Even with the blindfold on, she seemed to be able to see the world reeling dizzily around her. Again and again she was spun around, the hands slapping at her, grabbing her, spinning her ever more fiercely like a dervish gone out of control, until she felt herself tripping and starting to collapse.
At a signal from Laurenda, the children stepped back simultaneously and Elizabeth-Anne fell heavily to her knees. She made a strange hiss as the wind whooshed out of her, and her scraped knees burned terribly. Tears stung in her eyes, and she reached up to undo the handkerchief.
A rain of slaps forced her hands away. She let out a silent cry as her arms were grabbed and her gloves were pulled off. She could hear the awe and laughter as her hands were examined.
Why are they doing this to me? she wanted to scream, feeling as humiliated as if she had been stripped naked. I only want to be left alone! I never hurt anybody!
She started to crawl along the ground to get away.
'Get up, freak!' someone hissed. She thought it was Laurenda, but she couldn't be certain.
Slowly she staggered to her feet. Then she felt it. A bite on her hand. More bites. No! Not bites . . . burns. They were throwing matches at her hands! Holding them to her flesh!
Terror overcame her and she tried to break away and run, but someone tripped her and she fell on her face. She raised her head and tried to cry out. Tried, in vain, to call for help.
But not a sound would come out of her throat.
Melissa Welcker checked the watch she wore pinned to her dress, stepped out onto the side porch, and rang her bell. Recess was over.
The children ran to the door, lined up quietly, and filed inside. Jenny got up from the front row and passed the teacher on her way back to her usual seat. 'Thank you for helping me, Miss Welcker,' she said politely. 'I understand everything much better now.'
'Fractions are difficult'—the teacher nodded—'but not impossible. Anytime you need help, don't hesitate to ask.'
'I won't, Miss Welcker,' Jenny promised.
The children found their seats and sat quietly, waiting for class to resume. Jenny pointedly avoided looking at anyone.
At first Miss Welcker wondered why this ominous, pregnant silence hung heavy in the air. Usually the children were agitated and noisy after recess, and she had to silence them. But not today.
Frowning, she eyed the classroom, trying to determine why they were behaving so peculiarly out of character. Then it struck her.
'Where is Elizabeth-Anne?' she asked quietly.
Everyone stared at her. The silence was deadly.
'Well?'
Still no one spoke up, but furtive eyes darted about.
Miss Welcker picked up her yardstick and brought it crashing down on the top of her desk with a sharp ca-rack!
Everyone jumped.
She pointed the yardstick threateningly at the class. 'I do not want to hear as much as a peep out of any of you!' she snapped grimly. 'Is that understood?'
No one dared speak.
'I said, is . . . that . . . under . . . stood?'
The chorus came. 'Yes, Miss Welcker.'
'Then don't forget it,' Miss Welcker warned, and marched briskly from the room. When she got outside, she looked around, then walked quickly to the back of the building. She saw Elizabeth-Anne lying on the ground near the donkey. Hurrying toward her, she cringed at the sight that greeted her. The girl's knees were scraped and bleeding, the blindfold was still tied around her eyes, and vomit stained her mouth and the front of her dress. The child was heaving soundlessly.
'There, there. It's all right, Elizabeth-Anne. Everything's all right.' Gently Miss Welcker bent down, untied the blindfold, and helped her to her feet. Together they slowly headed back to the schoolhouse. Once there, the teacher stood in the doorway and cleared her throat.
The class turned and stared at her.
'Some of you may think this is very funny,' Miss Welcker said with quiet anger, 'but I do not. I am going to leave now. You will all remain here until I return. During that time, I will let you discuss this incident among yourselves and you can decide whether it was worth it: starting today, and continuing every day for the next four weeks, none of you will have recess privileges. Furthermore, you shall all have to clean the schoolroom and the yard every day after school for one hour. Do I make myself clear?'
A pin could have been heard dropping.
Miss Welcker took a deep breath to calm herself. When she spoke again, her voice cut the air like a knife. 'Jennifer!'
