful," Rien admitted. She opened up the Void, depositing their winnings onto the ground. In gaining these riches, they had lost something far more important to them.

"It is my fault. I will shoulder the blame for the events that took place after."

A gentle hand clasped Pepper's shoulder. Memphis shook his head discouraging her retreat for a few reasons. Particularly, "You're saying it wrong." He twirled her to face him, releasing once he had her attention. "She'll be home soon," He declared like a fact with all the confidence in his being before tousling her hair done up for the disguise back down to Pepper-esque.

"And I am ready for a turn." Memphis added, eyes darting from Rien to Tybalt.

The short girl's lips curled up into an embarrassed smile as she cringed away from Memphis's petting. Seeing her positive outlook reflected back at her seemed to recharge some of her spirits. "Yeah. I mean, we got the job done. That is at least worth a golf-clap?"

Tybalt furrowed his brows. Few people on the ship knew for sure what was going through his head, but everyone knew that look meant trouble. In their years of asset repurposing, failures were few and small. Yet the time was going on two in the early morning, and she had not arrived.

"I am afraid your eagerness to commit crime must yield place to the more dire matter of our missing companion," he answered Memphis, "but should I have a need for a jail-buster, your services will not go unsolicited."

He reached forward and placed his hand on Rien's shoulder, looking into her eyes. "You played to the tune I composed. It is no more your fault than a violinist's for a broken string, but the conductor will face the crowd's ire. Blame me."

Then, he swiveled round, plucking his cane from beneath his arm and walking with it. Late as it was, this could not stand. With a look of determination, he set off to find the one person he knew aboard the ship that spoke Russian: Armel.

A long exasperated sigh escaped Memphis, underestimated and misunderstood as usual. He thought himself quite capable of stealing a woman, especially stealing a woman back.

Eavesdropping on Tybalt’s comforting words, he neared to pass by with words of his own. "If I may conductor, the longer you silence a violin, the harder it is for it to find its true voice again." Then bowed to take his leave, seeing as he was not needed... again.

"You can join me if you like, Peps." He offered company with a cheerful smile, whistling away the sulk as he strolled off in search of a bottle of whiskey.

The moon sat at its highest peak, offering some natural light to Armel's dimly lit atelier. Dried colors splattered on the floor and walls, and the dust of sculpted clay decorated the small room's floor and walls. It was messy and showed Armel's meticulous efforts — finely detailed sculptures, finished and unfinished paintings of different scenery, and people all laid around the room.

For tonight, his current painting was simply an excuse not to sleep. After helping Ines rest, Armel hauled himself inside to work, his hands and clothing bearing the evidence of the long hours he had been there — covered in small blotches of paint. A rare sight for the well-dressed Armel, but here he had no reason to keep appearances.

His focus lay on the canvas before him, slathered in shades of blue, black, white, yellow, red, and orange — strategically placed and mixed to depict a bright moon and starry sky. No real reason for the inspiration; it had merely popped into his head.

However, for the last hour, he had run into a stump. The painting was rather plain to his keen eyes, it needed something more, but Armel did not know what. Maybe this was a sign of stopping, along with the bristles of his brushes beginning to fray, "Well..." Armel sat down his equipment and stretched, "Perhaps it is time for some rest." as if to answer his question, there was a knock on the door.

Armel let his head fall forward dramatically and sighed, "Or not." he whispered.

"Un moment!" He stood up and walked to the window, opening it wide to air out the room. He did not want the smell of chemicals to violently attack the visitor's senses, especially if it was Ines.

After a moment, he walked to the door, wiping his hands on his dirty apron, "Oui-" Armel opened the door and froze at the sight before him. In front of him was the last person he expected to see tonight, "Tybalt? To what do I owe this visit?"

The normally-chipper Ringmaster had a somber expression, far unlike his usual demeanor. His head was held high, yet Armel knew instantly that something was wrong. On the eve of a heist, this could bode only poorly.

"Apologies for disturbing you," he said, gripping to the head of his cane, "but there has arisen a pressing need for your services." There was no need to be cryptic, as in a few minutes the whole of the ship would know something had gone wrong.

"Karolin is missing."

Armel blinked, "...Excusez-moi, missing?" His surprise turned into an urgent attitude as he processed the information.

