by Lisa Fiedler
Callie thought she might faint. Or puke. Or both. “Give me one good reason why.”
“I’ll give you three,” said Quinn. “The Bertière triplets.”
Callie blinked at her mother in amazement. She’s lost her mind. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense, Callie. I watched you say goodbye to them. There was nothing there. No affection, no friendship, no interest. Nothing. You spent fifteen years living and working with those girls, but it was like you’d never even met them. And it was the same with the Cortez boys, and Patty-the-cook’s daughter, Suzette, and Dabney. How many times did you say no to Dabney when he’d offer to teach you to juggle?”
“I already knew how to juggle!”
“I’m aware of that, Callie, and so was Dabney. The juggling was just an excuse. He wanted to spend time with you because he had a crush on you. The point is that there were plenty of kids your age living on the VanDrexel train, but—” Quinn’s voice caught and she turned away.
“But what?” Callie demanded.
“But you didn’t have one single friend.”
Callie’s mouth fell open. “Suzette and I were friends. We studied together all the time.”
“Really?” Quinn looked skeptical. “Who is Suzette’s favorite singer?”
“What?”
“Who’s her favorite rock star?”
Callie shrugged and pulled a name out of the air. “Beyoncé.”
“Nope.”
“Taylor Swift?”
“Not even close.”
“Okay, fine. I have no idea. Why does that even matter?”
“It matters because if she was your friend, you would know that sort of thing.” Quinn shook her head. “It wasn’t even a difficult question, Callie. My God, the girl listened to Shawn Mendes constantly.”
“And that’s the kind of thing you’d have wanted me to pay attention to? Suzette’s pop music obsession? Instead of focusing on my routine?”
“Callie, you spent all your time on that damned tightrope.”
“I spent my time with Gram,” Callie fired back, tears making their way to the surface. “I was training. Practicing. That’s what you do when you want to be the best at something. And I was the best. Everyone knew it. And then you just . . . ruined it.”
Quinn glared but said nothing. Callie glared back; if she thought she had a snowball’s chance in hell of finding her way back to the carriage house she might have turned and run.
“Gram knew what it meant to be a VanDrexel,” Callie said, grinding the words out through her teeth.
“What in the world is that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind. The point is, you were never like us. You never cared about honoring our legacy, you never cared about becoming a star.” She knew the next words rising up in her throat would be hurtful, but somehow she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—bring herself to choke them back. “Then again, you wouldn’t have amounted to much anyway. It’s not like you had any talent.”
“Hey there!”
Callie whirled around to see a tall man in his midfifties coming down the broad front steps of the house. He wore faded jeans, a loose-fitting white linen shirt, and a beat-up pair of pricey tennis shoes. His intentionally shaggy brown hair was shot through with silver streaks, and his tanned face boasted the scruffy sort of almost-beard movie stars grew when they got cast in action-adventure films. His eyes were the blue of pool water.
“Bradford,” said Quinn, blushing. “Hello.”
So this was the Man Behind the Curtain.
“Welcome to the Sanctuary!” he said, joining them on the lawn. “So sorry I wasn’t there to greet you when you arrived, Quinn. The town council called me in for an emergency meeting.” He turned to Callie. “You must be Calliope. I’ve been looking forward to giving you the grand tour. Where would you like to start? Bears? Tigers? We’ve got a lion who’s pretty darn handsome.”
“That’s okay,” said Callie quickly. “Actually, I think I’m just gonna go . . .” Since she couldn’t bring herself to say “home,” she settled on “back.”
Marston looked genuinely disappointed. “Are you sure? I just had the housekeeper brew a big pitcher of iced tea, and I was really looking forward to showing you both around. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis can’t wait to meet you.”
Butler, chauffer, and gardener? Callie guessed, eyeing the behemoth of a house. “I’ve got a lot of unpacking to do,” she said, aiming a polite smile at Brad, which morphed into a barely concealed snarl when she turned it on her mom. “Ya know, before I start school.”
