Neve wasn't sure whether she was the duck or the cow on that imaginary menu, but she wished she could sprout either wings or horns. If anything, she felt like a chicken, or a silly goose for getting herself into the situation in the first place.
She breathed out slowly, attempting to edge her way back to the fence.
She murmured at the beast in a calm, level tone of voice. A hypnotist had once been part of the troupe. Perhaps the technique would work on animals as well as people.
Jazz looked as languid as ever, but Neve knew that look could be deceiving. She continued murmuring softly at the tiger, hoping to see her eyelids droop.
Before she could fully test her powers as a mesmerist, or get eaten by an elderly and lethargic predator, a flashing silver blade split the air between them, sticking into the dirt.
"Ah, ah, ah, Jazeera. If you eat poor Neve, who will sneak you extra chicken gizzards?"
The Prince of Blades
A genial young man stood by the fence, another knife poised in his fingertips.
The tiger turned to the raw meat. Evidently, she preferred her meal without silverware or unnecessary exertion. Neve pulled the knife out of the dirt and scrambled out of the pen.
Brendan Donnelly was known as "The Prince of Blades." He'd only joined the troupe in the last year. For a man who flung lethally-sharp objects with ferocious force, he seemed remarkably relaxed and good-humored.
Despite his carefree appearance, she suspected he concealed a dark side, along with a wide assortment of throwing knives. She'd only caught rare glimpses of it. After years among circus folks, she knew how often a seedy past could hide behind a polished stage presence.
Still, he was good company, although she wondered how much longer she'd get to enjoy it. Funny, charming, and handsome, the Irish knife thrower was also accurate and fearless. It made his performances both exhilarating and a little terrifying. He'd quickly become one of their best acts. Which probably meant he'd be leaving soon.
Once again, Neve would be left behind and forgotten. She took a deep breath and returned his blade with a rueful gaze.
"Brendan, you rascal. I think you scared me more than you did poor old Jazz. Thanks, though. For a minute there, I thought she was going to bite my head off."
She chuckled, releasing a frisson of nerves from her close call. The tiger may have been ancient and lazy, but she was still a predator. Death by mauling wasn't a pleasant prospect.
Neve kicked a bit of dust from her work boots and frowned down the midway. The strong man, Big Max, performed in front of a crowd of swooning girls. She nodded her head in his direction.
"I've had quite enough getting my head bitten off lately from Big Max, scolding me for not attending our Grand Finale. As if I had nothing better to do than watch Bella spin up and down those silks like a spider for the thousandth time."
Neve rolled her wide brown eyes and attempted to rub some dirt off her rosy caramel cheek. Being around Brendan always made her a little more self-conscious about her appearance.
Most of the time, she didn't even think about the dirt under her fingernails or the stained and patched work jumpers she wore. Her appearance had deteriorated a long way since Papa had called her "my little princess."
The knife thrower licked his thumb like a fussy mother. He rubbed it across a spot on her cheek she'd evidently missed, smirking at her. She blushed under his azure gaze.
He smiled at her, leaning against a painted wagon. Neve managed to grab Roderigo, the little saboteur. She shoved him firmly inside one of the cages. The monkey screeched in righteous indignation at being forcibly detained without a trial.
After all, she hadn't actually seen him try to kill her.
Brendan chuckled at the monkey's outrage.
"Well, we have to fill those seats, don't we?" His voice was a soft, rumbling brogue. "Have to convince the rubes that the World Famous Lang & Perrault's Circus can still pack the house with an aerial act that hasn't changed in ten years, right love?"
Neve snickered.
"Well, after cleaning up after the animals all day, I'm pretty sure there'd be a big empty space surrounding me anyway." She brushed a few loose coils of her ebony hair back from her face. "It's probably for the best that I stay out here."
Despite her recent bath, her jumper and the blouse beneath it were already caked with dirt and sweat. Her boots were coated with all manner of exotic manure. Brendan gave her an appraising look.