Jenny jerked guiltily, her face ashen.
Miss Welcker's voice softened. 'Come with me. We'll take Elizabeth-Anne home.'
Jenny fought to keep the relief off her face. Careful not to meet any of her friends' accusing eyes, she hurried to the back of the classroom, eager to escape. She was only too well aware that the incident had been her brainstorm. Now, with everyone being punished, it was quite likely that they would turn on her.
On the way to the rooming house, Jenny looked Miss Welcker in the eye and asked innocently, 'What happened, Miss Welcker?'
Melissa Welcker looked at her. 'The others played a despicable, cruel trick on Elizabeth-Anne.'
'Did they hurt her?'
'Harm,' Miss Welcker said, 'can be achieved any number of ways. I'm afraid I'm going to have to tell your aunt that I think it's best that Elizabeth-Anne doesn't attend school just yet.' Miss Welcker paused. 'I'm glad that you weren't involved, Jennifer.'
Jenny made an effort to keep from smiling. 'Still, I feel so guilty,' she said softly. 'I'll have to be punished too.'
Miss Welcker looked at her strangely. 'And why is that?'
Jenny lowered her eyes. 'I should have looked out for 'Lizbeth-Anne, you see, but I was only concerned with my arithmetic problems.'
Miss Welcker favored Jenny with one of her rare smiles. 'You're a fine young lady, Jennifer Sue Clowney. I'm very proud of you. Your aunt should be too.'
Jenny beamed. 'Thank you, Miss Welcker.'
Elizabeth-Anne tore her hand out of Miss Welcker's and ran on ahead of them.
For all her good intentions, Melissa Welcker had no idea why.
5
It was the sixteenth of December.
Amanda Grubb sat primly erect beside her husband as the train sped into the night through the dark, snow- covered hills of western Pennsylvania. Silently she watched the showers of glowing red sparks shooting past her pale reflection in the window. From under the carriage came the steady, monotonous clickety-clack, clickety-clack of the iron wheels on the spliced rails, and the coach rattled and swayed back and forth.
After a while she tired of staring at her reflection. She relaxed in her seat, tucking her fleshy chin forward into her neck as she untied the string of her cloth purse. She tugged it open and took the letter out again and unfolded it. The paper was thin, creased from folding and unfolding, reading and rereading, but the penmanship was neat and concise, almost brisk in its efficiency. It was distinguished by its lack of flourishes. Clearly the writer was not one given to wasting time unnecessarily.
She reread the letter for what must surely have been the hundredth time:
Quebeck, Texas
Thursday, September 12, 1901
Dear Miss Elspeth Gross,
If perhaps this letter should reach you, Mr. Szabo Gross, the circus proprietor, and his wife died in a tragic accident. They are survived by their six-year-old daughter, Elizabeth-Anne, who is in my care. I heard you are her next of kin. Could you, agreeable to convenience, of course, send for her or come to Quebeck, as she has no other kin I know of. Or, if that should prove impossible and she has closer kin, please contact them or myself.
Respectfully,
Miss Elender Hannah Clowney
'You rereadin' that letter agin?' her husband, Bazzel, asked.
Amanda nodded soberly and folded it. Carefully she slid it back into the envelope, then slipped that in her purse. She tugged on the string. 'Bazzel . . .' she said slowly.
'What's the matter?' His voice was dry and clipped.
She stared down at the purse on her lap. Then she turned to him. He looked stern and thin and forbidding. Corded neck, protruding Adam's apple, round rimmed glasses. 'Maybe . . . maybe it ain't such a good idea?' she suggested meekly.
His pale eyes narrowed. 'We're goin' through with it, and that's the end of it. We come this far. This ain't no time to weasel out.'
She could feel a familiar ache knotting up her in- sides. She bit down on her fleshy lip and closed her eyes. She had grown weary of the constant shams. Of bilking people out of their life savings and then skipping out of town at night. Of constantly staying one jump ahead of their victims and the law. It wouldn't have been so bad if things had turned out the way they'd intended—pulling a fast one just once or twice, and getting enough out of it to be able to buy a farm and settle down. Unfortunately, the victims usually weren't much better off than Bazzel and her. More often than not, they were even worse off.
