Whiskey is propped up on the narrow couch that runs along the back end of the trailer. A crochet blanket that’s more hole than blanket drapes over her knees, and a huge swath of gauze is wrapped around her head. Her father, a tall man who gave Gin his lean muscles and pale hair, and mother, like Whiskey in looks and temperament, are crammed into the area around her.
“Okay, now pay attention,” Whiskey tells me as I wash up in the tiny sink. “I’ve got this down to a science. Yes, I fell. No, I don’t know why. Yes, feel free to fawn all over me and possibly even consider bringing me fudge because I love fudge. Fawning may commence whenever you’re ready.”
“But—”
She cuts me off. “I fell, Benjamin. The end.” She turns to her parents. “You know what I would love right about now? My own pillow. One that doesn’t smell of cigarettes and sardines. Could you please, please, please ask Haps when I can go home?”
Mr. and Mrs. Connolly exchange a quick glance, but it’s clear to see that Mrs. Connolly wants to get Whiskey home, too. So they edge past Emma and me to go talk to Happy. The second the door slams shut, Whiskey is off and running.
“What the hell, you guys?” A slim thread of panic runs through her voice. Her pupils are inky-black spots floating in the whites of her eyes. “I don’t fall. I have never fallen. Never. So something must have happened. Did either of you see?”
“Whiskey,” Emma starts, “I don’t think—”
“No,” Whiskey says fiercely. Her eyes are so wide that the whites ring all around the brown irises. “No. I don’t fall.”
“She’s right,” I say, and they both turn to face me. Whiskey looks at me like I’m the only voice of reason for miles around. “Something’s wrong with the charm, and we’re going to figure out what.”
Chapter Seventeen
Emma
Benjamin is on a warpath. Seeing Whiskey laid up seemed to ignite something in him, and as soon as we leave Happy’s trailer, he takes off.
The fortune-tellers’ tent is closed, but Ben pushes past the flaps anyway. Candles glow within red-glass lanterns, and the lights pulse against canvas walls moving gently in the wind. It’s like being inside a ruby heart. Duncan and Pia sit at the small round table, heads in hands. A bowl of dark liquid stands in the middle of the table. When they both look up at the same time, it’s more than a little unnerving.
“You guys okay?” Duncan asks.
“We’ll be fine,” Ben says. “What’s this?” He gestures toward the bowl. Lines of salt trace complicated patterns on the table around it.
Pia seems a little embarrassed but speaks up anyway. “We were scrying to see if we could find the event that triggered Whiskey’s fall.” Pia sweeps her curls out of her eyes and shoots me down in an unusually somber voice. “We didn’t get anything. But why are y’all here?”
“We have a question,” Ben says. He gnaws at his lower lip.
“Do you know the charm and the curse are codependent?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah,” Duncan says, as though this was written on a placard at the front entrance to the carnival.
I thought all the shock had been driven out of me the night I found out I was a cursed puppet girl, but apparently not. “You knew? Leslie made it sound like not everyone understands how it all works.”
Pia waggles her finger between herself and her twin. “Umm, hello? Descendants of people who placed the damn things on the carnival in the first place. But Leslie is kinda right. Most people don’t know the two go hand in hand. You know the old game Telephone? Where I tell you something and you tell someone else, who tells someone else and by the end, whatever I said in the first place is all jumbled up? Curse lore is kind of like that.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, what can you tell us about it?”
The twins share the same expression, eyebrows arched high. “What do you want to know?” Pia asks.
“Anything you can tell us. I know about it, but in a really vague way. We want to know everything.”
The siblings exchange a glance. “Why do you want to know now?” Duncan asks. “You’ve been with us for weeks.” His hands slide across the table until they clasp Pia’s.
Something is off, and I can’t place it. Then I realize—I’m not twitching. The tent actually feels warm. I hold up my hand and see that my fingers are perfectly still. The inside of the tent must be sweltering. When I glance over at Ben, he’s flushed, pink filling up his cheeks and neck. I check the twins, though, and they seem normal. Except for the way they’re staring.
Both of them are gazing directly at me, and their eyes have gone pitch black.
I move to stand next to Ben again, their gazes following me. “Benjamin,” I whisper.
“I see it.”
The twins’ chests rise and fall in perfect synchronicity. The only other movement they make is to blink, and even that they do completely in time.
“Why are you bothering my grandchildren?” The voice comes from their mouths in perfect unison, two voices layering to make up the one I’m hearing. The voice is neither male nor female, and there’s a tremor in it that suggests extreme age.
Two heads cock to the side, and I realize the voice wants an answer. Oh God this is freaky. “I wasn’t trying to bother them,” I say.
“Then why are you here?”
“We were hoping to talk to them about the curse and the charm holding this place together,” I say.
The dark liquid in the bowl ripples, like some invisible stone dropped to the bottom. When the voice speaks, it’s discomfited, and two sets of eyebrows are furrowed at me. “Did they not tell you?”
“No,” I say quickly, not wanting to anger the voice. “They told me. It’s just that I feel like I might be missing something. People are getting hurt.”
Understanding spreads from brother to sister in a wave. Their faces almost seem…relaxed. “Ah. I see. The charm and the curse are, ah, symbiotic, to put it lightly. There is much more I’d like to talk to you about, my dear. Where is the carnival now?”
“Texas,” Ben says. “Due to head out toward Arizona.”
Two heads snap toward Ben. They appraise him, and it’s my turn to give his hand a squeeze. I can feel his pulse thudding madly where our wrists press together. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Benjamin,” he says.
“Hmm. Well, Arizona is no good, Benjamin,” the voice says. The twins shake their heads in dissent. “Who’s in charge of the carnival now? Is it still Franklin?”
“No,” Ben says. “Leslie, his daughter, is in charge now.”
“I remember Leslie. Sweet girl. Tell her to head for New Orleans, the quicker the better.” The voice is fainter now.
“Wait,” I say, not entirely sure if I want the voice to come back. “What’s in New Orleans?”
The corners of both twins’ mouths pick up, and the expression is all the more creepy because I’ve seen a milder version of the same smile on Duncan’s face before. Their heads are loose on their necks, like heavy blooms on weak stems. “Me, deary. I am in New Orleans.”
Chapter Eighteen
Emma