"Oh, I don't know. I'd imagine at least a few of the local farmers would be quick to cozy up to a beauty like you just the same. It's not like they don't experience the aromatic joys of animal husbandry every day, anyway."
A sudden connection lit up the young Irishman's blue eyes. "Wasn't your mother New African?"
Neve frowned, faced with yet another memory of her losses over the years.
"Yes, she was. Her parents owned a dry goods store in town. She met my father during the company's first visit to Omaha."
She sighed and shrugged. "I hadn't really ever considered it, but this is probably as close to home for me as anyplace outside my carnival wagon. Papa never would say what part of Italy he'd left behind. Always joked that since they'd refused to claim him before he became famous, he'd refuse to acknowledge them after."
The remembrance of her Papa, laughing in stubborn indignation, brought a sad smile to her face. She imagined his dark eyes, his black mustache, the sharp edge of his cheekbones. Her mother's face was fuzzier, worn away by the three additional years she'd been gone. Mama was mostly a warm embrace, a beloved scent half-remembered as she fell asleep at night exhausted by the day's work.
"Do you have any family here, then? Some good, honest farm folk to reform your vagabond ways?" Brendan looked a bit uncomfortable at having stumbled into such a difficult subject. It was almost a relief to Neve. He was usually so charming she wondered if he'd ever experienced an awkward moment in his life.
"No kin that I know of," she said, looking past him at the crowds of rural families and well-to-do merchants from town. "Mama was an only child. Her parents were lost in the Mechanical Wars while she and Papa were in Europe. I wouldn't even know where to start looking to find the rest of her family. Besides, why on earth would I leave this paradise?"
She waved an arm encompassing the animal pens, the midway and the back of the big top. Brendan snickered in reply.
Now that her chores were complete, she hoped she could enjoy the luxury of a quick nap. Those hopes were dashed when Brendan grabbed her hand, pulling her off balance.
"Ahhh!" she yelled, waking Malviano the macaque. She tumbled off the fence and fell into Brendan's waiting arms.
"Gotcha!" he shouted triumphantly, as if he'd rescued her, rather than being the one to make her fall in the first place.
"What was that all about? I could've broken an arm!"
Neve tried to sound indignant, but it was hard not to laugh. Brendan bounced her in the air a few times and then tossed her to her feet.
"No, you couldn't have. My reflexes are much too fast for you to have hit the ground. Not to mention you're more agile than those monkeys. But you were about to fall asleep. That's a criminal waste of precious free time, when you could be helping me. My performance was a little off tonight. I need to go over a few of the newer tricks a bit more."
Neve groaned. She tried to help the performers whenever they asked, but remaining calm and collected while Brendan flung his knives at her was hard on even her nerves. She dug in her heels, her khaki skirt flapping around her ankles.
"Not tonight, Brendan. I'm tired. I'll yawn. Or stretch. Or slouch. And the next thing you know, I'll have a blade sticking out of my liver."
She gestured at her tiny waist, but Brendan entwined her arm around his and shook his head.
"Never happen. Your liver is more in jeopardy around Doc Wellers and his medicinal tonic, which back home we called by its proper name: whiskey."
"Then you'll probably hit me in the eye. My new nickname w
ill be Patchy. I really need depth perception and peripheral vision. It helps me avoid homicidal monkeys attempting to feed me to the bigger carnivores."
Without really meaning to, she'd already walked out of the animal pens arm in arm with him. It was hard to notice her feet moving when they were so tired. It was also hard to notice much of anything when Brendan was looking at her. The man was distractingly handsome.
"You'll be perfectly safe. I promise. Come on. What would you rather be doing with this fine New African evening, love? Helping your handsome friend or sleeping next to a pile of smelly animals?"
Neve raised a considering eyebrow, tapped her chin a couple of times as if thinking it over, and turned back towards the animal pens. She hadn't gotten two steps before Brendan was in front of her again. He blocked her path, dark eyebrows furrowed in mock indignation.
"Come on, Neve! Life's too short to spend it napping and dreaming about the past."