Considering that the crew was carrying out a mission, Karolin could be walking around the city lost. However, the word missing could be a favorable conclusion rather than the correct answer. Karolin, when left alone, would stand out amongst a crowd. Therefore the worst and most likely answer is, "Did the police take her?" he mumbled, frustrated.

Armel tossed off his apron and switched it for a plain black coat. He had no time, so a coat would have to cover the paint on his white sleeves, and he'd have to do with his paint-covered hands — luckily, the rest of his attire was well-kept.

"Alright, shall we go find her?" he asked urgently with his lips curved in a calm smile — maintaining his composure is essential.

Tybalt nodded. His words were chosen carefully, and Armel reasoned the truth out in short order.

"She is, by all accounts, detained by local police. We must act with haste and surety if we are to recover her," he further explained. He stepped lively after Armel recomposed himself, taking long strides so as to make it quickly to the elevator. "She was apprehended exiting the apartment; I do not know if she was seen in the process or merely in the vicinity, and the authorities are not likely to reveal the truth to us."

Tybalt brought the elevator down to the main deck with Armel in tow, then marched his way forth from it towards the ramp which led to the city. "This is a proper fiasco, the first of its kind. Her freedom lies in our hands. Let us prevail."

-----

The sun rose upon Manhattan and still the men had not yet returned with Karolin. Hours passed, leaving the ship in mild disarray. Tybalt had not appeared for rehearsals, nor was he present at the galley's dining table for breakfast. His guiding hand had, for the briefest of moments, disappeared, for the first time in many years.

And then, finally, by midday, the two arrived back at the ship, not having slept through the eve, the morning, nor the afternoon.

Worse yet, they remained alone.

Tybalt, dragging his feet, re-entered with a gait like a shambler, clutching what looked like reams of paperwork and legal documentation under his arm. He did not say a word, but disappeared once more into the elevator, looking wholly drained of color.

The circus would find him missing from the table for lunch and supper as well.

---

---

Later than anticipated or desired, the roll of carriage wheels made its presence known at the docks. Long had Etoile's bedtime passed - and that of most of the Redempteur's inhabitants, save its most night-worthy of owls - but, deep into the evening, the horse-drawn vehicle came to a stop and deposited its inhabitants near to the airship's moor.

Despite Tybalt's remarkable height, he was accompanied by a girl taller and stronger than he, and flanked by his now de facto lawyer, Armel. The wooden platform creaked beneath their feet as they approached their ship's main ramp.

Upon arrival, the Ringmaster, knowing intimately the quirks of his vessel, reached out his cane to tap upon just the right spot. Each thud rang out like a low gong through the cargo section, alerting his fellows to the recovery of a lost sheep.

Home sweet ship...It may have been a good bit since she had seen the ship but the tingling feeling she had seeing it was a nice feeling. But with them finally stopped, Karolin would step outside the carriage to enjoy the nice open space after being cooped up in a less than comfortable environment which was that room with metal bars.

But now far away, and remembering Tybalt's words she was a few steps away from a hug… Oh… Hugs were possible, once again. As much as the ship had missed Karolin, she too, had longed for her return. With a fuzzy, sentimental feeling in her chest, Karolin stepped forward. However, her face was blank, her normal, stoic expression like a mask across her features.

Armel stretched at the entrance, letting out a heavy sigh. Karolin was home and his duty was done. And although the detectives were persistent, the situation ended well.

Now—despite it being way past the time for a good night's sleep—Armel was determined to rest. He turned to bid his companions goodbye, but before he could speak he was cut off by a familiar voice.

"Karolin! Mr. Tybalt! Armel! Welcome home!" Ines sang in French, her eyes glistening with excitement.

Armel whispered beneath his breath, "Almost escaped. Almost."

The return of the trio was greeted by the pitter-patter of little feet. Up far past her bedtime, she excitedly held the hand of Maria, who was still in her day-clothes, having prepared for their return. "Welcome back," Maria smiled, her relief palpable.

This would not be the first time the circus had had a run-in with the law. However, it was the first time one of them had gotten caught. "Someone insisted on staying up far past her bedtime to make certain you returned." Untangling her fingers from Maria's grasp, Etoile ran forward to her Papa, grasping his pant leg with one hand, the other signing quickly.

«You were gone for too long, Papa.»

