by Trudi Jaye
“Thirty-three years?” Rilla stopped pacing. “Isn’t that…? He tried to stop a Gift?”
Christoph nodded. “Got himself and his family kicked out. Everyone back then was shocked, especially Abba. They were tight.”
“His whole family?”
Again, Christoph nodded. “Mother, father, sister—they all helped him. He fell for the Mark, interfered with her Gift.”
Rilla abruptly sat down on the seat across from Christoph. Her father had drummed it into her, but she’d never really thought… The Carnival had thrown someone out? Left them behind to survive without the help of the group? “But surely…” She stopped when she saw Christoph shaking his head. “Wow.”
“Listen, Rilla, he’s a good man. He was your father’s friend.” Christoph leaned across the table and spoke urgently to her. “He’ll have support from the older ones who’ve been saying you’re too young to be Ringmaster and that you won’t be able to deal with the sabotage problem.”
“Dad couldn’t find whoever has been attacking us either, and he’d been working on it for months.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “And it’s not against the rules to be young.” Her father hadn’t expected to die and leave her to run things at twenty-four years of age, but she was perfectly capable of doing it.
“No, but it’s uncomfortable for some of the older ones to accept.” Christoph rubbed one hand over his forehead.
“And some of the younger ones.”
He sighed, his lined face looking older than usual. “Our magic is out of balance because of the sabotage, we all know that. The next Ringmaster is going to have a difficult uphill battle on their hands getting us back to the way it used to be. Are you sure you want to be that person?” Christoph watched her with serious brown eyes.
Rilla bristled. “Of course I do! There’s nothing else I want more.” She didn’t need her allies doubting her as well.
“Then you’ll just have to prove them wrong. You’ve been raised for this, Amaryllis Jolly. It’s your family name on the sign out front, your family that survived the wreck, and your father who’s been running the show for the last forty years. Don’t forget that.”
“I can’t forget it. But…” She rubbed her hand over her stiff neck muscles. She’d had a rest on her bed after the meeting of the Nine, but it hadn’t helped her headache. Christoph had arrived five minutes before to drag her to the wake in the food tent.
“Don’t doubt yourself, Rilla. This isn’t the time or place. You’re the acting Ringmaster until the Carnival chooses someone to lead. That gives you an advantage, and you need to use it. You have to prove to everyone, especially the Carnival, that you’re the right person for the job, and you’ve got to do it quick. Blago, he’s a smart man. He’ll take every advantage he can get.”
“How well do you know him?”
Christoph sighed. “He was one of the old gang. We were all tight when we were kids. But I’ve changed since then. Maybe he has, too.”
Rilla took a deep breath. “The Nine accepted it pretty easily.”
“What else could they say? He’s legitimate, Rilla. Him and his son.”
“His son?”
“The fella waiting outside the tent. Tall, dark hair.”
Rilla shook her head. How could she have overlooked the son? It frightened her that she could have missed something so simple. Her usual clarity had slipped away in the night—here one minute, gone the next, just like her father. She took a deep, shaking breath and tried to concentrate on what Christoph was saying.
“Nah, he stood back. Let his da do the talking. Blago was raised in the Carnival. But the boy, he’s green and he looked it. That’ll count against him, no doubt there.”
Rilla nodded. Outsiders were…outsiders.
“Where are they now?” She had to plan, to figure out how she was going to fix this.
“In the food tent, where you should be.”
“I’ll get there.” It was her father’s funeral; of course she would be there. “How long do I have?”
“‘Til the end of our stay here. Three weeks. After that, we’re headed for the Compound with a new Ringmaster.”
Rilla nodded. Winter was almost on them; they were due a rest. “Has the Mark been named yet?”
Christoph shook his head. “Maybe there won’t be one. We’ll be busy dealing with this. Maybe the Carnival will give us a break.”
“We can’t count on it,” said Rilla. “Tell Joey to keep an eye out, and let me know as soon as something happens. We can’t lose focus just because we’re in the middle of a crisis.”
“Listen, Rilla, no one expects you to—”
“What? Do what I’ve been trained to do? This wouldn’t have stopped my father, and it won’t stop me.” Rilla banged her fist against the table. Glass rattled in the ancient 50s trailer, and she scowled. It might be the biggest caravan in the Carnival, but it sure wasn’t the newest.
“Christoph, what happened to the Mark he fell for?” she asked.
“Last I heard, Blago married her.”
***
Jack leaned back in his metal chair and watched his father talk to Garth, who’d been introduced as the guy in charge of the clowns. Garth was a lanky man in his late twenties with a serious expression that didn’t fit with his job description. His father was absorbed in everything Garth had to say, but Jack was finding it hard to take him seriously. The guy was a damn clown.
They were in a large blue and white food tent sitting back away from the main circus tent and sideshows. The only lighting was fairy lights hung around the sides, and it was filled to overflowing with food and drink, all piled on the wooden tables set up at the back. People of all shapes and sizes were gathered, talking, eating, drinking and laughing—it was a real Irish wake-style funeral.