He had grabbed both of her hands. His eyes were still sparkling with laughter, but there was a glimmer of something else, too. Perhaps it was concern. Perhaps it was something else entirely.
"How do you know what I dream about?" Neve's reply was as tart as a green apple. "Maybe I dream of the future. Maybe I dream about some rich, handsome man coming to whisk me away from all this. Maybe I will find some nice farm boy to cure my vagabond ways."
She almost managed to keep a straight face.
Brendan's thunderstruck expression reduced her to snorting guffaws. As soon as she started laughing, he recovered and joined in. He threw a companionable arm around her shoulders and turned her once again in the direction of the midway.
"You almost had me going there for a minute."
Surprises and Surveillance
Bella stalked through the midway, ignoring the gawking patrons and workers alike.
She'd taken a moment after leaving the big top to dress in one of her most flattering ensembles and touch up her hair and makeup. Not that she doubted her ability to convince Lang to get rid of the Bianchi girl with her own natural charms. All the same, it never hurt to come prepared. He might be a little resistant to the idea, out of some misplaced sense of duty.
She'd make him see that his duty was to the circus as a whole. The girl was terrible for morale. Who wanted to see some grieving orphan everywhere they turned, a constant reminder of the worst thing that could happen at a circus?
No wonder the place seemed so gloomy lately. The sooner they unloaded that little piece of dreary baggage, the better.
All around her, carnies chattered their nasal patter at passing farmers, tempting them to try their luck. Ticket hawkers sang enticing, bawdy chants. They tipped straw boater hats and snapped suspenders to draw attention, luring men in bowler hats and suits to explore the mysteries of the sideshow.
Girls in cotton dresses, their bonnets covering braids and curls, fanned themselves with playbills. They waited to ride the clockwork carousel with their sweethearts. Strapping farm boys played at games of strength and skill to impress the girls.
Everywhere, reality and illusion fought for dominance as ordinary people imagined their dreams made real.
At the circus, anything seemed possible.
Alchemical coal oil lanterns swung lazily from the sides of the Ferris wheel, casting a warm glow over the fairgrounds. The air was redolent with honeysuckle and sawdust, melted caramel and popcorn, and whiffs of the burnt-vanilla scent of spun sugar. Although in a few spots, such smells couldn't quite overpower the odor of manure and sweat.
Like a medieval motte and bailey castle, the fanciful and the squalid mingled throughout the carnival grounds.
If the carnival grounds were the castle courtyard, then the two-story omnibus hovering over and behind the ticket booth was the Great Keep.
The booth itself served as the cab of the omnibus. The ticket-taker's seat rotated between the sales window and the steering wheel, depending on whether he needed to part patrons from their coin or guide the monstrosity of a vehicle to their next destination.
Bella strode past him, determined to speak with Lang. The circus' owner and manager lived in the preposterous house that made up the back end of the omnibus.
The narrow Queen Anne style house sat behind the ticket booth, resting on massive axles and a prodigious chassis. The steam engine powering the whole affair was attached to the back, hidden within a ramshackle tool shed.
She pulled up short as she came in sight of the front door. Lang was escorting another man inside. Even from the back, she recognized Vladimir Propp, owner of the Royal Russian Circus. The show wasn't affiliated with the Russian royal family, nor were all that many of its performers or crew from Russia. Like most things about a carnival, the name was all flimflam and hocum. However, it was a very popular show.
Why on earth would Lang possibly be entertaining his biggest competitor?
She slipped in the space between the ticket booth and the house, considering her next move. If Lang was talking to Vladimir Propp, it was a conversation she wanted to hear.
She slipped a hand into her reticule and pulled out a telescoping brass device with a few dials at one end and a tiny Victrola horn at the other. She had found listening in on others' private conversations to be a profitable habit. A traveling circus was filled with as many secrets as people. Most people were willing to do almost anything to avoid having those secrets exposed.
It was another tool for maintaining control in an unpredictable world, like the safety net that hung under her silks.