Peering down from his head's high perch upon his shoulders, Tybalt beamed a glowing smile to his adoptive daughter.
«Not by choice», he remarked back to her in sign language. Then, with one of his large hands, he ruffled her golden hair.

His attention turned to Ines with warm astonishment. "Oiseau chanteuse, I did not expect to see your shining face at this hour! It seems half the ship has gathered for this occasion!"

Karolin’s ears caught the tune of Ines’s sing-song voice, her melodic tone carrying down the hall. One by one, they poked their faces out to greet them. Oh...With this many people, surely there was a party going on. If so many gathered in one spot, there must have been something worthy of celebration. At least this was her reasoning.

"Ines. Back home. Hug?" She would greet her back in her normal deadpan tone of voice as she put her arms to the side in a gesture of a hug.

Ines' eyes brimmed with tears. She fell ill and only awoke moments ago. Filled with guilt for wasting an entire day, she was debating coming to greet them. But seeing her friends, brightened Ines' mood.

Ines walked over to Karolin and wrapped her arms around the larger woman’s waist, "I missed you, Karolin." Ines sniffled.

With the heart warming hug that Ines would embrace Karolin with, she in return would gently wrap her arms around her. Despite her strength being very well known to be extortionary, she knew full well that she should be very careful with her friends. They were of course not like her, so she would hug back gently with closed eyes to enjoy their warmth together...Nice and warm...It did feel better with the company of friends.

Of course she would perk up at the surprise Maria mentioned. "There is a party. Everyone is all together...Oh...Did something good happen while I was away?" Karolin asked as she would soon release her arms from Ines.

As through appearing from the shadows, Rien was suddenly among them, her face smeared with what looked to be flour. "Welcome back, Karolin," Rien, too, was relieved to see the gentle giant make her return.

"If everyone should like to gather in the dining room, we have prepared a bit of a surprise." Maria clapped her hands together, hoping to guide them to where each member had dutifully set up the surprise for Karolin. Rien flashed a thumbs up to Maria, indicating that the cake preparation had been a success. Maria nodded subtly in reply, smiling gratefully. They could not have done this without the help of the entire crew.

Etoile shook her head, attempting to fix her hair. «Papa, next time, you should let me whisper to la police.»Etoile signed back. She could have made them all forget that Karolin was ever there.

«No next time», he replied in sign. But who was he assuring—Etoile or himself?

With long, stilt-like steps, Tybalt strode towards the dining room, motioning for Karolin to join him.

"Come one, come all, it's time to celebrate!" he declared as he ventured through the hallways.

Not quite finding the need to join the welcome huddle, Lawrence instead busied himself halfway slogging through the more intimate beats of preparations. Of course, he didn't blame Etoile for leaving her post to greet the ringmaster early, the man himself admittedly forfeited their already fleeting time to wash the stems and sepals of every plucked flower.

Regardless, he'd find time to greet and inquire on exactly when their heist went sour after he was finished. He was strangely enjoying himself, dispersing picked litter atop the finished, dustless mantels he had scraped clean himself the morning preceding.

Concluding his own devices, he approached Tybalt, orienting himself peculiarly as to protect his mouth from Etoile's eyes and spoke in a husky half-whisper.

"Ringmaster, a word after celebrations?" When Lawrence was trusted with field-planning, the exhausts of any missteps lingered like tainted gas. He'd rather nip the source of the issue at the bud..

For their sake, and especially Karolin's.

From within the dining room, a much more sordid scene was unfolding—the sudden, dramatic bawling of a clown. "Bwoo-hoo-hoo!" Pepper sobbed melodramatically, fists concealed in her sleeves raised to her cheek to wipe at painted tears. "Memphy, dear, our darling Karolin is never coming home!" Her whining was directed at the colleague who she had been working with to set the table—or at least she had been hours ago. Now, her only occupation seemed to be warming the seats, while playing the role of a worried mother scorned.

"She just doesn't care for Mama and Papa anymore!" The tiny Mama complained, "Not since she ran off with the boys in blue... And it's because you drove her away with your shoddy jokes!" She pointed accusingly at her 'husband’. "You—buster! Oh, you drive me to drink!" Pouting, she reached out to the wine bottle they retrieved to cheekily pour herself a glass.

