The Bones of Ruin

by Sarah Raughley

  It hurt to ask questions with not even a hint as to the answer. Sometimes, during those lonely nights, it hurt more than death. And she knew death.

  “It’s the way a lot of them are, those Africans,” she’d heard a juggler say one day as they were cleaning out the buckets for the caged tigers. “They don’t age quickly, I swear it. I’ve heard Granny Marlow’s hair didn’t start to gray until she crossed sixty.”

  It was a good enough explanation for now, though another decade or so and it’d be rather difficult to hide her un-aging body, even in a place known to revel in oddities. Iris knew her time was running out. The anxiety of when it would end often prickled her skin.

  “Hmm… you’ve gotten rather heavy,” Jinn casually noted as he held his position underneath her.

  Iris pried her eyes open for the glare she aimed at him. “How dare you,” she snipped.

  “Really, though. This is harder than it should be.”

  “Quiet, you crank.” Though the corner of her lips turned upward.

  With a push, he bent back and let her drop to the rope behind her. The crowd erupted. An expert routine from only the best.

  “Hmph. Still speaking as arrogantly as a real royal,” Jinn said as they both waved to their adoring spectators.

  “And who says I’m not one?” she returned with a little smile.

  A short-lived smile, for her eyes had just caught a curious sight down below. A young man stood apart from the rest of the crowd, watching. His black tweed sack coat was open just enough for her to see his vest and gray shirt. Well-cut trousers and pristine shoes. Outwardly, he looked like any other wide-eyed, handsome young English gentleman, worthy of the attention he drew from the women walking past him. Clean and proper—except for his hair, a black, bloody war zone upon his head. Perhaps that was what those ladies had been staring at.

  But something within Iris stirred as it always did when things did not feel quite right. A kind of buzzing underneath her skin, like her nerves were on fire, like they’d been plucked and cut too many times. The hazy image of a face shrouded in darkness arose in her mind’s eye.

  A memory?

  Before the day she met Coolie, Iris didn’t have any. None. Even now, she didn’t know why. But what she did have was a sense. A sense that she needed hide herself from something—from the world, perhaps. And also a sense that there was a task she needed to complete. A task so important, it was burned into the marrow of her bones.

  There was a reason she existed. She just couldn’t remember what it was.

  Those two opposing instincts were each as strong as the other. They’d get tangled up and muddled when she tried to examine them too closely. She may have settled on hiding for now, but that didn’t quiet the powerful pull nagging at her from deep within. That task she had to achieve no matter what, lost along with her memories.

  An acute pang suddenly swelled up inside her. Panicking a little, she tried to calm herself, but her gaze turned back again to the young man, who wouldn’t take his eyes off of her.

  His eyes. A pair of powerful, shocking, glinting sapphires. On her. Only on her.

  And his knowing grin.

  A flash of pain rocketed through her skull. She winced, and when she opened her eyes again, she looked upon a room filled with Egyptian artifacts.

  The exhibit…, a voice deep within her whispered. South Kensington…

  Muscle latching onto bone. Flesh layering over muscle. Nerves humming. A memory of agony powerful enough for her to feel the pain, just for a moment, physically in her own body.

  A memory.

  Madame, tell me… are you… a goddess? The words of a quizzical child filled with awe.

  Iris’s entire body chilled. A new memory?

  It rushed through her so quickly, so suddenly that when she spun around at Jinn’s prodding to wave to the other side of the crowd, her feet slipped…

  And she fell.

  Iris’s heart stopped, her breath snuffed out as the crowd began shouting. Jinn leaped off the tightrope in a panic, yelling her name, catching the rope with one hand and extending his other in an effort to save her. Their fingers touched, but hers slipped quickly past. It was too late.

  Iris hoped the gawking men and women below would have had enough sense to catch her, but that was, apparently, the problem. As her body hit a wave of arms, her head turned too quickly. The last sensation she felt before everything turned dark was her own neck snapping from the sheer force of the fall.

