Heather and her trusty clipboard paced like twin tigers below the safety net.

  “I—” Rose adjusted her harness sheepishly on the platform. She'd been working with the troupe for weeks, but every time she thought her eyes had adjusted to the lights, one would catch her head on in flight and leave her blinded. “I—I think I need some advice. I can never land this one, Heather.”

  “Connor isn’t catching you?” Heather barked sharply.

  “It’s not Connor!” Rose defended quickly. “I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Could you point me?”

  Heather sighed. “Do it again.”

  Hours of that each day, and Rose was the strongest of the female students. She flew well, but Anita was swift on her heels with the aerobatic awareness. It was wonderful, in a way, to have teeth at her heels close enough that she had to keep running.

  It took months, but eventually, Rose got to where she was performing as well as the top star on the upper troupe, but Connor had been distracted that week.

  “Your head’s in the clouds, Connor!” Heather snapped.

  He blew her a kiss from the bar, which she returned with a rude gesture.

  Tired and drenched, Heather ended their practice early before taking Rose aside. “Rose, I know you’re still new to the backup, but I’ve had one of my performers call in sick. She was supposed to be on tonight, so if you’re not too tired to stay, you can take point on tonight’s show. If not, I’m gonna have to cancel the act—”

  It was the chance Rose had been dreaming of for months.

  “I’ll do it!” she said brightly. “I’d be crazy not to!”

  Heather nodded slowly, looking her up and down. “You have two hours. Head back for hair and makeup at six, yeah?”

  “I will!”

  An hour later, the heat of a Louisiana summer had descended on the tent, and Heather had taken it upon herself to menace anyone who went in or out of the tent flap without a critical reason. Rose stretched with the other performers, not having to try to stay warm.

  “Got enough chalk there? Or is a storm rolling in?” Anna, one of the contortionists watching Rose joked.

  “I’m sweating enough to fill a rainpipe.” Rose grimaced as the chalk cloud settled around the back of her knees, pushing herself up from the practice mats. Chalk stuck to the plastic along the line of sweat where her legs had been. It was a familiar scent. A calming scent. And, today, it wasn’t working.

  “Don’t be nervous, girl,” chuckled Slim, a hulking rigger who failed entirely at living up to his name. “Remember, it’s just like practice—except with way more screaming people and fewer chances to mess up."

  Anna swiped a kick at him, which he knocked back with a finger.

  “Flies in the tent? Oh-oh! Aggressive flies,” he stuttered when Anna threw a chalk bar at his head.

  “Hey, hey, save it for the show! I don’t want you two going in tired,” Heather remarked, stomping past.

  “She’s got a point, Anna-bee,” Slim said, failing to dodge a sweat towel that Anna lobbed at his chest. “Let’s be real, if either of us falls out of a pose, we’re gonna tangle up like pricey spaghetti, and this is going to look like a very different kind of show.”

  “Should’ve upcharged the tickets, then,” said Connor, appearing from the back rooms.

  He strode out, flashy and confident as usual, his curls gelled to implausible shapes, and his face and bare chest painted like a shooting star. “What do you think?” He grinned, catching Rose staring at his costume, and struck an open-armed pose. “Do these sequins make me look faster? Taller? Implausibly attractive? Asking for the audience."

  “Hot as they come, Connor.” Brian, the head juggler wandered out of the back after Connor, dressed in leaves and ash for his act. "But I bet your act would look a lot hotter… if it was also on fire." He sparked one of his torches for effect.

  Anna groaned. “Put that out, Brian. We’re already melted to the mat. Look—” she pointed to the body-shaped sweat impression that Rose had left. “We’ve already lost one for good.”

  Brian shot a look at Connor, gesturing to where Anna pointed. “See my power? Remember that next time you wanna get cheeky with the fliers.”

  Connor rolled his eyes.

  “Alright, team patchwork, listen up!” Heather returned like a shark tuned to sense idleness.

  “Yes Ma’am!” chanted everyone but Rose, who stood at attention anyway.

