Chapter Three Emma Baldwin
CHAPTER THREE
Emma Baldwin
As we barrel into the dressing room, I glance up at the conjured clouds that form the ceiling.
I’m stunned by the way this night has gone, and my thoughts loop, the screams, the fog, the stardust. Demetri yanks me forward, and we barge through curtains of crystal raindrops hanging from the ceiling clouds.
“Over there.” Demetri points to the corner. “Let’s go.”
“Murderer!” someone shouts not far behind us.
“Get them!” another voice rages.
A mannequin swings back and forth in a gilded cage in the corner. Demetri reaches through the bars to grab the swing and yanks down on it hard. A flap door materializes.
“Come on!” he barks.
I follow Demetri inside.
This emergency exit will transport us to the other side of the circus, where the rest of the family should be—where we should be safe. We always need to be able to leave quickly if the Davenports show up. But this is the first time we’ve had to use it in a while.
We get swallowed by blackness.
An intense, cool rain greets us in the small closet. Papa spelled this entry with raindrops that’ll sting the flesh of intruders but don’t harm us. The water coats our faces in a cold sheen and makes my clothes cling to my body. “I can’t believe this happened,” I say. “That he died, and I—”
“You better believe it.” Demetri’s boots slap an irritated rhythm as he strides. “Your screwup killed a man.”
My heart plummets at his words. Rain runs down my face and hides my tears. The gravity of my mistake rushes over me as I prepare for the looks on Mom’s and Papa’s faces. Anger and sadness and frustration braid together inside me.
“You put us all at risk,” he says.
I reach for my brother in the dark, but the trapdoor beneath our feet opens.
We’re falling fast. I look up as the trapdoor closes. Wind whips through my hair. My chest burns. I hear my brother grunt, and my eyes adjust until I can finally see his flailing silhouette in the dark. The grits I ate for breakfast threaten to come up as we plunge.
We smash into blinding light before being tossed into the family tent. The hole in the roof closes behind us, vanishing like it was never there. My brother crashes down onto a mountain of furry blankets. I land on him. We are a mess of arms and legs.
“’Bout time you got here!”
I look to the right. Chunky heels tap on the fluffy rug.
My eyes trail up to light brown muscular calves and then to a flowing red dress with white trim.
Mom’s balled fists rest on the curves of the sequined fabric.
She scowls, her fur stole clenching her neck.
“If that trapdoor spell didn’t get you here fast enough, I was gonna drag you by force. ”
Rain drips in my eyes. My victory rolls probably look a lot less victorious now. I can feel my hair frizz. My hand rises to my neck, confirming that my necklace is okay. “Mom … I—”
“I know what you did,” Mom interrupts. She takes a few steps back. A star-shaped clock pin clings to her dress. “Get up. Now!”
Demetri and I scramble to our feet. The mountain of fur blankets vanishes, and a sound whirls through the tent.
Over my shoulder, I see a giant silver theater mask, embossed with swirls of metallic gold, materialize on the wall.
Gold teardrops fall from its eyes as it purses its lips, blasting warm, caramel-scented air through its mouth like a vent.
It dries our clothes and restyles my hair.
“Why, Emma?” Mom raises her voice over the whooshing hum from the mask’s mouth.
Because I’m not perfect. I’m not Grace … I suck in as much air as my lungs can hold before I exhale and answer her. My anger is loose. “Do you ever get sick of doing the same thing every night?” My voice shakes.
“No.” Mom lines the suitcases and trunks in a row, cursing. “I want to keep you breathing.”
I throw up my hands, hoping she understands my frustration, but knowing she won’t. I tug on my trousers, button my blouse over the crumpled costume, and slide into my saddle shoes.
“You killed someone with your gift, and now you’re throwing a tantrum?” Her eyebrows lift.
My voice gets raspy and pained. “I messed up.” I catch a glimpse of myself in the large glass clock that stands near the door flap.
Its sparkly black hands click the hour. My reflection looks terrible, my nostrils flaring, and my eyes are full of vine-like veins.
I look like I toured hell and barely made it back.
“I know it’s been hard for you since Grace—” Mom’s voice cracks. “It hasn’t been easy for any of us. You’re not alone in your grief. But we have too many problems to deal with already. We don’t need you going rogue and making more, like you did tonight.”
“She’s always pulling stupid stunts.” Demetri helps Mom open the lids. “Won’t toe the line.”
“Shut up!” I fire back.
