Chapter One Emma Baldwin
CHAPTER ONE
Emma Baldwin
When the moonlight hits the circus tents, they bleed. Ruby drops turn to rose petals before raining down on the audience.
“A symbol. That’s all anybody wants. Something that feels bigger than them.
No matter the city, no matter the time.” Mom always said this when we were fortifying the fabric together, using our hands to imbue the crimson silk with our gifts.
“Something magical, something beautiful. And if we remind them that we’re the best Black circus on the circuit in the process, what’s the harm? ”
Oohs and aahs ripple as the crowd begins to file into the big top. They settle in their seats and prepare for the show as that bloody rain begins.
I watch from my perch above in the tent’s sky well, distracted by a full moon the color of decaying bones. A warning. It looks close enough to touch.
I’m tempted to launch myself into the Harlem night as fireworks splash across the sky. I’d become a beautiful dark comet. Then I’d burn away.
My sister Grace used to say doing something like that would give our enemies too much joy, though. And I’d be dead before the show began. A waste. A disappointment. I suppose she was right.
The crowd gapes up at the light spectacle as they enter from outside.
Our signature start to every show. But they never seem to see me, oblivious to where I sit, legs dangling over the side of the massive gold ball that crowns the big top.
Because no one is really looking. No one wants to see the strings or learn how magic is really made. They don’t want to know the sacrifice.
The wind sends a ribbon spiraling from my hair. I lean forward, trying to grab the swirling silk, but it’s pointless. The breeze has freed it while I’m stuck here, fulfilling a duty I never wanted.
My existence is a movie stuck on repeat.
Show after show. Eight o’clock: the lights dim.
8:05: fireworks. I glance at my watch: 8:10.
I look down. Click. Right on time, the ball under me illuminates, a beacon inviting the audience to prepare for wonder and amazement.
This week marks our circus’s arrival in the hundredth city of my short lifetime.
Countless rabbits turned into rainbows; countless stars spun into dreams. My fake smile masking my boredom all the while.
At eight thirty, my stage performance will start.
The thought of doing the same thing again, night after night without my sister, makes the downward slope of the tent roof and the crumbling path below look delicious.
My blood would join the rose petals collecting on the fedoras and pillbox hats. No one would notice.
Voices roar below. More fireworks explode above, leaving trails of smoke and fountains of glowing pink flashes. My pulse pounds in my ears. I wish I could fly away from it all. If I had that sort of magic, I’d be long gone, but sadly that’s not how my gifts work.
The light show winds down like clockwork, the gold sparks burning the air.
Briefly, I wonder: What if I wasn’t there to watch my brother, Demetri, as he reaches into the minds of the audience members, compelling them to join us onstage?
What if I never saw Mom, “the Infamous Isabel Baldwin,” use her telekinetic skills to lift the big top and its crowd high above the city like nothing more than dolls?
What if I never again admired my papa in his decadent ringmaster suit as he conjured animals and transformed our silk tents into faraway landscapes like Moroccan deserts or Grecian arenas?
Would the show go on without me?
The dark desire to run flickers inside me again.
I look down. More people stream past in a wave of colorful suits, ties, and hats.
Oceans of flowing skirts, matching gloves, crocodile purses, wombat collars, and fur stoles—the height of fashion for 1943.
I envy them. Their freedom is more enchanting than the magic pulsing through my veins.
They’re not cursed to forever run from an enemy like we are.
I feel the heat of eyes on me, reminding me there’s no more time for wallowing in fantasies.
An old white man glares upward, finding me.
His gaze burns. His sharp chin is as pointy as a dagger.
His scowl tells me he’d be the type to wave a Confederate flag.
I smirk, knowing it’s probably the first time some of these white folks have looked up to a Black person.
It makes me wish I got to see more brown and black faces.
Customers who can’t afford tickets to our sold-out shows with their rations in this era.
Sometimes after experiencing so much of the future, I forget how sharp the color lines of the past are.
The skies above Harlem will ignite soon. Not with our fireworks, but with the flames of white-owned businesses burning. The Harlem Race Riot of 1943. The neighborhood has no idea what’s to come.