  Heather prowled in front of the mats, waving the dreaded clipboard. “One hour til start, and we’re as ready as we’re as ready as we’re going to get. Kneepatch Troupe’s opening night for the season, and we’re on a skeleton crew. I’m just lucky it’s a weekday. You’ve all met Rose—”

  Rose waved sheepishly to the crew that was gathering around them. A dozen lightmen, stagehands, the the makeup artist, and a few more performers showed up. Heather was right, it wasn’t many at all.

  “—Thanks to Rose being here, we don’t have to cancel the act completely. There are three hundred tickets sold for preshow, and that’s not counting latecomers.”

  That many? Rose jittered as the crew around her smiled approvingly.

  “Look,” Heather tapped the clipboard, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “I’m not going to curse us by saying too much, just—Let’s not set anything on fire today, except for what’s supposed to be on fire. That okay with you, Brian?"

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  “Here here!” Slim pumped a fist, to the scattered chuckles of the crewmen.

  “Don’t make me regret this…” Heather groaned. “And, Rose,” she added, turning down the volume for just her. “You deserve to be here. I’m truly grateful. You’re ready?”

  Three hundred people. Heather was counting on her. She could do these stunts. She’d done them hundreds of times.

  And not done them hundreds of times! And never for a crowd! A panicked, disparate voice hissed in her head.

  Teeth clenched, Rose dismissed the worry, and nodded.

  “Right!” Heather was back to managerial mode as soon as she had the go ahead. “Remember, we’re not aiming for perfection… we’re aiming for applause. Possibly even survival.”

  The troupe chuckled, but as Rose watched Slim unhook the safety net beneath the swings, she couldn’t manage much more than a tippy false smile.

  Six o clock approached like the slow crawl of a hoard of escaped slugs. Then, as instructed, she headed for makeup. Rose hadn’t worn so much paint since she was three and tried to drink a can of it during a home renovation project, but the makeup artist was so thrilled to be doing something new, that she couldn’t find it in her heart to argue.

  “Sugar, you’re shinin’ brighter than a firefly at dusk! This look could stop traffic on Bourbon street!” Mellie squealed when she’d finished. “How do you feel?”

  “Ready to stop traffic,” Rose smiled grimly, though the action made her feel more like an iced cupcake than an acrobatic belle.

  “And you will! You will!” Mellie scooped the palates of blue and white face paint, and a whole bucket of rhinestones into a makeup bag the size of a beer barrel with a clattering flourish. “I’m just amazed. Heather’s never let someone so young on the performance floor before. You’ve really gone above the cut earning her trust.”

  Or her desperation, that niggling worry pawed at the back of her mind, demanding to be heard. Once more, Rose dismissed it, clinging to Mellie’s encouragement like a safety harness.

  “When does the first act come up?” Rose asked, not for the first time, because Mellie tapped her bifocals on the counter with a concerned little rap before returning them to the front of her blouse.

  “You mean your act? Connor will come for you if he knows what’s good for him, but you’re not up til about fifteen minutes in. Relax, girl. I’ve seen you on those ropes, on the bars, on the swings. Never seen a performer more ready for a debut. So enjoy it! And let me go find that layabout. He’s probably smeared his face already—” she shot a last smile over her shoulder as she left the makeup room. “—Not that it matters at all! Oh! You’re just a picture in a frame, if I do say so!”

  She left, still jabbering, and moments later, Rose heard the telltale piano notes of the starting sequence. Soft French jazz galloped into bayou folk band, and the show was underway with cheering and lively drums, and from the sounds of things, fire in all the right places.

  Connor didn’t come for her until the minute before the lights turned on the trapeze swing.

  “The swings are ready for the Rose!” he singsonged into the dressing room unconcerned as anyone would be who didn’t have to do several twisting flys with no safety net. “Is that you, my shooting star?”

  “Somewhere under all these layers, yes,” Rose said, letting him jog her behind the floor stage.

  He had to shout to be heard over the rising number before them.

  “I’m nervous,” she said, squeezing his hand.

  Connor laughed, wheeling her into a spin, and planting a kiss on her cheek—a little closer to her mouth than he’d ever done before. Something in her sputtered, and she willfully ignored it.

  “Did it work?” he asked cheekily.

  “What?”

