Authors: Colleen Quinn
Rosemary wasn’t surprised at Michael’s change of heart, knowing all too well that there was a mercenary reason behind it. It simply made good business sense to have the troupe on his side, and if nothing else, she did admire Michael’s business acumen. The stint with the lion must have really hit home. There was no other explanation for his agreeable behavior.
Wisely she’d stayed well away from him. She didn’t want to test the limits of his newfound patience. He’d let her off too easily, and she knew it. As a prankster, she knew when she’d pushed someone too far, and Michael should have gone over the edge a long time ago. That morning at breakfast she had caught him staring, and the expression in his eyes made her especially cautious. He wore a tantalizing half smile, as if he’d figured out some part of her secret and was just trying to determine how to use that knowledge. Something about the way he looked at her made her feel half dressed, and she blushed, turning back to Rags with a joke as if Michael had not been there at all. But after the kiss they’d shared, she knew better than to tangle with him too closely.
She was thinking about all this as she walked toward the animals’ pen, to help Zachery with their feed. A soft muffled noise from Clara’s tent distracted her, and she frowned, concerned. Clara hadn’t been to breakfast, nor to dinner the previous night. The last time she’d seen her was at the previous show, and even then she didn’t seem herself. Worried, Rosemary entered the canvas shelter, breathing deeply of the incense-laden air.
As one of the few other women in the circus, Clara had been her confidant since she was a child. She had also been an odd sort of mother image, counseling Rosemary with her cards and crystal ball on everything from business matters to the facts of life. Out of necessity the childless woman and the motherless child were closer than many blood relations.
Standing inside the tent, Rosemary smiled. It was like coming home. Crystals of every color imaginable, rose and topaz, black and silver, twinkled from the ceiling, sending little prisms of light to the floor. A calico cat chased the dancing lights, scampering over the dirt as if they were prey. Potions bubbled from a small stove, sending clouds of pink and purple into the atmosphere, while condensation sprinkled back to the earth like raindrops.
Clara lay in the center of the room on a small cot. Her face was still, her hands clutching her cards. Parchment eyelids opened as soon as Rose entered, and Clara’s fierce blue eyes stared out at the little clown.
“It’s me time again, Carney,” Clara croaked. “Will you be fetching the priest, dearie?”
Rosemary nodded, hiding a smile. Clara had been dying regularly since she could remember. Her father had always indulged the older woman, preparing the services and a real Irish wake each time Clara thought the angels were coming for her. She had already received the last rites, so the priest’s coming was a comfort more than anything else.
“I’ll go right now. Do you want anything special this time?”
“Flowers would be nice,” Clara said cheerfully, and then looked worried. “But the show! I have to tell fortunes this night.” She fumbled at her tarot cards.
Rose smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. We’ll cancel like we always do. We can do the show tomorrow.”
“No.” Clara shook her head weakly. “We canna’. That boy won’t allow it. We have already sold the tickets, and Carney’s canna’ afford to be paying them back. We need to get someone to stand in for me.”
Rose nodded. It was true, the tickets had been sold in advance, and the last thing she needed was to acquire more debt in paying them back. And Clara was right. Michael Wharton would never understand. “Perhaps Belinda could do it in between the trapeze acts.”
“Bah!” Clara lifted her head, angry color flushing her face. “That colleen has sawdust where her head should be. I didna’ build up me good name to have it ruined. Besides, she has her own act to perform.” Clara sank back into the pillow, her face wrinkling like old lace. “No, ‘twould have to be himself.”
Rosemary sighed. “Michael.”
Clara nodded. “He’s the only one who doesna’ have to perform. And he has a brain, lass. A good one. You don’t have to love the lad to see that. He would insist anyway, as new manager. You know that. He’s not bad in a pinch. Remember how good he did before he found out the knives were real.”
That much was true. Rosemary recalled the thunderous applause Michael had received as a stand-in. “But that was different,” she said doubtfully. “He didn’t have to do anything but hang there. We did the rest. For this he would really have to perform.”