“I understand completely,” said Marston. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he flashed a boyish grin, looking like the world’s most earnest, not to mention well-dressed, ten-year-old. “So how about just one glass of iced tea and a quick tour of the conservatory? Then you can head home and unpack while your mom and I walk the grounds.”
Quinn shot Callie an imploring look. Or was it a threat? Either way, it was clear she was not to say no to the hospitable landlord-slash-boss-slash-Viagra-print-ad-model.
“Sure. Great,” she mumbled.
“Terrific!” Brad inclined his head, indicating that Callie should lead the way.
With a sigh, she trudged up the steps to the Mediterranean mega-mansion. Moments later, frosty tea glasses in hand, the three of them were making their way across the shining marble foyer toward an elegant iron gate. It was a miniature version of the towering one their Uber driver had driven through back at the Sanctuary’s front entrance. As they drew nearer, Callie could see that the gate opened into a glass-enclosed conservatory, lavishly appointed with a small rain forest’s worth of greenery. Every pane of glass, from the floor to the gently arched roof, sparkled as if it had been vigorously Windexed just seconds before.
“What was it you were saying about an emergency council meeting?” Quinn ventured, sipping her tea.
“Seems the locals aren’t entirely thrilled about our ever-growing population of apex predators and thundering herds,” said Marston, reaching into the pocket of his jeans to withdraw a designer keychain. “I guess when it comes to man-eating cats or nine-thousand-pound elephants, folks tend to adopt a firm NIMBY attitude.”
“Nimby?” Callie echoed.
“It stands for ‘not in my backyard,’” Quinn explained. “It’s what people say when they object to something they perceive to be dangerous moving into their neighborhoods.”
“But it’s typically invoked with regard to things like toxic waste dumps and methadone clinics,” Brad added.
“Are they talking about a lawsuit?” Quinn asked.
“Could be. It’s been going on the whole year I’ve been open. But now that you and your wildly impressive credentials have arrived, I’m hoping the fine citizens of Lake St. Julian will relax. We just need to educate them about our mission.” He turned his snapping blue eyes to Callie. “To that end, I was thinking you might want to take on the role of Sanctuary ambassador.”
Quinn was positively beaming. “Callie, you’d be perfect for that job. What do you think?”
Stalling, Callie took a long swallow from her glass; the clinking of the ice echoed through the cavernous foyer. “Um, thanks, but I think I’m gonna pass.”
“Callie!”
“What? I’m just being honest. I’m not interested.”
“And that’s absolutely fine,” said Brad, his tone utterly reasonable. “It was just a suggestion. But may I ask why not?”
“Truthfully?” Callie shrugged. “Nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy.”
“Callie!” Quinn covered her face with one hand, looking mortified. “I’m so sorry Brad. She’s normally not this rude.”
“Was that rude?” Brad laughed. “I wasn’t sure. I don’t speak—what was that, Polish?”
Callie nodded. “It’s an old prover
b my grandmother taught me.” Like she taught me everything else.
“And what does it mean exactly?”
“It means ‘Not my circus, not my monkeys,’” Callie translated. “Basically, it’s just a way of saying, ‘It’s none of my business so I’m staying out of it.’”
“Not my circus, not my monkeys,” Brad repeated, chuckling as he fit one of the keys into the lock of the pretty gate. “Well, here’s the thing, Callie . . . This is my circus, and these are my monkeys. And my tigers, my elephants, my horses, my camels, my bears . . .”
God complex much?
“But mostly”—Brad pushed the gate open and fired off three sharp little whistles—“they’re my monkeys.”
From deep within the indoor jungle, a gleeful chattering erupted, followed by the urgent rustle of palm fronds, and the frantic swishing of twigs. Suddenly, there they were—a springy trio of puppet-sized primates. Their faces were creamy white, as was the fur on their shoulders, chests, and heads, except for a perfectly round marking of black on their heads, which made them look like beret-sporting street mimes.