  Alas, she had died.

  And when she came to again and snapped her neck back into place, she found herself crumpled in a large, hairy, rather shocked gentleman’s arms. Raising a hand, she wiped the drool dribbling down the left side of her lips.

  That shocking hallucination she’d seen before falling… It couldn’t have been… But was it really a memory? She looked around, unable to find the man who’d caused this mess, but by now he was the least of her problems. Not too much time had passed, which made sense, since the injury itself wasn’t too… involved. It wasn’t as if she had to regrow a limb or two. However, she was still in the middle of a confused and terrified crowd. Children were crying. Well, Iris felt like crying too.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Coolie gaping at her. The few times she had died in the past due to an accident or some other unfortunate circumstance, she’d always had the good fortune to do so out of his sight.

  This was very bad.

  She had to come up with a plan and fast. She was supposed to be a circus performer. She was supposed to be a freak only within the boundaries of human imagination.

  Imagination. Yes. Like Coolie had once said, people were willing to believe anything…

  Gathering up renewed strength, she leaped out of the gentleman’s arms, landed perfectly upon the ground, lifted her arms above her head, and took a very gracious bow.

  “Did I surprise you?” she asked, using her light, melodic voice to address them for the very first time, though according to Coolie’s rules, she was never supposed to. “Acting is another skill of a clown, or did you forget?” And she winked. “The drama and danger you’ve witnessed today is just one of the many treats awaiting you at George Coolie’s circus. Come one, come all!”

  She waved her hands at them in triumph.

  Silence.

  A pregnant pause.

  Then, scattered clapping.

  Soon, Iris found herself once more surrounded by hoots and hollers, though she caught a nervous laugh and a twitchy hand here and there.

  At first Coolie could only stare. But the man was a professional, and business was business. He puffed out his chest once more and, trying very obviously hard not to expose the aftereffects of his shock, let his booming voice reign over the din.

  “Th-there you have it! The Nubian Princess and the Turkish Prince, ladies and gentlemen!”

  For now at least, the crowd continued to cheer.

  2

  MAKE NO MISTAKE; DYING WAS painful. The first of her deaths that Iris remembered couldn’t leave her even if she tried. March 17, 1876, two years after she’d joined the Coolie Company. A winning St. Patrick’s Day show in Ireland filled with boisterous applause had led her to a crowded celebration at a tavern that resulted in tragedy when a runaway carriage careened into her as she staggered drunk and alone along the bank of the River Suir. The cabbie ended up cowardly running off to avoid facing his crime while she ended up facedown in the icy waters.

  Worse than the feeling of her heart quivering to a stop was the sharp jolt of it starting up again as she lifted her head out of the river and expelled all the water from her lungs in the dead of night. Before then, she’d known there was something wrong with her. Her lack of memories. Her uncanny senses, her ability to feel the life, the essence within others.

  But this… Coming back to life felt unnatural and twisted. A horrible lie digging through her body to poison her heart. She’d always felt at least a little tainted. Built up over years, it was more than
enough to drive one off a trapeze.

  In fact, it did one very painful night.

  And when she let go of that trapeze bar with a silent apology to dear Granny and plummeted to the ground—she still didn’t die.

  That was also the very day she met Jinn.

  “Iris?” As if on cue, Jinn hissed, snapping his fingers. “Iris!”

  A nudge in the ribs, and Iris was back at camp in Coolie’s office—a mahogany trailer stationed near one of their animal tents, held up on a pair of wheels with a short rickety fold-out staircase digging into the grass littered with… well, litter. His office was big enough to hold a few people, though if even Jinn’s head was close to touching the ceiling, there was no possible way the eight-foot couple was getting inside. Coolie should have been more thoughtful. Although the idea of Coolie being thoughtful was almost enough to make her giggle.