“You can help him. Since he has not the gift, you can put Griggs outside like we used to. He can give you the signals.”
“Me?”
“Aye, he’ll need an assistant. Now, now. Don’t look at me like that. It isna’ good for your face. I know you canna’ abide the man, but that won’t matter for one night. You will help him, give him Griggs’s signals, and cover his mistakes.” Clara gave Rosemary a pleading look that the clown-woman could never resist. “I was hoping I could count on you.”
Rosemary’s protests died. Clara really didn’t look well, and if Rosemary was needed to help, even with Michael, she’d have to do it. After all, nothing mattered more than Carney’s.
“All right, I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Clara grinned toothlessly. “Now, look in the trunk. I have an assistant’s dress.”
Rosemary rummaged through the trunk and pulled out a glittering gown. “This?” Even in the dim light threads of silver and gold gleamed on a black background, making one think of spells, incantations, and magic powers. Rosemary shivered as she held the sheer and sultry creation up to the light. “You don’t mean I have to wear—”
“Ah, that’s the one.” Clara sighed in satisfaction. “You’ll look lovely in it, dearie.”
“I can’t wear this!” Rosemary exclaimed as she pictured herself, clad in this ludicrous outfit, working in the same tent as Michael. Something about the implication of all that made her pulse race and her breath quicken, but she cringed as she envisioned his possible ridicule. No, she couldn’t let that happen. Rosemary just wasn’t secure enough to take such a risk, especially with him.
Clara saw the shifting emotions on the young woman’s face and frowned. “You’ll not be thinking of defying me, are you? Ah, weel. I suppose you’ll not want to look lovely for just one night. You’re right, we’re all so used to you in the clown suit, you shouldn’t dare wear anything else. Michael may not like it. And you might not have the figure for it. I was quite a looker in my day.”
“I have a good enough figure,” Rosemary said indignantly. “And who said I could only wear clown suits? Michael be damned. If I want to wear this, I will.”
“That’s right.” Clara grinned. “Now I can rest in peace, knowing my tasks will be properly handled. Bless you, dear.”
As Rosemary left, Clara hid a smile. She’d seen it in the cards and had decided to intervene. Fate sometimes needed help.
Especially when dealing with a Carney.
Rosemary marched toward the tent closest to her own. Michael Wharton’s new truce was about to be tested, and she could almost predict the results. She burst into the canvas enclosure, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Inside, he was working, as always. Ledger books were stacked beside the crates, and an open copy, filled with green pages and columns, graced a trunk that served as a desk. A solitary taper threw a halo of light around his head. Rosemary snorted. Michael Wharton was anything but angelic, despite his appearance.
“Yes?” When he saw who his intruder was, he smiled, apparently prepared to enjoy himself. “What can I do for you? Let me guess—it’s Carney’s night, and all the clowns are getting drunk in his honor.”
Rosemary bridled, her temper flaring. “No. Clara is dying.”
The look of amusement fled from his face, and he immediately put down his pen. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. No one bothers to tell me anything around here.” His features softened, and he leaned forward, gazing at Rose with what almost seemed like concern. “I know she’s been with you for a long time. Can I do anything?”
Rosemary stared back in amazement. “Yes, we need you to stand in. I’ll play your assistant. Do you think you can do it?”
“There really isn’t any other choice.” Michael got to his feet and stood beside her, indicating a ledger book. “We need tonight’s income for the books. Everyone else, including yourself, is tied up with his own act. And we’ve already sold out. It would hurt the reputation of the show should we cheat the people out of an act.”
Everything to him was dollars and cents. “I’m sorry it’s so inconvenient,” she said sweetly, wanting to hit him. “I suppose I can ask her to die on schedule next time.” She turned to storm away from him when he caught her shoulder, refusing to let her leave.
“Next time?” One eyebrow raised mockingly.