“Athos, Porthos, and Aramis,” Brad announced, as proudly as if he’d given birth to the three furry little beasts himself. “My monkeys.”
“Capuchins!” Quinn cried out.
“Gesundheit,” Brad joked, as Athos leapt into his arms. Porthos seemed happy just to cling to the billionaire’s leg, but Aramis appeared to be a bit more needy, reaching up with both arms in a plea for Quinn to lift him.
The animal specialist was happy to oblige. “They’re adorable,” she said, as the little white-faced creature nuzzled her cheek.
“Callie,” said Brad, “would you like to hold one?”
Callie was about to explain that she was never particularly comfortable around animals, but Athos was already climbing onto her shoulder. He posed there, pleased with himself, his tail draped around her neck like a living scarf. Callie endured this only long enough to seem polite to both monkey and owner.
“Okay there, See-No-Evil,” she said, “time to go back to Daddy.” As she awkwardly disengaged the capuchin from his perch and handed him over to Brad, another rustling began from the verdant depths of the conservatory.
“Another one?” Quinn gushed.
“That would be d’Artagnan, my chimp.” Brad’s smile flatlined. “Poor little guy’s been through a lot. He’s not as enamored with us humans as these three are. Quinn, I’m hoping you’ll be able to get through to him.”
Just beyond the gate, a pair of cautious amber eyes was peering out from behind a palm frond.
“Has he exhibited any threatening behavior?” Quinn asked, lowering her voice.
Brad looked reluctant to testify against his troubled pal. “He has been a little aggressive from time to time. Nothing overly violent. He just gets anxious when someone a little higher up the food chain comes too close. He screams, he flails, claps his hands . . . So far it’s all a big show, but I don’t have to tell you how strong he is.”
The palm moved again, sweeping away to reveal d’Artagnan in all his swaggering glory. Callie immediately realized that Marston’s use of “little guy” as an endearment was indeed just that; the ape stood nearly four feet tall and must have weighed well over a hundred pounds. “How strong is he?” Callie asked, feeling compelled to back away.
“Strong enough to do significant physical damage if he were so inclined,” Quinn replied.
“Can he kill someone?”
“Callie—”
“Can he?”
“If he were so inclined,” Quinn repeated. “But my job is going to be to prevent that inclination.”
“And mine,” said Brad, “is to make sure that every possible safety precaution is taken at all times, not just in here but throughout the entire Sanctuary grounds.”
D’Artagnan took two tentative steps forward, as though to better assess the tableau before him—three humans and three capuchins. Callie imagined they looked like the opening credit sequence of some bizarre alternate-universe Brady Bunch rerun.
“He’s limping,” she observed.
“His right leg was broken when we rescued him,” Brad explained. “Probably better I don’t tell you how it got that way.”
Now the chimp’s expression changed. His lips pulled back, curving outward and back, showing off his gums and displaying a set of disconcertingly human-looking teeth.
“At least he’s smiling,” Callie remarked.
“That’s the fear grin,” said Quinn, the concern in her voice immediately contradicted by the fact that she was now stooping low and tiptoeing directly toward the chimp, showing him her empty, upturned palms. “Don’t smile back. He’ll think you mean him harm, and he might attack. If you absolutely must smile, make sure your upper lip is covering your top teeth.”
Callie held her mouth closed, lowering her shoulders until she was, like her mother, in a stooping position. Now she could see the hairless places on d’Artagnan’s arms and neck, badly scarred skin from where, clearly, he’d been bound. Pulling his gaze away from Quinn, he looked at Callie, tilting his head this way and that, as if trying to remember her.
Then without so much as a hoot, he ducked under the palm and disappeared.
And for the briefest of moments, Callie almost missed him.
FOUR
New Jersey, 1965
“LET’S GO, FIRST OF May. Up and at ’em!”
The voice slams into my head as if it’s been shot out of a cannon. It’s gruff, and completely unknown to me. So is the muted light pressing against my eyelids and the strange, flat surface of whatever it is I’ve been sleeping on.