“Funnel that anger into packing bags, girl,” Mom says. “We’re out of time.” The softness I glimpsed a moment ago is already a distant memory. “We got to leave because of you. Folks are probably gonna try to skin us alive. We won’t be able to return to Harlem in the 1940s for a while.”
The worry and panic in her voice sends a chill through me. I think of the mob searching the circus grounds looking for us.
Mom lifts her arms. The dresses, costumes, shoes, and hats jump into the open suitcases and trunks, arranging themselves in neat rows as Mom looks on.
For a moment, I wish I had Mom’s telekinetic power, but when I see her eyes water, it’s a reminder of the pain it causes.
The trunks and suitcases snap closed and lift in a train behind Mom. All of our things ready for transport.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Are you?” Mom challenges. “Because you’re acting reckless as if you don’t know anything about the past. That mob who witnessed the travesty that you called a show could be waiting outside.
Emma, do you know what they would do to you?
In Harlem? In 1943? A Black girl accused of killing a white man?
The riots are coming any day now. A Black man named Robert Bandy will be shot by a white police officer, and this city will ignite.
You know that. We discussed it. You were prepped.
Your show might have detonated that bomb sooner. ”
I wonder if tonight would have been easier for my family if I had been the one who’d been killed, instead of Grace. My shoulders roll forward, guilt making me smaller. “I am truly sorry, Mom. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“So many people tell themselves something’s right when it’s wrong and it just suits them.” She hustles us forward. “Let’s go, now! Your father is waiting.”
“I can’t believe you did this, Emma,” Demetri grumbles as we make our way to the cars.
I ball my fists. “You’re keeping secrets from me.”
Mom whips around to face me. “What did you say?”
“You don’t tell me anything. Only performances night after night, hours of practicing with stardust until my hands are raw and I can barely see straight.
” I grit my teeth. “You haven’t told me how the magic truly works, how we got it in the first place, or why that fog showed up. Demetri was terrified.”
“Fog?” Mom turns pale. She looks at Demetri. “What happened?”
His face is unreadable. “There was none. She’s just trying to deflect attention from what she did.”
“Why are you lying about something we both saw?” I call him out.
He scowls. “Let it go, Emma.”
Mom’s eyes narrow, and she frowns in a way that lets me know the fog was real, even if she and Demetri haven’t said so.
“Get him to tell the truth for once!” I yell.
“Enough!” Mom throws up her hands. “You’re wasting time we don’t have. Keep moving.”
We’re heading for the exit when I see a shadow out of the corner of my eye. It transforms into a black snake slithering across the floor, way too close for comfort. We all freeze.
“Mom!” I whisper.
“Don’t move,” she replies.
The snake’s silver-flecked body unfurls and rises to coil tightly around my wrist.
Demetri stares at the serpent. “What the—?”
The snake flicks its forked tongue. My heart thuds. It opens its pink mouth wide, hissing. I freeze.
Mom creeps closer. “Stay still.” She strokes the snake’s satiny scales. “You’ve done it now.” She carefully lifts the snake away from me. It shrinks into a shiny gray envelope with scalloped scales.
“Relax,” Mom replies. “You couldn’t tell it was a messenger?”
After the night I’ve had, I can’t recognize anything right now.
Mom peers inside the envelope and removes a crisp piece of paper etched with our family seal.
The image is surrounded by dark blue constellations.
She flips the paper over and silently studies its back.
She frowns and thrusts the note in my face.
In gold embossed letters, it reads GET HERE NOW!
A small timestamp in the corner of the note reads NEW ORLEANS, 1922.
“Your grandmère knows,” Mom says darkly.
My stomach gets heavy. Of course Grandmère Clair knows what I did tonight. She always knows everything.
Mom sweeps us out of the tent, her red heels making holes in the grass. “Your father must have the cars around by now. Let’s go.”
A knot of guilt lodges in my throat.
I follow after Mom and the trunks, suitcases, and bags floating behind her pretty red dress. Grass crunches under my feet, an icy feeling creeping up my spine.
What’s Grandmère gonna say? The question drums through me. She’ll do whatever it takes to protect her family—but if we make mistakes … well, let’s just say she’s the one we’ll need protection from.
A cone of light washes over us. A row of silver Bentleys rolls forward, their blue rims glowing, emphasizing their sculpted design and the unmistakable Baldwin family crest on all the car grilles. A thin cloud of glitter surrounds the Bentleys now, like stardust.