Chapter 3
The Wonderhouse Grounds
Morning always starts the same way in Wonderhouse.
Before the crowds arrive, before the lanterns warm, before the Ringmaster’s voice threads through the air like ribbon, the circus breathes in. A slow inhale. A hush. A moment where everything is both awake and dreaming.
I step out of the dressing tent with bare feet and sleep-stuck hair, the greasepaint scrubbed from my skin but still ghosting my pores.
The air is cool enough to bite a little.
Dew coats the ropes and tent seams like silver stitching.
My ordinary, brown face feels raw and exposed without its white mask.
I carry the empty glass jar in the crook of my arm, the black ribbon trailing like a dead thing.
The Joys I caught last night have already been fed into the circus—poured into the lanterns, the carousel and the very ropes that hold the tents together.
The midway is a skeleton of what it will be tonight.
The scent of caramel and popcorn is faint, replaced by the damp smell of dew on canvas and the sharp, animal musk from the stables. The sun is a pale, watery disc that provides no real warmth, but it makes the guy-wires glitter like cold diamonds.
I walk toward the mess tent, my toes curling into the cold, damp earth.
A few other performers move through the mist like ghosts.
The fire-breather is polishing his brass torches, his movements mechanical and joyless.
The knife-thrower sharpens her blades, the shink-shink of metal on stone a rhythmic pulse in the quiet morning.
No one speaks to me. They know I am the vessel, and vessels are best left alone until they are needed.
As I pass the main tent, I see the Ringmaster.
He stands by the entrance, his tall frame silhouetted against the faded red and gold stripes.
He isn't wearing his top hat yet, and his hair is silver and wild in the morning light.
He is looking up at the banner—WONDERHOUSE CIRCUS — ONE NIGHT ONLY, FOREVER—with an expression that looks like hunger.
He turns as I approach. His eyes are sharp, even this early.
"Good morning, Joy," he says, his voice a low vibration that resonates in the quiet.
"Good morning," I whisper. My voice feels rusty, unused.
"The circus felt strong last night," he says, stepping toward me. He reaches out and touches the glass jar, his fingers lingering on the cold surface. "You fed it well."
"It was a good crowd," I say, looking at my feet.
"We need more of that," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "The world is getting darker, Joy. The lights need to burn brighter."
He looks at me then; a long, searching gaze that makes me feel like he can see the hollow place inside my chest. Then he nods and walks away toward the stables, his boots leaving dark prints in the dew-soaked grass.
I continue toward the mess tent, the jar feeling heavier than it should. The morning air is cold, but as I walk, I think I feel a faint, phantom warmth against my ribs—the memory of the grey spark from last night. It shouldn't be there. I gave it away.
But some things, I am beginning to realize, are harder to let go of than others.