  Coolie was now at his desk with a bottle of vodka, half-finished, to his right, his face planted on a scattered pile of bills and paperwork. Since he was muttering incoherently, his puffy red cheeks wobbling with each ratty breath, Iris took the time to nudge Jinn back.

  “I must have drifted off with my eyes open again,” she whispered. Admittedly, it did happen from time to time. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Just Coolie ranting about his debts.”

  “So nothing new, then.”

  The apples, figs, and medicine she’d bought for Granny on the way back to the camp were still in the handwoven wicker basket her arm was now tired of carrying. Coolie had called them into his office the moment her feet had touched camp. Without a doubt, it had to do with her fall this morning, she’d thought fearfully. But ten minutes of ranting later and her fear turned to annoyance. The man was clearly drunk. The bottles on the floor were empty for a reason.

  He was usually a mess, but this was still ridiculous. It was a wonder he’d been able to run the company for this long. His face was splotched red the first day she ever met him, his lecherous eyes looking her up and down….

  Actually, the day she’d met Coolie was an odd one. There was one thing in particular she remembered: herself, standing in the middle of a chaotic scene—men, women, and children fleeing the grounds of a fair in South Kensington ten years ago, bowler hats and purses abandoned on the grass. Herself, wearing a short white dress fluttering in the breeze. And then walking in a daze through the city streets until she found Coolie. As if possessed.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jinn staring at her. Quickly, he straightened his broad shoulders and faced forward.

  Jinn was in his old, fading red performance attire, the worn-out leotard he now used for practice. The faint hint of sweat drifting from his toned, lean body told Iris he’d indeed been practicing before being called in by Coolie for this sorry display.

  “What?” she hissed, noticing Jinn’s eyes on her again while Coolie chugged more vodka.

  “Just surprised.” Jinn gave her a sidelong look. “You bouncing back from that drop.”

  Here it comes. Iris stiffened. He hadn’t yet said a word to her about this morning’s incident. About her almost certain death.

  About the naked despair written across his face as she fell from the rope.

  “What happened this morning?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to acknowledge his suspicions—and even less, his concern. The latter made her more uncomfortable.

  Concern. She hid a little smile. Such a stark difference from the day he found her, a broken doll lying lifelessly on the ground that hot day in August when she’d thrown herself off the trapeze. The day they met.

  That day was the culmination of all the endless, unanswerable questions she had for herself. Like: What was she? A devil? A beast?

  How old was she? Where did she come from? Did she even have parents?

  Why could she remember nothing before that day at the fair, the day she wandered through the streets of London, found Coolie, and asked for a job at his company?

  What was the uncanny instinct that told her his doorstep was where she needed to be—that within Coolie’s company was a safe presence she could rely upon? That safe presence turned out to be Granny Marlow, a woman whose bright, beautiful essence felt somehow familiar to her, like the smell of nutmeg on a freshly baked custard pie. She knew she was right the moment she met the old woman knitting a headpiece for one of the trampolinists.

  But why did Granny, someone she’d never met before, feel so familiar to her? Why couldn’t she remember? Why couldn’t she age? Why couldn’t she die?

  Back then, just like now, no one at the company knew about her secrets, and there was no telling what they’d do if they did know. Sell her for some shillings? Coolie certainly would.

  That last time in Ireland was a fluke. At the top of the trapeze, she’d decided to prove it by dying this time. Her death would fix the natural order of things. That’s what she’d chosen to believe. And then she would never have to ask herself a single answerless question again.

  Iris could still remember it: the sweet lullaby of gravity and wood crushing her bones inside her body. And when she awoke again, her legs and arms were at odd angles, her neck slowly repairing along with her pulverized organs.

  “What am I?” she had whispered once her lungs were working again and she could finally speak, though she still couldn’t move even after an hour had passed.

  Footsteps. Iris hadn’t even been able to shift her head to see who it was. Coolie? No, Coolie’s essence, or whatever it was called, was cold and slimy like him. This person was completely different from her employer. She had felt that even before he opened his mouth to speak.