She crept up behind the caravan and extended the device through the parlor window.
"It's been a long time, Vladimir." She could hear the clinking of glassware. It sounded like Lang was breaking out the good scotch.
"Indeed, Andrew. Too long. Although I suppose it is not so unusual that in our line of business, our paths rarely cross. So tell me, when are you going to take Old Charles' name off that banner?"
Lang laughed in response. "Perrault would likely haunt me to the end of my days. No, as long as I own even a controlling share in this circus, it will always be Lang & Perrault's."
There was a brief pause as both men most likely settled into the armchairs Lang kept in the parlor. Bella was surprised at the tone of their conversation. The men sounded like old friends, as opposed to business rivals.
"So, to what do I owe this invitation? Please tell me you are not going to try to sell me that decrepit Indian tiger again?" Propp chuckled.
"Actually, I intend to sell you more than Jazeera. I'd like to offer you the entire circus, Vladimir. In fact, I'm more than offering. I'm practically begging."
Bella gasped.
"What do you mean? Andrew, this company is your life! I know things have been hard since you lost Bianchi, but surely you can't mean it?"
"I'm afraid I do. You know as well as I do that Perrault had the head for business between the two of us. I've done my best, but after ten years it's time to admit defeat. I can't keep this show on the road much longer."
"Why now? Couldn't you drum up some investors, spend some time rebuilding? Why try to sell it outright?"
"Because I am not the sole owner of Lang & Perrault's, Vladimir."
"What? I thought Perrault left you his share?"
"He did. I'm talking about a third partner."
Surprise riveted Bella to the spot. How had she never heard of this?
"What third partner? Who?"
"Ten years ago, we were at the height of our popularity. We needed to expand, continue to add more acts and attractions. Perrault was getting older. You remember how frail he got to be, those last few years?
"I couldn't continue to manage things on my own, not as fast as we were growing. Charles, bless his soul, was willing to stay as long as I needed him, but he deserved to retire. We decided to offer a partnership to Giovanni."
Giovanni Bianchi?
Bella nearly dropped the listening device.
"But Giovanni's been dead for ten years!"
> "Yes. But his daughter Neve is his sole heir. And she's just turned eighteen. So now you know why I must sell, Vladimir. This circus is Neve's inheritance. At least, one-third of it is."
"Has she demanded it, then? The cash value?"
"No. I'm ashamed to admit, she doesn't even know. I kept intending to tell her, but it never seemed to be the right time. But there's no more putting it off. She's of age. She has a right to know, and a right to receive her inheritance. At least, whatever's left after my miserable mismanagement."
"Oh, Andrew, surely it's not as bad as all that?"
"Look out there, Vladimir! This year's Omaha crowd is smaller than the year before. The receipts were dismal in Wichita and Franklin, and they promise to be no better here.
"Each year, I begin the season hoping to catch a break. Hoping I'll discover some new talent, find some gimmick to restore this company's fame and finances. Each year ends a little leaner than the last.
"I have to sell. I hope to make enough from the proceeds to return to England. Perhaps find a job as a clerk of some sort."
His usually firm British accent choked a bit on that.
"Hopefully there will be enough to provide an adequate income for Neve until she can get established in the outside world. Although I fear that like me, she'll find the world beyond the carnival lights as baffling as the Hall of Mirrors is to most outsiders. I have done a terrible job of preparing my ward for the real world. I'm afraid I'm as much a failure as a guardian as I've been at managing this company."
"Oh, Andrew. I'm sure you've done your best. Losing Bianchi was a terrible blow, and then Charles, too. I don't know how you've carried on, much less taken on raising Giovanni's daughter. Most men would have sent her to a home."
"How could I, after what happened? Every time I look at her, I feel like I should beg her forgiveness. At any moment, she has every right to demand a cash dispensation for the value of her share of the company. We have no savings. Liquidation is the only recourse."
Mirrors and Magic: A Steampunk Fairy Tale (The Clockwork Republic Series) Page 3