A cloud trembles overhead. Then, a snapping sound, so soft that only I can hear it, before silver flecks of stardust drizzle down like glitter.
The people below cheer. Some twirl in the shadow of the big top, dancing in the sparkling rain.
The crowd doesn’t know that I’ve conjured the stardust, but they do know to expect the unexpected.
Le Cirque Noir’s banners flicker, full of promises: THE MAJESTIC.
THE MARVELOUS. THE MAGNIFICENT. MAGIC MADE REAL AT THE GREATEST SHOW OF ALL TIME!
A small girl with hair as dark as raven feathers claps her hands and stares at the shimmering specks, her joy lighting up the night.
My sister’s happiness used to do that too.
The moon disappears, and the stardust thickens into a haze that hangs over the crowd like cotton candy, blocking their faces from my view.
Grace and I would watch the patrons arrive from up here.
We’d make guesses about what sorts of secrets they had or where they were headed after the show.
She never shared my jealousy of them. I can almost hear my sister’s voice whisper on the breeze, “We’re the lucky ones, Emma.
We’ve performed everywhere from New York City to San Francisco.
I’ve traveled from 1880 to 2050. I’ve seen the world in so many forms, never bound by the limits of time.
This life is everything! We’re blessed!”
And I guess I was when she was here.
But now, it’s just me.
My hand rises to the necklace at my throat—a miniature silver clock cradled by a crescent moon, a star poised on the other side. My star. I kiss it softly before climbing off the ball and carefully positioning myself on the slope of the tent roof. I need to be more like Grace and less like myself.
Past the circus entrance gate, the tops of flashy cars shine in the parking lot—Cadillacs, Hudsons, Kaisers.
Most of them this year’s models. I imagine getting behind the wheel of one, racing along the highways.
Not that I’d ever be allowed to. After what happened to Grace, my family holds me so close it’s suffocating.
A raven perches on the wrought iron fence. Its eerie call makes the hairs on my neck stand up. Grace was terrified of ravens. Even Mom believes they’re a bad omen, but she never says why.
I narrow my gaze. “What do you want?” Unease fills my chest as its eyes burn into mine.
With a sudden flap of its wings, the raven dives like a missile in my direction. I duck, and it brushes against my hair before flying away. My stomach roils even after the bird is out of sight. What does it mean?
Our circus clock chimes. Eight thirty. I don’t have any more time to think about the bird.
Mom’s eyes find me. I push myself forward, rocketing my body down the circus tent.
The wind rushes through my hair, loosening a few strands from my victory rolls.
Stars sparkle at the edge of my vision. My tiny skirt flutters as I launch myself into the night sky and prepare for the perfect landing on Mom’s platform.
It’s showtime.
“Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages!” The gleam of the footlights and layers of makeup give Papa’s handsome face a mysterious glow. “Welcome to Le Cirque Noir!” The sequined jacket of his ringmaster costume shimmers in the torchlight. “The place where magic is a dream made real.”
From his podium, he gazes around the tent, his smile proud as he takes in the opulence.
Colorful paintings and lush tapestries in fine pink-and-gold satin and velvet line the tent’s inner walls.
The whole space is illuminated by large torches with black stars and blue constellations etched on their handles.
Their light casts strange shadows onto the seated crowd.
The liver-spotted old man who glared at me earlier is in the front row, his scowl cemented in place.
Papa inches closer to the crowd, his jeweled buttons shining and his white glove stark against the gold ball on the top of his cane.
“For generations the Baldwin family have traveled the world and entertained audiences. We have showcased for you the world’s most prominent singers, performers, and peddlers of otherworldly delights.
And tonight”—he lifts his left hand, and with a swirl of white, his glove floats off his dark brown fingers—“we carry on that tradition!” The glove expands into a massive balloon above the audience.
With a loud pop, it explodes into white lilies that shower the crowd.
“Welcome to the best show in the land, the best show of all time!”
Applause erupts, and some rise, clapping delightedly.
They probably think he did that trick with wires or string so thin you can’t see it.
But what Papa conjures is real—there’s no sleight of hand.
If you’re quick enough to catch a lily, its pollen will briefly tickle your nose before the flower dissolves into the breeze.