Amanda Grubb was afraid that any day now the trail of fraud they had left behind would finally catch up with them.
It was high time to stop, she thought. She was tired of running, always running. And she was frightened too. But worse, she was starting to have severe pangs of sincere guilt.
Especially this time.
This time their victim would be an orphaned child.
She didn't know how Bazzel had managed to get hold of Elender Hannah Clowney's letter to Elspeth Gross, but somehow it had landed in his hands. When he had brought it to her, his eyes had glinted greedily.
Amanda knew that look only too well. Quickly she came up beside him and glanced at the letter, but it was impossible to read it, he was waving it around so excitedly.
'A circus!' he whispered, and smiled coldly at her. 'How many times did I tell you that sooner or later we'd make a killing?'
'What are you talking about?' she'd asked in a puzzled voice.
'Here. See for yerself. Whoever this here Elizabeth-Anne is, she owns a circus now!'
Amanda snatched the letter out of his hand, quickly scanned it, then handed it back to him. Her initial excitement faded. 'That's not what it says,' she corrected him in a dull voice. 'It only says that there's a child. That her pappy was the proprietor of the circus.'
'That means there's a circus!' he growled. 'And she's the heiress. You got any idea what P.T. Barnum brings in in a week? Tell you what. We're goin' to git one last bundle of money out of that Crowder woman you been cottonin' up to. Then it's off to Texas!'
'No, Bazzel! Mrs. Crowder's such a nice woman! We can't!'
His eyes narrowed. 'You ain't never said that before.'
She wrung her hands in anguish. 'I didn't know her before. Now I like her. And . . . and she likes me.'
'And once she finds out about the worthless silver stock we sold her? How's she going to like you then?'
Amanda was silent.
'We'll sell her another five hundred shares,' Bazzel said with finality. 'That'll give us the money to git to Texas. Plus it'll leave some left over.'
Amanda's stomach churned. They were counterfeit shares; the mining company didn't exist. The mine did, although it had long since been shut down. There wasn't an ounce of silver in it. Bazzel had simply had the stockholders' certificates printed, and over the past year had sold a few shares here and there. But never five hundred at a time. A block that large brought too much attention to the defunct mine. It was begging for an investigation.
An investigation. Just the thought was enough to make Amanda Grubb shudder.
In the beginning, she hadn't minded. Somehow, it had been different back then. It had seemed more harmless, like a game, almost. But back then she hadn't been as afraid of Bazzel as she'd learned to be over the years.
She sneaked a glance over at her husband and shuddered. Bazzel looked so gaunt and righteous and tight-
lipped—which was why, she supposed, she, like so many other people since then, had let themselves be taken in by him. He just didn't look like a swindler. He never dressed in fancy city togs. Never talked smoothly. In fact, he looked more like a hellfire-and- brimstone preacher, as honest and homespun as they came, as trustworthy as the flag or mom's apple pie. And since he looked so fiercely honest, people they met invariably thought he must surely be fiercely honest too. They trusted him immediately, just as she once had.
When they realized their mistake, it was always too late.
It just went to prove how looks could deceive.
Amanda Grubb was a fleshy, red-faced, and withdrawn woman. She looked simple and prim and proper. Her dark eyes moved nervously.
There was something no-nonsense about her. Skin scrubbed shiny, features on the coarse side, everything clad in a homespun disguise. Starched white bonnet. Pilgrim-gray dress. But her hands were too soft for the sincere, hardworking look she strove for.
She saw her husband look toward her, and swiftly averted her gaze. He had that ability to make her feel he could read her mind.
She hoped he couldn't. The last thing she wanted or needed was to invite his ire. She had been pummeled black and blue once too often.
Amanda wondered where her life had gone wrong. Ever since she had met Bazzel, eight long years ago, they had been on the road pulling off scams and then making tracks.
