Three years later…

  Rose sprinted along the carnival rafters in the morning air, laughing.

  “The Rose descends from above! The flower of Shreveport! The jewel of the rooftops! Come to me, my flower! See here, ladies and gentlemen; will she lose a few petals in her fall? Or will she—mmph!” Connor Wright in shakespearean hose serenaded her badly, hand over his chest, and gesticulating in the air, up until Rose plunged off the carousel roof, performed a neat flip in the air, and landed in his arms.

  “Have you perhaps….gotten heavier?” Connor gasped as the wind came back into his lungs.

  “I traded my sense of self-preservation for ten pounds when I met you.” She grinned tapping him on the nose.

  “Ah-huh,” he said, doing his best to scoop her up in his arms as he switched directions to the main tent. He jostled his arms up and down thoughtfully. “Only ten?”

  She rolled her eyes, and then her whole head at him. “I’m charmed. I’m swept off my feet. I feel like a prized pig you’re taking to market,” she deadpanned.

  “Aye, I am charming,” he said, the dimple in his cheek flexing. “And while we’re at it, let’s not ignore the simple but undeniable fact that my prized pig is late for her audition.”

  “You said three. I’m here at three.”

  “I said stage call is at three,” he grumbled, oofing as one of the apparatus engineers passed them with a ladder, and narrowly ducking its rungs.

  “Sorry, I saw a Shakespeare and thought to myself, ‘Why, Rose, look! He’s got the stage all to himself! Best make an entrance.’”

  It was his turn to roll his eyes. “Oh, that’s good. We should switch your audition to the clown act.”

  “Did I mention how charming you are?” she shot back with an eyeroll.

  Seeing his huffing, she took pity on Connor and swung her legs to the ground.

  “Ah, so she does have some respect for punctuality,” he puffed behind her as she broke into a run.

  She jogged backwards a pace or two to grin at him.

  “I’m just excited.”

  Two years had passed since she’d first seen the acrobatic troupe pull through town. The troupe had done acts at the opera house, the circus, and then her own gymnastic studio, where they were looking to recruit. Rose already loved climbing the concrete jungle of Shreveport’s inner city. Most evenings would find her on a rooftop somewhere, penning letters to old friends who would never respond, or reading about places she would never see. However, since the arrival of the Kneepatch Troupe, Rose had felt that there was nothing she couldn’t climb—or jump off of—or run along, much to the dismay of anyone who liked her being alive.

  She admired the brown-eyed circus boy as he tried to keep up with her through the winding people, equipment, and tools on the half-prepared grounds.

  “You can do more than most of the students who have been at this for half the time. You might get selected if they think they can count on you,” he panted, when he caught her staring.

  “And I’ll perform with y—with all of you?”

  “If you can keep up on the training,” he snorted.

  She dodged around the support ropes and reached the tent flap first, holding it ajar for him. “After you, oh one who can keep up.” She smiled.

  “Right,” he said, stepping past her with a swish of Elizabethan hosiery, and a toss of pretty brown curls. “Clown act it is.”

  *

  “Harnesses on, and step up to the practice bars! I want to see twenty wiper crunches, and a three minute straddle hang before I let you people onto the audition apparatus,” Heather, director of Kneepatch Acrobatics, was finishing her speech just as Rose slipped onto the last practice swing.

  Connor tipped her a wink, and a thumbs up as he threw an arm around Heather, effectively distracting her long enough not to see her late arrival—probably.

  Today, I’m with the professionals. she resolved. Today, these lessons are going to start paying for themselves. It was that resolve that had Heather putting her on the bars first, the platform for the professional swing.

  “Alright, I don’t want you to worry about catching the next bar, just fall and test the net. Trust me, the first fall’s the worst. If you show promise, we’ll take you on the backup team, and get you ready for traveling shows, if not, then better luck next year. For now, no rush. Swing. Turn. Into the net, yes?” Heather instructed.

  “Yes,” Rose answered, but she barely heard her own voice over the rushing in her ears.

