As my trembling becomes less violent, Leslie releases her grip and returns to the other side of the table. “If you want to talk about this tomorrow…”
“No!” My response is loud enough to startle Lars from his attempt to psychically throttle Sidney. “I mean, no. Let’s get it out tonight.”
Leslie’s gaze darts to Lars, then back to me, and when she talks, her voice is gentle. “Okay. As I said, there’s a curse, and right now, it’s living in you. And there’s a charm, one that protects the carnival so we, in turn, can take care of you.”
I roll my eyes at that bit but don’t argue. From what Lars said, it sounds like they benefit from the charm far more than I do.
“But what most people who work here don’t know is that the charm and the curse are codependent. When Sidney was stuck in that field after we had driven away, we had a string of accidents. Small things at first. Sprained wrist, twisted ankle. Then our fire-eater got a nasty burn, covered half her body. Of course, we didn’t realize what was going on right away, but afterward, when we had Sidney back safe and sound and the accidents stopped, Lars and I put it together.”
She presses her mouth into a firm line, and right then, I can see how she, like Lars, must be far older than she appears. Every year of her life is in the small tight frown and the hard glint in her eyes. My fingers clench around the fabric of my shirt.
“From right now until the minute you pass on the curse, we are linked,” Leslie says. “The carnival thrives when you thrive. It suffers when you suffer. We need you and you need us, and there is nothing that will change that fact.”
Chapter Six
Emma
I don’t sleep. Even though it’s way past midnight, my eyes never become heavy; my limbs aren’t tired. So with nothing but time on my hands, I worry. Leslie told me Sidney was saddled with the curse for fifty years. Fifty years of not breathing, not tasting, not feeling your heart pound in your chest. Fifty years of the cold. Fifty years of not being able to feel things beneath your fingertips. My parents might be dead and my brothers old men by the time I’m free.
Guilt over subjecting someone else to the same horrors I’m trying to escape keeps rising within me, but I can’t stay here. I have to get back home. It is what it is, I tell myself, even as a smaller part of my brain yells that no one should be subjected to this. But the need to let my family and Jules know that I’m all right is so great that it’s easy to not think about the poor sap that I’m going to swap places with. All I can think of is shaking off this curse like it’s a bad dream.
When I begin to hear people moving and chattering outside Leslie’s trailer, I sneak out, and after poking around a bit, I find the costume trailer. I’m hunting for some outfit that will bring people to my booth. The booth, I’ve been told, holds some of the charm, gifting the carnival with its preternatural luck. And because of this, people are drawn to the fiery red box. I could try my luck walking around the carnival, but supposedly, if I’m in the booth, the people will come to me.
The trailer is full to bursting with costumes of years past, an explosion of feathers and sequins and glitter. Taffetas and velvets and satins press against one another in two neat rows that line the walls of the trailer. And that’s to say nothing of the colors. Aquas, pinks, yellows, and oranges vie for my attention, punctuated here and there by a stark stripe of black or gold or silver.
The sleeve of a plush red velvet jacket calls to me. I want to feel the soft fibers crush between my thumb and forefinger, and though I can see my fingers pinch down, I can barely feel the two layers of cloth, much less tell anything about their actual texture. The fabric twists as my hand clenches into a fist, and…nothing. If I had breath in my body, I’d have just sighed.
I asked Leslie about that. How is it that I’m walking and, more specifically, talking, when my blood moves sluggishly through my veins and I don’t have breath in my body. She said that she didn’t know, that no one knew. The carnival doctor was a former army doc turned clown, and he couldn’t figure it out, either. They hadn’t dared to seek outside help for fear that the original victim would be taken away and tested without end. All they knew was that the cursed was able to think and talk and be a part of the world, while looking like the horrifying offspring of a ventriloquist and his or her dummy.
I’m riffling through a section of clothing that clearly belonged to someone confident enough to parade around in just a complicated set of straps when the springs on the trailer door creak open. A tall blond girl, long lines and sleek muscle, steps inside.
“Hello,” she says, her voice both insubstantial and confident, like she’s a wisp of cloud that refuses to be blown away.
Her hair is pale and slippery, and it hangs down to the middle of her back. Her eyes are dark gray, until she gets closer and then they seem more blue. The way she moves is grace in action, and even standing still I feel awkward and clumsy.
“I was just… Leslie said I could…” I’m not sure why, but I feel like I have to justify my being in the trailer. But the girl walks over and lays what I think is meant to be a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“You’re the new Girl in the Box, aren’t you? My sister and I saw you on your way through the yard last night. And we heard you. It was impossible to do one without the other. I take that back. We definitely heard you before we saw you.”
If I were still capable of it, I would be blushing madly.
“My name is Gin, by the way.”
“Jen? Like short for Jennifer?”
“Sure. Why not,” she says, a small smile picking up the corners of her mouth. “You should hear what they call my sister.”
“And what do they call your sister?”
“Well I call her Wee Tiny Loudmouth,” a brash boy calls from the door, “but I am not they and they call her Whiskey.”
For a second I think of Sidney and his perfectly coifed hair and what had seemed like impeccable clothes, but this boy is not Sidney. His skin is the cool brown of a smoky quartz, not pale like cream. His eyes are wider, his smile smirkier. He’s got on a newsboy cap that’s patterned in a small brown check and a faded Ramones T-shirt under a ratty tweed blazer with corduroy patches at the elbows. He stalks toward us down the thin alley made by the rows of costumes, brushing up against them and sending the hangers swinging. He thrusts out his hand for me to shake.