“Yes. Clara is a clairvoyant; she’s had several near-death experiences. She always manages to pick a nice summer evening, so no one ever minds….Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You mean she dies on a regular basis?” His expression was incredulous.
“Yes. Like I said—”
“I heard you.” He glanced down at her shoulder. As if suddenly realizing his hand was on her, he let it drop, unconsciously flexing his fingers as if to keep from remembering what she’d felt like in his arms. “Do you honestly believe all that?”
Rosemary shrugged. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth—’ ”
“I know my Shakespeare,” he said, still rubbing his fingers together. He stared at her oddly, as if seeing right through her. “How do you know that quote?”
Rosemary’s nose lifted. “Just because I’m a clown doesn’t mean I can’t read. My father took care to provide me with an education, though it wasn’t like those in your fancy schools. I’ve learned what I need to know.”
“I’ll wager that,” he remarked thoughtfully, his suspicions concerning a possible lover coming back to haunt him. His pencil tapped in annoyance, but he squelched the feeling quickly. She was staring at him with a cocky assurance that almost made him laugh. Apparently, she was still convinced that he was so intimidated by Elsa that she had him quite under her thumb. It was exactly what he wanted her to think. “I’ll be your stand-in,” he agreed. “I don’t suppose fortune-telling involves any knives?”
Rosemary grinned. “No.”
“Good. I shall see you at five, then.” Dismissing her, he was buried again in his ledgers.
“C
OME ONE, COME ALL!
See Lorac, the Magnificent Mystic!”
The line thickened as the crowd bought tickets to see the new fortune-teller, billed as the newest star from the East. Rosemary grinned as she realized that “the East” in this case extended as far as Philadelphia, but in the circus business, perception was everything.
She entered the tent, feeling very self-conscious in the dress Clara had given her. Her father had never approved when she’d dressed like a woman. The glittery, sultry costume felt strange against her stockinged legs, and the thin straps made her feel almost naked. Wearing it made her feel shy and awkward, and she wished she had the clown suit for protection.
“This damned turban feels like I’m wearing an oven instead of a hat,” Michael complained, trying to scratch beneath the thick linen material. He glanced at Rose, then looked back again, stunned at her change in appearance. Taking in her gold and silver outfit, his eyes traveled up and down her body in appreciation. He’d thought Rosemary could be pretty, but he never imagined just how much of a difference the right clothes could make. “You look beautiful,” he choked, almost involuntarily.
Rosemary blushed, but his words pleased her. She glanced down at the dress, which was really more of a collection of scarves that wound around her body like a glittering veil. Silver earrings completed the picture, setting off her face and making her coppery hair take on a lovely sheen. Feeling almost sinful, she glanced at the mirror, studying her appearance. “Do you really think so?”
He nodded. “Where did you get that?” He indicated the dress.
“From Clara. She insisted that an eastern mystic had to have a gypsy assistant. She used to wear this when she was younger.”
“You should wear women’s clothes more often. They suit you.” Before Rose could recover from this astonishing remark, she saw his frown as he glanced into the glass and adjusted his turban. “Do I look ridiculous?”
“You look fine.” Rosemary coughed suspiciously when he turned back to look at her. Griggs had done his face with some kind of skin-darkening concoction, to increase his resemblance to an “eastern” mystic, and now only his penetrating gray eyes stared out of a blackened face topped with a bearded turban.
Michael grimaced, then sat down at the table. The cards lay facedown on the brocade cloth, concealing their secrets until the first client entered. Rosemary stood at the tent flap, her face twitching, her eyes unable to hide their twinkle.
“Are you ready, Lorac?” Her voice broke, and Michael sent her a glare.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. If we weren’t going to lose a fortune, I wouldn’t be caught dead like this.” He gave Rosemary a sharp glance. “Now, what is your part?”
“I stand at the opening to let people in. If I discover anything that may be of use to you, I’ll try and let you know.” She held up her hand, wiggling her fingers. “One means marriage, two means illness, three means money.”