These were the people his father had grown up with, told stories about. Jack tried to feel some kind of connection to them, something that would make it easier to sit here in their midst, but it was difficult. Eye patches, sequins, Mohawks, dyed hair, no hair, giant mustaches, tattoos, leotards, big bow ties—all of it was on show. All he could summon was embarrassment at being at a funeral for someone he didn’t know, and anger at his father for dragging him there.
Next to Jack, Blago was using big gestures and was smiling like he’d just won the lottery, making him look younger and more vital. It hurt to see Blago chatting to Garth with such enthusiasm when Jack had barely been able to rouse his father out of his lethargy in recent months.
He certainly bore very little resemblance to the man who’d been walking listlessly around his home, and nothing like the pale man who’d lain for weeks in the hospital after suffering a major heart attack. Jack clenched his hand. A heart attack that had been brought on by Mom’s death a year before.
Jack had been worried about his father coming here alone—that was the sole reason he’d agreed to accompany him. His father’s doctors had been clear. Too much excitement could bring on another, potentially more serious heart attack. Going back to the Carnival for the first time in almost forty years had seemed like an appalling idea, and he’d tried to talk his father out of it. As always, instead of talking sense into his father, he’d found himself being conned into going as well. He’d certainly not signed up for Blago’s mad scheme to be the next Ringmaster.
But now, as he sat watching his father talking animatedly to Garth, clearly in his element, he wondered if maybe this was what his father needed—not the rest and relaxation the doctors had prescribed. Perhaps he just needed another focus, a project that would keep him busy?
Jack leaned back and gazed around the tent. Now that he was acclimatized to the way they looked—sort of—he could see past that bright façade and try to figure them out a little. If he observed more closely, there were definite groupings, people sitting together who seemed to be wearing the same kind of costumes.
Everything had a pattern; he knew that better than anyone. His work with computers had taught him that same lesson,
and his consulting work often encompassed teaching businesses to find the patterns and systemize them. It was something of a relief to find that same rule applied here in the Carnival. He took another sip of his cider and considered the people in front of him.
As his gaze passed over the entrance, a small figure dressed in a ringmaster-red dress stepped through the tent flap. She appeared even smaller because she was standing next to the strong man, his muscled frame draped in a relatively modest shirt and jeans.
The noise level dropped and tension thickened the air. It was Rilla, the daughter of the old Ringmaster, the one his father was up against. She stood uncertainly at the entrance, and for a split-second she seemed vulnerable, like she wanted to run. Then her face closed up, she straightened her spine and continued down the walkway between the tables.
Jack’s competitive streak kicked in and he leaned forward to assess their potential opposition. She had an athletic body and sharp, intelligent features. Her perfect geometric bob enhanced her high cheekbones and startling blue eyes. Her gaze landed on Jack and he stared back, disconcerted by her direct look.
She didn’t smile, but nodded slightly to acknowledge him as she passed by. When she noticed Garth next to his father, he could have sworn her lips tightened. She continued down the alleyway, and the noise level increased again. Jack let out a breath. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying to understand how someone so young could be in charge of the whole Carnival.
Not for long, if my father has anything to do with it.
Jack turned his attention back to Garth, thinking of the look Rilla had given the Giftmaster. Perhaps there was more to Garth than he’d realized.
“So I said to Jackie here, we need to pay a visit to my old family, see if they need any help. Abba, he was a great man. He’ll leave a giant hole in the Carnival. There’s no doubt,” Blago was saying.
Garth nodded in agreement, his sharp eyes wandering over the people in the room as he listened to Blago. Then he focused on Jack. “How about you, Jack? What made you decide to come to the Carnival with your father?”
He asked the question mildly, but Jack saw the piercing expression in Garth’s eyes.
Jack cleared his throat and glanced at his father, wondering what the right answer was. “My father convinced me to come with him to see where he grew up,” he said vaguely.
His father had actually played on the worry and fear Jack had been feeling since his father’s heart attack. That was the real answer. Blago had always been good at getting people to do what he wanted. It was a gift… or a curse, depending on where you were sitting. Without really knowing how it had happened, Jack had ended up in the middle of Carnival-land with the crazy folk, when he really wanted to be in the comfort of his own home.
But he didn’t think Blago wanted him to tell them the truth.
“Did he tell you much about the Carnival?”
Again, Jack glanced at his father before answering. “A few stories when I was young.”
Blago laughed, a big belly laugh that echoed around the room. Several people turned to stare. “The boy’s bein’ polite. I used to chew his ear off about the Carnival. He was the only one who would listen.”
Jack frowned. Sure, he’d listened when he was a kid to stories of an enchanted Carnival and a wandering life. For a long time, Jack had thought it was literally a magical Carnival. He’d been devastated when his mother had told him it was like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.
“It will probably be different actually being here. Things are never the same in real life as they are in stories,” said Garth softly, running his index finger along the linen-covered table.
Jack nodded and took a sip of the cider in his glass, letting the cool alcohol flow down his throat before answering. “It’s very different,” he said, attempting some form of diplomacy. It was very different from the magical place he’d dreamed up in his head. Ripped tents, patched caravans, and as ragtag a group of people as you’d ever be likely to meet—that was the reality of the Carnival.