  In the dark tent, the lights for the trapeze nets were all shining from below, aimed at the performance area. The audience seats were empty now, but in a few days, they would be overflowing with locals and tourists from all over the world. With the cool bar under her fingers, the weight of the ropes were already pulling her forward.

  Hips back. Shoulders down. She jumped, leaving her heart on the platform, but this wasn’t her first time on the double swing. Weeks of sneaking in with Connor had seen to that, and she was ready to impress. Moments after her body seemed heaviest, she let go, and let that weight carry her to the next bar. Her landing wasn’t neat. Her wrists slapped the metal before her fingers caught it, but it was enough. Then, according to Heather’s instructions, she rode the bar back to the middle, and let go.

  The net jangled beneath her, and she heard Connor’s whoops of pride somewhere above her head.

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  “Not what I asked for, but not bad!” Heather was yelling down from the platform. “Next up! Can anyone copy what Flowerhead just did?”

  One by one, her classmates tried for the second bar, and half succeeded.

  “Alright, next up, a back layout. Nothing fancy from you, Flowerhead!” Heather directed that instruction at Rose, who blushed lightly. “That’s all I want to see. Can we follow instructions, and can we land the tricks.”

  Rose stepped up to the platform again, and did the layout. The rest of the students clapped politely, most still looking hungrily at the bar, and Rose couldn’t blame them. A few more tries, and most would probably have it…but not today.

  “Okay!” Heather snapped them all back to attention. “Next up, let’s see which of you works well with others. I’m going to have you do a single back layout with Connor. I’m looking for technique. If you miss, or hurt my performer, you’re gone.”

  This time, Rose let the others go first, waiting to see what they would do. Anita did a neat, clean layout, and caught Connor's hands. Then, she dropped into the net.

  Therese missed one of Connor’s hands, but her aim was right. She’d definitely be able to, soon. Jean-Claude flew too high, nearly knocking Connor off the bar. She could hear Heather groan.

  Rose didn’t give herself time to worry, and ran straight off the platform.

  She let go earlier than before, enough time for the layout, and a double twist. She wished she could say that she caught Connor’s hands, but really her own hands were just in the right place at the right time. Connor caught her, tipping her another carefree wink as he did.

  “I’m not going to say anything about that catch, Connor,” Heather said, as she ran up to her, beaming. “But that was perfect arial control. Do you eat steel for breakfast, Flowerhead?”

  Heather mussed Rose’s already half-mussed ponytail.

  “It was great, Rose!” Therese encouraged.

  “I want to see yours again, Therese.” Rose hugged her. “You could do it, I think.”

  “I don’t think I need to say who’s just won a spot with the backup troupe,” Heather said, glowing. “But there are a few others of you who are close. I want to see the rest of you up here next year. You especially, Jean. I need more catchers!”

  Connor stepped into the circle of remaining students with a lofty grin. “We’ll have to put in some practice time, too! And the scheduling! What do you think, Heather? Is the rose destined for the stage?”

  Heather shook her head at him. “She’s destined for more practice, yes. You’re not subtle, Connor.”

  “What, I?” Connor said in a bad imitation of a Shakespearean lilt. The girls were already giggling, and Rose was with them. “I am the soul of subtlety! The master of my art! The Great and Terrible Connor of—”

  Heather smacked him with her clipboard. “You’re going to be the great and terrible janitor at this rate.”

  *

  "The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem. For that sweet odor which doth in it live!”

  To escort her home, Connor had replaced his performers’ tights with respectable jeans, but the sonnets, it seemed, were there to stay.

  “Comments on my odor after a long practice. You’ve done it again, Connor! My heart is nice and mushy soft,” Rose ribbed, but even she was smiling. Today was the first of many small victories—the kind that brought her closer to a dream.

  The winding streets at dusk had a warm glowy quality that nothing but a Louisiana summer could match. Rose could still hardly keep the whole day inside of her. She’d won a spot on the professional backup troupe. She would have another thing of note to put in her letters to Louise and Mrs. Kettleburn… perhaps something extraordinary enough that they would even answer her; however, that thought didn’t merit dwelling on a day like this.

