Fabrizio lands a kick square to my knee. My shoulder hits the packed dirt with a thud. A boot crashes into my ribs, the impact resonating throughout my body, followed quickly by a tingly numbness.
The brothers take turns kicking and punching at my legs, my gut, my chest. Fireworks of pain bloom from each point of impact, each layering over the other, until I’m in one hazy fugue of hurt. Already I’m trying to think of ways to cover up the inevitable cuts and bruises, because though I never would have thought them to be smart enough, this plan of theirs has a high chance of succeeding.
And as fast as it all began, it’s over. Dust settles around me, coating my bare arms, the inside of my mouth.
Antonio kneels on the ground beside me. More of that fine, dry dirt flurries around when he does, stinging my eyes. My glasses sit on my nose at an odd angle, and he carefully reaches to straighten them for me. “Get out,” he says.
He rises, and he and his brothers run through the gap between trailers.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the sliver of sky above me. Thready streamers of clouds fill the space, with streaks of bright blue peeking through. I watch them speed across the sky while my breathing—slowly, achingly—returns to normal. Nothing feels broken, only bruised, like I was pummeled with a meat tenderizer. After several long moments, I stand and instantly regret it.
Jesus, that was an even more horrible brand of asshole than I’m used to from those three. But I can’t waste any more time worrying about them, not when Mom’s looking for me. When I think that I can walk without wincing, I knock the dirt off my clothes and go to find her.
In front of the Airstream there’s a scattering of boxes—boxes filled with tools, with scrap wood, with anything Mom and I can call ours—littering the ground. One of the boxes props open the door, and as I approach, Mom steps out among them.
At first she doesn’t see me. Instead, she flits from box to box, mashing the lids down to secure them with packing tape.
“Mom,” I say. She doesn’t hear. “Mom!”
She straightens and pushes her hair back. Her eyes shine with harried impatience. “Get your things. Anything not in the Airstream already. We’re leaving.”
I cross the few short feet between us, palms out in surrender, hoping she doesn’t notice how slowly I’m walking. The last thing I need is for her to find out about the beating I just got. “Whoa. Mom. Why are we leaving?”
She glances around, like she’s afraid that someone will overhear us. I kind of hope someone does, that someone else will come over and help me talk some sense into her. “Whiskey. She fell.”
I nod. “Yeah, so?”
“That,” she says, going back to taping up the box at her feet, “is enough. I came back because of the charm. I came here to keep you protected. But if that charm isn’t working anymore, then there’s nothing to keep us here. If the carnival can’t ensure your safety then there’s no reason to stick around.”
I swallow. Leaving was the thing I thought I wanted. But that’s not what I want anymore. At some point over the last several weeks, my wants changed, and I don’t know a way of explaining it that doesn’t involve Emma.
Lately, I’ve felt more comfortable spending the evenings in her tiny wagon. When I’m there, with her, I feel calm. Sated. Home. And I don’t think I realized that until this very second.
Mom takes my silence for compliance and hands me the keys to the truck. “Bring the Chevy around and we’ll hitch up. I’ll explain things to Leslie.”
The keys sit in my palm, the heavy pewter keychain in the shape of Arkansas glinting dully in the light. I breathe in deep and that sets off a twinge of pain, but I do my best to ignore it. “No, Mom.”
Immediately I see her mouth open to argue and I backtrack. “I mean, let’s talk. Yes, the world out there is dangerous. And so is the carnival. The charm does keep us safe, and it has for years. But I got this”—I lift up the hem of my shirt to show her the slick white scar I still have from the car accident that killed Dad—“out there, not here. Whiskey was hurt. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be hurt, too.”
Her eyes are pinched at the corners, and I know she’s not convinced.
“All I’m saying is that we have to play the odds. And it seems to me that the odds are better in here rather than out there. Right?”
She slowly sinks down onto the box she just closed up and drops the roll of packing tape to the ground. Some intangible thing inside her is broken, or at the very least shaken.
“Mom, I’m not some fragile little thing, okay? I don’t know what it’s like to look at someone you love lying in a hospital bed, but that’s in the past.” I kneel down in front of her. The ground is cool and the chill seeps through my jeans immediately, centering me. Suddenly I feel everything is going to be all right; Mom will stay, I’ll help Emma break the curse, and everything will work out one way or another. It has to.
It has to.
Chapter Twenty
Emma
Leslie presses her fingers to her forehead, smoothing the furrows creasing her brow. “So Katarina possessed the twins and told you she can help? And you believe it? Believe it enough to completely change our course?”
Leslie stares at me, last night’s stage makeup still sitting in the fine lines around her eyes, and she looks so weary. I glance down at the flat, anonymous backs of my hands. They have the same vague shape my hands did before, but they’re so pale and almost…generic. Like this is what hands should look like, not necessarily what my hands should look like. Never would I have thought that one day I’d find myself missing the lines, cracks, and creases that make my hands mine.
“I believe her.”
Leslie sighs and her gaze darts around the camper, lingering on the poster for the carnival with a painting of Sidney in the box. After a long stretch of silence, she pulls a stack of maps out of the same cupboard that had held the giant leather-bound book. Some are decades old, some only days, it seems like. One of them has trails traced out in faded strands of embroidery floss, marking into the paper the paths the carnival made each year. Many paths of thread are so old that the colors start to all look like they’re the same creamy beige. Finally, she finds a giant one of Texas and another of Louisiana.
She lines them up on her small table, folded over to show just the half of Texas that we’re in and the part of Louisiana we want to be in. My heart sinks when I see the inches marking the hundreds of miles standing between Round Rock and New Orleans. Why couldn’t the twins’ magic grandmother live a few inches closer?