  “The distraction?”

  She sighed. “I’m not trying to be distracted, I’m trying to focus on not dying.”

  “You have your harness on, right? Worst that can happen, you miss my hands, and swing to the ground. It’ll hurt, but it won’t be bad.”

  She breathed. He was right. Her harness was still on, and if she was still hooked in, she would be fine… just fine…. However, she couldn’t shake this feeling that something was about to change. It wasn’t just worry, or concern, or even fear. What made her jitter was something she couldn’t put into words. A feeling of ozone and pressure change, of hot and cold all around her that had nothing to do with the evening chill shifting outside.

  “Listen, Rosie,” he said, making her flinch.

  “Don’t call me Rosie,” she sighed, but she didn’t let go of him, all the same.

  “Rose, then,” he smiled good naturedly. “Just don’t get blinded by the lights, and jump the platform when you hear the buzzer. Then, you grab me. The rest will take care of itself. We’ve done this before. You’re the best we’ve got!” He leaned down to speak in her ear. “Even better than Aida.”

  He might have said more, or done more—he definitely looked like he wanted to—but right then, the music ended, and the lights on their apparatus slammed on, blinding them both.

  “Oops! See you on the other end!” Connor left her standing there, to the sounds of laughter and jeers from the audience as their obviously close silhouette was broadcasted in shadow to the entire arena.

  “What an entrance,” Rose grumbled, as she clambered up to the upper platform, squinting away the stinging tears as her eyes struggled to adjust.

  Slim cut the tightrope down just as she reached the top, the audience screaming and cheering with the fervor of Shreveport after drinking hours. She tried to make eye contact with Connor on the other side, but the lights were too bright.

  Their song started.

  The buzzer went off, and she jumped on time, and for once, the worry melted away. With a swift motion, she let go of the bar, feeling the rush of free fall as she arced through the air. Time slowed, and for just a moment, it was just her and the sky?

  The sky?

  Above them, the slits in the tent had been undone for airflow, and Heather had apparently left them that way.

  It was wonderful. Back bent over the open ground, Rose felt as though she was really flying. She caught Connor a few times, and she caught the bar. The stunts weren’t just well-timed, they were perfect. Easy. She returned to the platform with a final kick after two minutes of music and flying that seemed miles away. The buzzer went off again, and she hurtled toward the last stunt, but when she finished the swing… Connor wasn’t there.

  Panic set in, cold and icy, drenching the exhilaration of the minutes before. She hadn’t let go of the bar yet, so there was still time to fix this, but Connor’s bar was swinging toward her, and he wasn’t in position. He was sitting on the bar, legs hanging down, waving to the crowd.

  Had she missed something?

  Yes! She realized. She was early. Or he was late. Or…something!

  Just as planned, Connor flipped over his bar and made to catch her, and Rose made a hairpin decision. Panicked and hearing the end of their music, she let go of her bar, and reached for his hands—and missed.

  Afterwards, she couldn’t remember Connor’s face, or where he had been looking, she only knew that it had not been at her. What she would never forget, however, was the sound. The crowd, a mob of spirit-soaked southerners, turned the sort of quiet that wasn’t natural anywhere indecent. Then, there was the sucking sound of hundreds of gasps as she seemed to float below Connor’s bar, falling.

  Rose was no stranger to falls. She tucked tight, ready for the harness to catch her, and it did, with a horrid shaking spring that slowed her fall, and wrenched her backward from her flight. Unfortunately, she was still turning from the flips, and the tuck only made her go faster. She spread herself backward, willing the harness to catch, but just as it began to slow her fall, her mother’s scream filled her ears, her head, all the way down to her toes.

  Her mother was here? Why didn’t she remember that? Where were the rest of them? Why hadn’t they come to see her before?

  But those thoughts were drowned by a gutting snapping of wood and strings. The wailing sound the open piano made when she thundered into its insides would haunt her dreams like the ghosts of Dickens himself until the day she died. The levers crunched, the shell splintered, the legs cracked, and the resonating moan the instrument let out tumbled through the night air. It was deafening up close, but at least the shattering key sticks covered the sound of her snapping bones.