  “I think I’m lost.”

  Finally, Iris managed to flop her head to the side to see a young man wearing normal slacks and a half-tucked white shirt carrying a paper bag filled with bread. Had Coolie hired new staff? This man looked too handsome to stay behind the curtains. But even as she’d lain flat on the ground, the boy’s bored, sullen gaze had barely flinched.

  “Um.” The boy tilted his head to the side.

  “Just getting some rest,” she said, answering his silent question. “What? Can’t a girl lie down where she pleases?”

  “Screwed up a stunt, did you?”

  “I don’t screw up anything,” she bit back. With great effort, Iris turned her head to look up at the ceiling lights. “Do you need something?”

  “I start tomorrow,” the boy said simply. His voice was deep, though he looked to be in his teen years. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to be sleeping.”

  Iris then remembered that Coolie had hired a new performer. She’d heard about it that morning. Wasn’t he supposed to be fire-eating with Natalya?

  His nonchalance at the sight of her had annoyed her more than her inability to move her legs. “Sleep on the dirt for all I care.”

  “Okay. Should be softer than a wooden stage, at least.”

  He turned as Iris gritted her teeth. But before he’d gone too far, he swung back around.

  “By the way, you’re bleeding.” He pointed at the little pool of blood leaking out from the back of her head.

  “Oh?” She’d noticed. She just couldn’t move to mop it up.

  “You’re not going to get it checked out?”

  “I told you, I’m fine. Except that I can’t move,” she added under her breath, but when one of the boy’s eyebrows raised, she knew he’d heard her. “Besides.” She paused and pressed her lips together. “It doesn’t matter whether I live or die.”

  The boy sighed and placed his bag of bread on the ground. Then, before she could utter a word to stop him, he scooped her up in his toned arms and carried her out of the tent.

  “S-stop!” Iris stuttered, heat rising in her face as he crushed her against his chest. She felt small curled up in a ball, like a kitten nestled against him. “You don’t have to—”

  “Tell me where your room is,” he said. “And mine, for that matter. You can manage that much, can’t you
?” Iris scowled as he paused. “Afterward… I’ll fetch a doctor. You need one.”

  After giving him directions, Iris stayed silent for some time. Her instincts had been right. This boy didn’t feel like Coolie at all. His essence was quiet and calm like a gently flowing brook, though something irregular stirred deep within it. A turmoil he kept well hidden. Even still, she’d known deep in her heart—he wasn’t someone to fear.

  “I’m Iris,” she said begrudgingly as he carried her through the grounds, the sound of his boots crushing grass crisp in the cold night air.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  A surly, rude little ass, though, wasn’t he? Iris bit her lip, ready to spit back a retort.

  “Iris…,” he said, considering the name. A name she couldn’t remember being given. “Well… I suppose that’s useful information to know. And also…”

  Iris waited, staring up at him as the moonlight reflected off his dark hair.

  “Don’t say it doesn’t matter whether you live or die. It always matters to someone.”

  It always matters to someone. Now, two years later, it was clear that her death had mattered to Jinn this morning. She could never forget the look on his face. Iris wished she could catch the flutter inside her stomach and squash it like a mosquito.

  Right now there was a hint of lingering suspicion in Jinn’s expression that she didn’t like, but she played it off with a teasing smile. “Worried, were you? Can’t live without me?”

  Jinn didn’t take the bait. “The accident this morning. That was a long drop.”

  “Tightrope dancing’s a dangerous field. I’ve gotten out of plenty of scrapes, you know that.” Iris raised her chin smugly. “I’m pretty hard to kill.”

  “Like a cockroach.”

  Jinn dodged her punch with surprising ease. His reflexes were almost as good as hers.

  Eventually Coolie’s slurred words began to form coherent sentences again. “And I’m telling you two, this performance tonight is important. Very. Important. You two are one of my top acts—no, ‘The Nubian Princess and the Turkish Prince’ is my top act!”