Cot.
Train.
Booze.
Right . . . booze. And lots of it: a butterscotch-colored liquid slurped straight from the bottle between intervals of nervous laughter (mine). Disappointingly, the drink had tasted less like butterscotch, and more like the epicenter of the sun.
A rush of images darts into my head: A girl with feathers in her hair . . . a diminutive clown with a crooked nose . . . a lion’s roar, as loud as a jet engine; the clown—Duncan—is in love with the magician’s assistant . . .
It’s a lot to take in, and on top of it all, it seems I am also in the throes of my very first hangover.
I vaguely recall that we left Massachusetts just after midnight the night before last. It was astonishing how quickly the circus could fold itself up and become portable. One minute it was a dazzling small city, the next a popcorn-scented memory lingering over a trampled field.
We’d traveled through the night. The clack and whir of the locomotive lulled me into a deep sleep—a dreamless sleep. And why not? For me, the best dreams were now to be had during waking hours.
Yesterday, I wandered and watched. Almost no one spoke to me, and I didn’t mind. They weren’t rude, just busy. So incredibly busy! I saw stakes being pounded, tents going up, generators humming to life. The making of the show was a show in itself—orders were barked, adjustments were made. I watched dancers dusting their eyelids with shimmering powders before slipping into silken tights. I grabbed a sandwich in the pie car—my first encounter with pastrami on rye. Cornelius and I did not cross paths, but he had advised me to observe, and so I had. Dutifully, hungrily, I observed it all, until it was time to watch the show a second time, again from the bottom bleacher, and somehow I found myself loving it here in—where were we?—New Jersey!—even more than I had loved it in Massachusetts. Perhaps because I had seen the spectacle come to life, and was beginning to know its secrets.
When the show was over, Duncan had found me and told me it was time to meet my new family. I think I may have flinched at the word. Taking note of my reaction, Duncan rephrased.
“Time to have some fun,” he’d said.
Much better. Bring on the alcohol, cue the small talk: Go on, taste it—i
t won’t kill ya! Davis, huh? Got arrested with a fella name of Davis once, in Salt Lake City. Or was it Harrisburg? You from around here, Vicki? Ha! Me neither!
Again, the voice explodes from outside the train car. “Move it, First of May. I ain’t got all day!”
“I’ll be right out,” I rasp, not quite getting the calendar reference, but somehow knowing it’s meant for me.
Rolling off the cot, I pull on my pedal pushers and step into my sneakers, quietly so as not to wake the girl sleeping on the cot opposite mine. The feather boa and the glittery high heels strewn around the train car remind me that she’s a dancer. Her form beneath the threadbare blanket is lithe and long, and her curls, splayed across the pillow, are the rusty red of autumn leaves, though I suspect their shade, rather like the booze I consumed far too much of, comes straight from a bottle.
Stepping outside, I’m hit by an onslaught of strong scents—some human, some animal, fleeting whiffs of sugary things fried in old grease, but mostly piss and paraffin and hay bales baking in the sun.
A stout man in overalls stands with his hands on his hips, scowling impatiently. It seems he’s the yeller. Beside him is a man in a dark suit, and my heart sinks because I’m sure someone has summoned the authorities—whatever branch of the local government is responsible for retrieving teenage runaways.
“Good morning, Miss Davis.”
The “Miss Davis” throws me until I remember with a wave of nausea that I am no longer Catherine Hastings of Brooksvale, Mass. Then, another flash of memory, this one from two nights ago—red coat, white jodhpurs, curling leather whip . . .
“Oh! Mr. VanDrexel,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you without your . . . um . . . epaulets.”
He gives me a jolly laugh befitting a man of his profession. “I hardly recognize myself without them either,” he says. “Unfortunately, my presence is required at a nuisance meeting with some city officials.”
My heart flips over. So he has come to haul me to the police station and send me back to Boston.