“We’ll get things sorted tomorrow. You’ll be able to help with the set-up, get a handle on how things are run,” said Garth.
Jack nodded absently. What had he gotten himself into? Setting up a Carnival? What would his mother have said?
It would have broken her heart and, at the same time, made her madder than a hornet. He half-smiled as he envisioned his mother’s expression whenever his dad did something stupid.
And then an equally familiar ache reminded him he’d never see that particular expression again.
Jack pushed his hand through his hair. Why had his father wanted to come back here so desperately? Why had he missed this so much? He’d been better off in his nice, clean house.
But that was the point. Now that Jack’s mother was gone, there was no one looking after Blago. His house wasn’t so clean anymore. Jack could only do so much, and his sister was living in Europe, so she was even less useful. He glanced at his father. Maybe that was what this was about. A new situation, a new challenge to keep him interested in life.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rilla talking to the strongman with her serious expression. It probably wasn’t fair to observe her so closely at her father’s wake. He knew what it was like to lose a parent, and it didn’t involve being particularly lucid this soon after the event. She was one of the few in the room who looked unhappy to be there. A little lost, even.
It made her seem very young.
He steeled himself. He couldn’t feel sorry for her; she was the competition. If he really was going to help his father convince these people they were better off with Blago in charge, he would be running a campaign against her.
She wasn’t going to feel friendly toward him by the time they were finished.
***
Accepting the glass of cider Christoph handed her, Rilla took a sip. The familiar taste of her father’s brew caught her off-guard. She blinked, the tears threatening to spill over. Wiping at her cheek, Rilla took a second, bigger sip. She would get through this.
“The wind’ll change on them eyebrows. Then you’ll be in trouble,” Christoph said.
“Frowning adds character. The audiences appreciate it.” Her voice was low-pitched and the tears were adding gravel to her throat.
“If you don’t scare them away first. Them eyebrows fluff up like a cat that’s cornered when you scowl.”
“Kids love a scary Ringmaster. You know that.”
Christoph nodded toward Blago. “Maybe you should be making the rounds as well. Them two are at it already.”
“It’s my father’s wake. I’m going to eat and drink and remember him as best I can.” Rilla scowled over at Blago and Jack.
Christoph’s mustache twitched. “He’d have sent you off to campaign himself if he was here. You know that better’n most.”
He was right. Her father would have been out there working the room, chatting to friend and foe alike. He could convince a crowd to follow him over a cliff. He’d often told a story where he had actually sold ice to an Eskimo.
But Rilla wasn’t her father, and her talents were different. She was better at sitting and watching and listening. She learned just as much from a quick glance or an involuntary twitch as her father had from bluster and bullshit. She could—had been for years—organize everything, from the Carnival’s budgets to what and when the animals were fed.
You have to learn to take center stage, girl. I know it doesn’t come natural to you. But if you’re going to keep the Jolly name in lights, you’ve got to learn.
Her father’s voice rumbled inside her head. Rilla rolled her shoulders, trying to loosen the knots. Another sip of Abba’s cider and she felt her muscles relax. She surveyed Blago and his son again. Garth didn’t seem to be paying undue attention to what the old showhand was saying.
His son, this greenhorn Jack, wasn’t paying much attention to Blago, either. He was leaning back in his chair, hands around a glass of cider, watching the room
from narrowed eyes. His face was partially hidden in shadow, but she thought she saw tightness around the lips, a line between his brows that indicated… something.
There was an aura about him that made her keep watching. He was tall, with dark eyes and an angled face that hid what he was thinking. Beside Blago, who gestured wildly, the son seemed motionless.
He was like a predator, a hunter assessing his prey.
Rilla shivered. Was that right? Did Jack, this outsider, see them as prey? She trusted her intuition, and right now it was screaming that she should run.
But she wasn’t in the jungle and running wasn’t an option. So she would do the next best thing: she would find out as much as she could about Jack Knight, because Christoph was right. If there was a weakness in Blago’s claim, it was his greenhorn son, and the more she knew, the better armed she would be.
A light touch on her elbow interrupted her thoughts.
“It’s starting, Rilla. Look at Garth.” Joey crouched down beside her, his young face half-covered by shaggy brown hair.
Her heart dropped and she turned toward Garth. Joey was right. Garth’s eyes had lost their white edges and were now swirling with different shades of black.
The Gift had started. A Mark had been found.
“How can it have found a Mark? We ain’t even opened yet.” Joey’s voice was little more than a whisper.
“The Carnival knows what it wants. It doesn’t have to wait for the Mark to come to us.”
“Does this mean we gotta stop the party?”
“No. But we convene first thing in the morning. Pass it around. Let everyone know.”
Joey nodded and raced off.
Rilla took a deep breath. Almost of their own volition, her eyes returned to Jack Knight. He was staring at Garth, who now had the all-black mirrored eyes that meant a Gift was in progress.
Jack looked shocked by the change in Garth, and Rilla wondered how much his father had actually told him. He was a greenhorn, after all. Perhaps they should have been more careful about what they showed him. Even though he was technically Carnival through his father, he wasn’t raised Carnival, and he was no different from any other Ordinary.