  The cobbles were lit with sunny fire. Her street was decorated with hung laundry and summer leaves. Her phone screen, though broken, was newly loaded with pictures of the inner cirque. The smells of biscuits and chicken pie filled the air, and the curly heartthrob of the entertainment world was spouting sonnets to her at sunset—albeit very badly.

  They turned the corner, Connor saying something about comparing her, and the streets, and his favorite prized pig to this summer’s day, when the familiar black spires of the abandoned Dross Manor came into sight, marking the fence where her own, much-smaller home waited.

  “—And weep afresh love's long-since-canceled woe…For precious friends hid in death's dateless night."

  She froze. “What did you say?”

  “It’s a sonnet,” Connor explained quickly, clearing his throat with more dramme than necessary. “Are you not charmed, yet?”

  “It just sounded like… like it suited this place,” she said, eying the manor’s towers.

  It had been years since she’d gone inside; years since there had been anyone there to visit, and the very idea of going back, only to find the halls she once wandered with Louise empty, and the kitchen whose breath and soul had been Mrs. Kettleburn, and George, and so many others… it filled her with a sadness she preferred to ignore.

  There was a part of her, the part that still thought it saw things in shadows at night, and believed that the sounds that still creaked from its ancient attic were its old denizens left behind, that hoped what she thought she remembered of her last day had been true. Or even if it wasn’t, that perhaps if she never saw it empty, that it was somehow just as lively as it had been, and that she could step back in at any time through the back door, and everything would still be the same.

  “Connor…” she mumbled, watching the empty tower.

  “Hm?” he said, pausing mid-sonnet. His button nose was all aglow in the sunlight, and the freckles disting his cheeks were downright cheery, so when she asked her question, he was more than a little taken aback:

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

  Connor snorted. “You break my heart, Beautiful Rose. I thought you were finally going to confess to me. It has been a pretty perfect day.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and she laughed.

  “I’m serious. There’s something about living next to this old place that’s just…” she trailed off. “Well, I’m not sure how to put it.”

  “I think that this place would make anyone believe in ghosts,” he snorted again, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “But, there’s one surefire way to check!”

  She peered up at him under his shoulders, but didn’t brush him off. The extra warmth was actually… nice. Very nice, if she was being honest.

  “How is that?” she asked slowly.

  “Allow me to demonstrate!” he said, ever cavalier.

  Scooping up a pebble from the asphalt he marched her over to the cobbled section of street where the planners hadn’t yet had the heart, or the funds, to redo the old pavement. Connor pulled his arm back, and launched an impressive throw, sending the stone crashing right through the upper window.

  Rose was enraged.

  “Connor, why—why would you—?” She punched his arm, words failing. “That place belonged to a friend of mine. Who knows what could get in through that window now?”

  “Will you just listen?” Connor was unfettered, putting his arm back around her, lower this time. He bent his head to hers, and grinned. “Listen.”

  Well, when he put it like that….

  Reluctantly, she listened.

  A soft breezy moaning echoed through the house, rattling the old rafters. In the warm, breezy evening, it send chills up her arms, and an actual shiver down Connor’s wirey frame.

  “Well, I…” he cleared his throat stiffly. “I wasn’t actually expecting… You have your answer, then?”

  She stepped back, slowly, a wary eye on Connor.

  “I suppose I do…” she lied.

  “I’ll get you home then,” he said, cavalier grin back in force. “When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies. That she might think me some untutored youth—"

  “At least that one’s accurate,” Rose nodded emphatically, turning away from her beloved manor.

  I am considering getting rid of this and the next two chapters because it delays the magic of the world. But. It would be a little dreary to go from funeral to struggle, wouldn't it? Then again, I'm not sure if this introduces the characters properly, or makes Rose as likable as later in the book. So. To keep, or not to keep? That is the question!