A man's shadow dragged his feet toward the source of the sound, one that beckoned his name with the sing-song pitch of a winebibber that rang straight to his eardrums that distance didn’t spare. Memphy he had been called, blinked slowly as if he had just woken from a long slumber. He groaned as he settled his weight on the nearest chair, shoes propped up on the table and a top hat shielding his face from the blinding lights above. Pre-drinks with the tireless resident clown was a terrible idea. He didn’t need to look out from under his hat to sense the commotion she was brewing, fingers jabbed in his direction as he was placed in a role he never entertained would come to pass…A terrible idea indeed. Although drained, he cleared his throat and hopped back onto his feet to make amends. It was still a momentous occasion, and there were more drinks to go around. Not to mention other fingers may be jabbed his way, the blame easily falling to him when things went astray. “Not now, darling, we have visitors.” He pulled Pepper away by the waist from her newly poured drink, tidied the stray strands of her bright red wig before lifting her over his shoulder in a breath’s break from her theatrical tirade.

"Goo-wargh—!! See, this is what I mean!" Pepper whined as she was clown-handled, "You have no sense of dramedic timing! I'm trying to do a bit of a bitter bit, and you're biting it!" She kicked and pounded—while subtly avoiding hurting her escort—while she threw an amusing temper tantrum, curly locks jostling like leaves in an autumn torrent. "Honestly, you think I don't know that?"

"Welcome back, Karolin." Rien poured herself a glass of wine, joining in the festivities. They had no qualms with drinking on this ship, some even thought to make a game of it on slow nights, where they had nothing to do but wait to reach their next destination. Tonight, the air was a bit lighter. The previous somber haze that had hung over them began to lift, Karolin having at last returned to them.


Just as implied, Pepper's hearing stole away all suspense. It was not long before the others, too, could hear the approach of footsteps and the tapping of Tybalt's staff upon the hull. Tybalt's long strides took him to the entrance of the dining room, where someone would surely fix Karolin a meal. "I am quite sure you are famished," he said in an address to his newly freed crewmate. "Prison food is...nothing to write home about, as the kids say. But a home-cooked meal should have you right as rain." He was careful not to imply too much. Hopefully, then, as he ushered Karolin inside, she did not expect to see the feast laden before her: scrumptious soups and meats, still-warm bread, and a large chocolate cake as a centerpiece. Crisp, bright fresh flowers lined the room on all sides, as did bottles of wine and highly-distilled vodka imported from Karolin's homeland. And, in the seats, all who had the endurance to stay up at this late hour to greet the prodigal strongwoman.

Kaolin's thoughts would shift at the sudden prospect of food. From her question of who the party was for, her mind was now on the prospect of stuffing her face with food from home once again.

And well...The prison food was food, it was nice of them. Two slices of bread with some jelly three meals a day. Prisoners really did get some benefits even if they did so-called 'bad' things. But the smell of nice hot food in the air certainly did interest her more than slices of bread and jelly.

"Thank you. And a thank you to whoever cooked it." She would soon walk on over like a curious cat looking over all the options, the food and...Oh the drinks? She saw some of those bottles before back home...Her father drank a lot of those clear liquids from bottles. And she saw other people in other houses drinking them and dancing around afterwards...Strange...Her father always was in a bad mood when he drank that...

How strange indeed...She would take one bottle and begin making a plate with all sorts of nice steaming foods with no rhyme or reason. She was after all not a picky eater after all. But she was indeed quite curious on what this 'vodka' does to people.
November 10, 2022


The tall woman normally intimidated the mouse. It was not as if the mouse detested Karolin, no, she was merely wary of someone that towered over her and was strong enough to lift the entire dining room table.

Etoile mustered up her courage, moving out from behind her Papa, taking out her quill and pad of paper. 《Welcome home, I brought the flowers, with Lawrence, for you.》 She scribbled with nimble fingers. Etoile held the pad up for Karolin to read, but she must have done so too late.

Maria, in that moment, walked over with a plate for Karolin, smiling in that motherly way of her's. "Welcome back, Karolin, tu nous as manqué. We have missed you."

Amid the pleasantries and welcomes home, Tybalt bowed to dismiss himself for a moment. He and Lawrence had meant to have words; not cross ones, ideally, but for one of their own to find themselves behind bars merited discussion. Between the grieving and legal proceedings, it was difficult to find time to address what went wrong, but now that Karolin was home, the ache of the error was nipping at Tybalt's constitution with every step, like a misplaced pebble in his balmorals.

