The circus days bled together.
Jack learned quickly. He rose with the dawn, scrubbed wagons, packed ropes, and helped unload crates too
heavy for boys his size. But he didn't complain. He didn't need to. Each task gave his limbs purpose and his
mind space to breathe. For the first time in what felt like years, Jack wasn't mourning. He was moving.
The crew welcomed him in their own way. No grand words or embraces—just nods, meals, and the absence
of suspicion. Rosy kept pace beside him through most of it, offering quiet instruction and the occasional
elbow to the ribs when he drifted too far into thought. She was hard on slackers and quick to defend the
clumsy. She reminded him of Thomas in that way.
He liked her more than he admitted.
Each day brought new lessons. In the mornings, he helped string lanterns and test the pulley rigs for the
aerialists. In the afternoons, he watched rehearsals, soaking in the timing and rhythm of the performers. At
night, he swept the stands or helped Morrow count coin under flickering oil lamps.
He learned to move like a circus man—quick, alert, a little theatrical. He stopped flinching at loud laughter
and no longer looked down when strangers spoke. His hands grew calloused. His arms stronger. He smiled
more.
But sometimes… just sometimes… he felt a twinge.
A sensation in the pit of his stomach, or behind his eyes, like the moment before a thunderclap. He'd glance
over his shoulder thinking someone had spoken—only to find no one there. Once, while oiling a cart axle,
he caught a reflection in the iron that wasn't his own: a face behind his shoulder. Pale. Watching. When he
turned, there was only sky.
He didn't speak of it. Not to Rosy. Not to Morrow. Not even to Eluna, though she hadn't appeared since the
night he left home.
One evening, after the fire-breather's final bow and the crowd's cheers died to murmurs, Morrow called him
over.
"You've got hands like a runner," he said. "Sharp shoulders. Fast reflexes. Ever try acrobatics?"
Jack shook his head.
"No matter. You will now. Be in the back ring tomorrow after breakfast. Ask Helena to teach you the two-
point vault. If you don't break your nose, we'll talk more."
Jack bowed slightly, unsure if he was being mocked.
Morrow clapped him once on the shoulder and walked off whistling.
The next day, Jack met Helena in the training ring. She was lean, all tendon and focus, her hair braided tight
to her scalp. She didn't smile. She watched him approach like she was measuring something.
"You're the farm rat?" she asked.
"Jack."
"Farm rat'll do for now. Let's see if you bounce."
What followed was a blur of rope-burned palms, aching shins, and loud laughter—mostly hers. But by noon,
Jack had stuck his first vault. Sloppy, barely upright, but upright all the same.
"You've got bones like a cat," Helena muttered. "You'll do."
That night, Rosy handed him a tin mug of watered cider.
"You looked like a dying bird out there," she teased.
"I landed it."
"Eventually."
He grinned. "Eventually counts."
She grinned back. "Morrow must see something in you."
Jack looked into the fire.
"I hope I do too."
Later, as the camp quieted and the lanterns dimmed, Jack stayed by the coals while most drifted to their
wagons. The flames cracked softly, casting shadows that danced across the canvas walls.
One of the shadows lingered.
Not quite part of the fire. Not part of the camp.
It was just a moment—a pause too long, a shape that shouldn't have moved when nothing did.
But then it was gone.
And Jack told himself it had always been just a trick of the fire.