My brows must be knit together.
“Luka.” Sergei smiles wide. “I’m friends with Marc Duval. Every time we cross paths, we grab coffees, lunch, always dinner. We don’t usually talk business, but when we do, it’s laidback. He respects my opinion, and I respect his. In some ways, he’s always seen me as a voice for the artists, and my relationship with Marc occasionally gives me sway with the staff.”
“What…” The. Hell. It’s hard for me to believe.
Which is why he steps nearer and says, “I’m best friends with Christian Duval, his son. We were in a band together. Wherever the circus went, the band followed.”
A band.
None of this should be shocking. Dimitri told me to ask Sergei about his hobbies. A fucking band. And I’ve always known nepotism exists. Playing favorites, preferential treatment—it’s all real. It’s why Baylee and I were even given a chance to stay in the circus after we were caught. And apparently it’s why I went to Infini.
It hits me now that he’s the reason I got the chance to look at Baylee Wright again.
To say her name out loud.
To hold her hand.
If I didn’t return to Infini, Bay and I would’ve never taken the risks. I’d still be in Viva. Trying not to think about a girl that I was helplessly, wholeheartedly, infinitely in love with.
His decisions changed my life.
Again.
But this time, he actually led me to the wish-upon-a-star, blow-out-all-your-birthday-candles kind of happiness.
“Thank you,” I say, my emotion encapsulating the two words.
Sergei nods like he feels them.
I replay his answers, my lips rising, and I ask, “So what kind of band was it?”
Sergei picks up his eggnog. “Metal. A cross between Disturbed and Celtic Frost.” He gestures to his chest. “Stryke Manner.”
My lips pull high. “Your band name was Stryke Manner.”
“It’s cool,” he says as though it can’t be rivaled.
I laugh. “You played guitar?”
“Drums.” Sergei drinks a swig of eggnog. “I could teach you. You’d be good. Your rhythm is…” He falls quiet as the holiday music dies down.
Antoine Perrot stands on an apple box, microphone to his lips. “Is this working?” His voice booms. “There we go.”
He’s going to make an announcement about Infini, and the only thought I have in my head is: find Baylee.
I tell Sergei why I’m leaving, and then I weave through frozen bodies that face and listen to Perrot. Everyone may as well be a marble statute, and I’m the only one moving.
Perrot thanks everyone for attending and then starts recalling his memories being the Director of Infini while in Vegas. He’s being too sentimental, and Baylee will draw a conclusion from that. No doubt.
Find Baylee.
I pick up my pace, dodging a group of my cousins. I dip beneath a low-hanging string of garland.
“The press release will reach the entire Aerial Ethereal troupe tomorrow, but I wanted to tell the cast before and in person. For your hard work and the difficult year, you all deserve that.”
I find her.
She stands tensed by the dessert bar and three-foot chocolate fountain. I come up behind Bay, and she instantly sinks her back against my chest.
I snake one of my arms around her collarbones, my other across her abdomen. I hold her tight, and her ribs expand in a breath.
We sway back-and-forth some, and I watch her wide-eyed, concentrated gaze on Perrot.
Perrot sighs heavily. “There’s just no other way to say this. Creative and financial teams have come to the conclusion that no matter how much effort our artists give, there is no saving Infini.”
Baylee goes completely still in my arms. Like an arrow struck her heart, and as I stand behind her, against her—it impales me too. I can practically feel her grief and pain fist her lungs.
And there’s nothing I can do but hold Bay.
“To garner more tickets, we need a completely new show narrative, a new name—and at that point, it’s no longer Infini. It’s something else.”
No one whispers. No one moves.
We just listen.
Perrot adjusts his clammy grip on the microphone. “To the cast of Infini, you gave your all. I speak on behalf of the company when I say, you made us proud.”
People are starting to cry.
Baylee wipes beneath her eyes with a trembling hand, and I fight emotion.
Perrot’s gaze glasses. “This is the end of the line for me.” There must not be a role for him in the company. Show director positions are scarce. “I wish that I could promise the entire cast a job. I’d hire you all.” He laughs weakly, but the humor doesn’t catch on with his audience.
I feel Bay’s heart pounding hard.
“But there are no job guarantees,” Perrot says. “Come January, you’ll learn if Aerial Ethereal has a place for you. Something else may be in the works, but my advice is to audition for open-slots in Somnio. It’s on a European tour, and you should take advantage of every opportunity while you still can.” He pauses. “So it’s with great sadness and honor that I announce New Year’s Eve as Infini’s last show.”
That soon.
We figured, but hearing the news gives it permanence. Validity. And pain.
“Bay?” I whisper in her ear.
She nods once as though to say I’m dealing. And she clutches my bicep around her collarbones like she doesn’t want me to let go anytime soon.
I’m not.
I’m holding on forever.
“Raise your glasses.”
Baylee and I don’t separate to reach for a cup. Champagne flutes and eggnog glasses are hoisted all around us, watery gazes set on Perrot.
And he says, “To Infini.”
“To Infini,” everyone repeats.
And so softly, Bay breathes, “To Infini.”
Act Fifty-Two
Baylee Wright
Our very last performance in Infini, the globe auditorium is packed to the brim. Every chance I can, I stand in the wings of the stage with other Infini artists, all of us watching our friends, our family lay their hearts bare for this show.
One final time.
There’s not a dry eye, and we dab the corners with tissues, careful not to rub off our makeup. For as much loss I thought I’d feel, my heart is so full right now. This show has meant the world to me, but to witness the soul-deep passion these artists have for Infini as their feet touch the stage—the grief inside this ending has given way to love.
I feel such strong love today.
Before I change into my sky-blue leo, I linger by the left wing, other artists congregated around me, watching.
I watch Luka perform Wheel of Death to hypnotic percussion and roaring horns. Sergei and Luk run on the outside of their opposite wheels, the danger escalating with the music’s pulse-stomping pace.
As the wheel rotates vertically, Sergei hangs on the lower wheel, and Luka, on the top, jumps.
He flips and twists, his feet seemingly about to land nowhere. But the wheel swishes ahead, catching Luka in perfect timing, and he reaches out devilishly to the little girl Milla on stage. She draws forward, her nightgown billowing.
Sergei lands a trick that causes the audience to gasp, and Luka whips his head to his brother, acting like he’s never noticed him before. He suddenly darts through the metal apparatus. Entering the middle space frame beam.
Then he jumps down on the same wheel as his brother.
Sergei slips into the wheel and he makes a face at Luka like you can’t catch me.
Their cat-and-mouse routine causes Milla to take a few steps backwards, but I’m entranced. I’m stuck here watching how beautiful Luka is, how much he loves the circus.
As the routine nears the end, Luka smiles at his brother, and Sergei smiles back, their hands clasp—and I have to turn away before tears cascade.
I rub my nose, and I quickly dress.
Intermission hits, and everyone tries to change fast. High-risk trampoline is next, and Luka enters, his chest and ribs jutting in and out as he catches his breath.
He wipes off his red nightmare makeup, grinning at me.