With a subtle wave of his staff in Lawrence's direction, he invited his fastidious companion to join him away from the dining room, then slipped into the hallway.

Excusing herself from the late festivities, Pepper left the dining room, only to pass by Lawrence and Tybalt in the hall. With a jaunty march, she was counting, "Forty-two, forty-seven, forty-eight, sixty-one—Exqueeze me, sirs." She greeted the ringleader and sharpshooter. Raising her heels and pointing her toes in on each other, she ambiguously riddled them, "How many shoes afoot are a foot?"

The girl then answered quite confusingly, "None, of course! Shoes aren't feet. But there's two shoes for every foot, and every foot is on board—every foot plus two. Now, it sounds like every foot that wears a shoe has at least one shoe, but everyone that wears a shoe—except horses—has only two feet..."

"Now, the sole reason I ask," she paused to smirk at her pun before continuing, "I thought we were missing somebody, so I'm just retracing the steps—recounting, I mean... We were missing two big feet until just now, but I think we've got two extra big feet? I'm just checking the deck below to make sure nobody's extra pair of shoes are walking out on the party—But wait! Shoes aren't feet! How we~eird..." Hardly waiting for a breath, much less a response, Pepper spun around on her heels and continued her strut down the hall, counting footsteps once more—not entirely all her own, as some of them were in French.

It had taken years for Tybalt to master decoding Pepper's particular parleying proclivities, which on the best of days were opaque, at the worst all but inscrutable. Not that she wasn't well-spoken - she said what she meant and meant what she said - but her meanings were not so much veiled as they were painted over. Tybalt removed his hat partly in greeting and partly to scratch his head. He redonned it, cocking his lips to the left and to the right, like he was chewing over the words. At last, recognition filled his eyes.

"Extra feet, you say?" he answered, rolling his shoulders and puffing out his chest. "Without a dance partner? I shall rectify it; my gratitude, Pepper."