They had left York, Pennsylvania, as they had left everywhere else: in a hurry. That had posed no problem. They had been prepared to flee at a moment's notice. Their suitcases had been half-packed, a lesson they had learned in Baltimore once when they'd had to leave all their belongings behind. Now they never bought anything they couldn't carry.
And in York it had been a close call too.
Just thinking about it was enough to make her in-sides turn cold.
Oh, God, she thought, I never thought it would turn out like this. People hurt. A child taken advantage of. To have to pretend to be Elspeth Gross, whoever she is, just to become an orphan's guardian and steal a circus out from under her.
How in the world had things come to turn out this way?
6
She thought she would go mad from the crazily sped- up music of the puffing calliope.
As she fought her way up from the depths of the nightmare, the dream stayed with her. Always it was that same ghastly nightmare. The one she couldn't shake. The one about the fire. . . .
Once again she was on the trapeze and her father was chasing her through the burnt-out circus. He, too, was on a trapeze, and his skin was charred and blistered, and parts of his flesh were burned away, showing blackened bone underneath. The charred tent poles plunged down to dark infinity, to burning hell itself. Occasionally one-dimensional cutouts of Hazy, Goliath, or the other performers glided silently by below her, under their own mysterious power. Overhead, from horizon to horizon, the sky was oppressively low and red. Ablaze.
It was a hellish landscape untouched by humans as she knew them.
From the charred tent poles hung the rickety trapezes, all that stood between her and the fires of hell. It was a delicate balance. Each time she or Szabo swung from one trapeze to the next, the poles quivered and creaked under the strain like fragile spun glass . . . always threatening to break.
For what seemed an eternity, she had been swinging from one trapeze to the next. She was terrified that her weary, blistered hands would miss one of the bars. That she would lose her balance and fall into that bottomless inferno.
Her father's familiar face was contorted into an unfamiliar horror, and bits of his nose and cheeks crumbled away, showing the charred skull beneath.
She tried to scream, but no sound would come from her throat. And then, with a terrible searing pain, the fire flared against her body. . . .
Her eyes snapped open as she awakened, trembling violently, uncontrollably.
She drew a deep breath and glanced around, trying to orient herself. After a moment she could feel herself begin to calm down. She was no longer in the nightmare world. She was at Au
ntie's—and everything was all right.
The house was dark and unearthly quiet, and right away she knew she was the first one awake. All she could hear was the sharply whistling wind outside and the creaking of the house. She didn't like to be the first to awaken, because she didn't like the stealthy sounds of the night. She wanted to wake up to comforting sounds—to muffled brisk footsteps moving about upstairs, to the muted chatter of voices, the scraping of chairs. But at this early hour she had only smells to keep her company—smells of aged wood and musty walls and clean laundry . . . the exotically fragrant odor of herbs. It was a disconcerting, overpowering medicinal odor that wafted down in stifling waves from the tangles of dried herbs hanging upside down all over the ceiling.
She shifted in bed and sat up slowly, looking around timidly, her eyes wide as saucers. It was not completely dark and she could make out the shapes around her: from between the curtains, a chink of silvery moonlight fought its way into the room. Winter moonlight it was, cold and icy, and somehow that was comforting. Warm sunlight, yellow and red sunrises, flaming sunsets—those were things that frightened her, reminded her all too clearly of the . . .
She forced herself to swallow and tried to shove the awful memory aside. But her throat felt dry and clogged, and it was difficult to make the memory go away. It was always there, if not lurking in the front of her mind, then worming restlessly somewhere in the back, constantly trying to wiggle its way into her consciousness. Anything could trigger it and push it forward. Anything at all.
She leaned sideways and reached for the thick green glass tumbler of water Auntie had left on the bedside cabinet. Holding it carefully between both hands, she took a sip. The glass felt smooth, and the water was cold and refreshing. She licked her lips and set the tumbler down. The patchwork quilt had fallen to her waist, and the chill air bit through her flannel nightgown.
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