Before she could advance further into the depth of her inquiry, the lonesome clown appeared again. And it really did seem, as though he simply appeared. With washed out color in his hair, twisted into three vertical pieces, eyes wide with enthrallment, he shuffled away from Hecate briskly. The rhythm of his walk was all off. Something was terribly off. Wrong. Hecate’s luggage and setup was abandoned in the clown’s pithy expedition as he scuttled up to Aletea.
Straightening her mustard yellow shirt, she tried to fix an expression of confidence. He seemed to approach in halftime as the small thing tugged tiny fingers through the ends of her curls. The apples of her cheeks drained of their usual pinkish hue. Obviously he was a performer, or had been, or wanted to be. He had props on hand, and was in costume. If he was for any reason interested in her, she had to handle it with some sort of grace. Uneasily she shifted. Social poise was something she had lacked lately and, she was in no rush to make a fool out of herself in front of Hecate, too. For a girl, a newcomer with no friends, looked down upon really as a puppet, it felt like maybe some of her reputation was riding on this clown and whatever came out of his mouth once he figured out what he wanted to say.
"Little doll, little doll. . . May I come over and play? With your fancy gowns and your hollow eyes. . . Let me in, let me see. . ."
His void whisper sent chills up her spine. Was this riddle of his something she should be taking into account? Would he maybe make a great children’s addition to the cabinet? Of course it wasn’t up to her, nor would she try to pull strings. But should she have been talking like some professional, a true carnie? It of course occurred to her that he peered into her with this glassy look of fascination. What he was truly thinking or feeling, Aletea didn’t know. She couldn’t see his mouth.
He seized her hand, his digits engulfing hers with ease. She still hadn’t managed to think of a response for this all too perplexing encounter. But steadfast, she maintained eye contact with him, and tried not to flinch or grit her teeth under the pressure of anxiety. Somehow a smooth smile pressed itself into appearance, a tiny glimpse of the gap between her teeth showing as she stammered, “O-oh, what’s this?” Her voice became pint-sized, her eyelashes batting with confusion as he displayed knightly behavior in a grand bow and gift. She tried to conserve the polite look of bliss, but it was hard not to twist her face or vomit. Something smelled terrible. Rotted. Dead.
The clown’s hands also appeared to be poorly painted, crusted with red debris. He grasped a fake flower, handing it to her. With a bashful wave of her skirt, she murmured, “For me? Thank you, sir.” As calmly as she could manage, she accepted his gift, replying to his request, “I won’t forget you, ‘sides, sure we’ll run into each other again. Look at where we are. Speaking of which, Elsa is gonna' tan my hide if I don't get back to work.” Nervously she laughed, patted the top of his hand, glanced to Hecate with doe-like bewilderment, and scurried away, forgetting all about whatever it was that she thought to ask of the girl.