Tybalt flashed a knowing smile at Lawrence, one with hints of weariness. Between the dire straits and the hard fight for Karolin's return, his constitution wore thin.

~~~

Marching back to the lower deck, the Ringmaster was quick to spot a face standing out from those he was used to seeing: a bright-eyed messenger man scrabbling about for acknowledgement despite the wee hours of the eve. By now the clock had past 2 unaccompanied by a daytime bell. What on earth was a courier doing searching about at this late hour?

Tybalt approached the young man lingering at the entrance, who was turning his head to and fro while clutching a sealed envelope to his chest. They locked eyes, and the man stood upright, presenting the letter with a shaking hand.

"Message for you, Mr. LeGrand!" He reported.

"At this hour?" he said, taking hold of the envelope and nicking its seal open with the tip of his staff.

"Of urgent priority," the messenger replied.

Tybalt pried apart the folds of the envelope, sliding out the letter and running his eyes over the text. "I gathered so," he answered.

"My apologies for the brevity and the inconvenience. There has arisen a desperate and immediate need for an act of appropriate grandeur to be presented at this year's Exposition universelle in Chicago, Illinois. The name of your troupe has been on the short list for some time. Cirque du Voles would be received with full honor and sponsorship, as well as considerable compensation for the lack of advance notice. If you agree to attend, please inform our courier. We await your answer and performance.

Tybalt tilted his head to one side, reaching into his pocket for a handful of coins to give to the messenger.

"What should I tell them, Mr. LeGrand?" he asked.

"Tell them we accept!" Tybalt answered, his lips curling into a wide grin.

---

---

The ship was aflutter with activity, the pounding of feet audible on nearly every floor of the ship. All hands were on deck, working like a well-oiled machine. Together, they worked to ready their flying device to take to the air. On one side of the lowest floor, there was a large handle that when turned, would alleviate the bridge from its position on the ground. From the balcony on the exterior, the ropes were pulled up. One by one, they were lifted, their crew rescinding the items that kept the Redempture securely fastened to the dock.

The engine sputtered, spewing black smoke from its belly like a dragon with a foul cough.The sputtering gave way to a soft purr, the ship now ready for flight.

”Hang on te something,” their skillful pilot, a red headed bloke named Rory MacGillan grinned, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. He wore a golden badge pinned to his lapel, a relic of his glory days as a pilot in the Royal Navy. His red hair was slicked back, having grown a bit long, it was held together by an elastic with a fake sunflower fastened to the band. It was anyone’s guess which little lady of the ship had gifted it to him.

”Bring her up slowly, Red.” Samson warned, his gaze remained trained out the window, his stellar eyesight allowing him to see things that others would need binoculars for. The engine made a strange noise and both men outwardly groaned.


”Estella!” Rory shouted, stomping his foot on the ground. A panel popped upwards, revealing a slim girl with skin like umber and eyes like stars. Her hands were covered in grease and her oversized glasses were smudged with it, too. She had short black hair which she tucked behind both ears, and wore gray overalls and a pearl necklace that was startlingly clean despite the state she was in. ”Yes?” Estella asked, adjusting her glasses.

”What’re you doin’ down there? You want to get swallowed by the engine, do ya?” Estella placed both palms on either side of the deck and hoisted herself out, sitting on the ground and closing the panel she had crawled out from. ”If my calculations are correct, we could get to Chicago one hour earlier than Samson’s projections, based on my modification.”

Samson scoffed. Little was known about the man, other than that he had great eyesight and a nose for navigation. ”Found a new route, did you? Do you want to take over the maps, then?” He gestured as the airship began to lift, taking flight.

”It’s not the maps,” Estella went to the wall, running a hand across its metallic surface. ”You hear that purr? I’m confident with the adjustments I made, we’ll see a difference.”

”You better be right.” Red turned away, taking the helm. ”Now fetch me some coffee, it’s gonna be a long night.”

On another side of the ship, Blaise was assisting Genya in cleaning up the dining room. The party had ended, but the celebration lived on. There was palpable relief in the air, not only that Karolin had been rescued from the dreadful grasp of the law, but that they were leaving Manhattan in search of brighter skies and a handsomely paid performance. ”Ms. Genya,” Blaise started, averting his gaze. The gentle giant was often too shy for his own good. ”As we have discussed in the past, just Genya is fine,” she glanced up from collecting dishes, reaching forward quickly to capture an escaped plate that would have slid off of the table.

”Do you think something like this could happen again?” It was clear that the events of the last week weighed heavily on Blaise’s mind.

Genya shook her head, ”No, this was a freak-erm, incident, rather. The Ringmaster knows what he is doing and I have full confidence in our dedicated staff.” Blaise nodded, but his brow furrowed, as if he was unconvinced by her words.

On a deck below them, three men stood huddled, their card game interrupted by a door opening behind them. The smell of whiskey was prevalent in the practice room, the three of them having sneaked off after lifting the ropes and securing the provisions in the kitchen.

”Is there room for one more, boys?” A voice came from the doorway, a slender, but tall frame leaning against the opening. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders and her arms were crossed. All three stiffened, caught in the act. While the rest of the ship was preparing, Riftan, James, and Alistair were playing cards and drinking themselves into a stupor.

”The jig is up, boys.” James Martella shook his head and laughed. They collected their cards and shook their heads, cursing Rien for making them help. ”You should all go to bed, anywho. We land in two days, our acts need to be perfect.”

”Yes, yes,” Alistair waved a hand. He was Etoile’s trapeze partner, but often went off-script to tease the child and garner a reaction from the audience. He clapped Rien on the back, ”See you in the morning.” They held no ill will against her, if it had been any other night, Rien would have joined them rather than scolded the men for slacking off.

One deck above them, Violetta knelt down to lift a sleeping Etoile off of a settee. She had taken to rest there, waiting for her Papa. The child started, always a light sleeper and pushed herself away from Violetta, who deposited her carefully on the ground so as not to injure her. ”Are you alright?” Violetta whispered, her voice physically incapable of speaking even an octave louder.

Etoile nodded, looking up at Violetta with a wary expression. Slowly, sleepily, the child rose and dusted herself off, looking around the room she had fallen asleep in. She rubbed one eye and scurried off, like a mouse that had been discovered in the pantry. Where was her Papa? Why were they moving? Etoile could hear their calls, the back and forth banter of those that lived on the ship.

They were flying, but to where? She went up the steps, to the long hallway with doors decorated with names and paper cut outs. Cautiously, Etoile entered her Papa’s room and clambered onto his bed, waiting for him to return.