The Ladies of the Secret Circus by Constance Sayers (ebook reader with internet browser TXT) 📗

While her mother should have been exhilarated from the act, as the lights came up, Audrey appeared distracted. “What you did back there. It was risky.”

“I couldn’t let her die.”

Audrey didn’t answer.

“Mother?”

“I know,” said Audrey, finally, her voice tense. Lara saw her jaw tighten. “What you did took skill. You just reacted. It’s not like taking twenty minutes to pick a lock.”

Lara gave her a quizzical look.

“Of course I knew you were the reason why none of the locks in the house worked, Lara. Do you think my magic never came in? I fiddled with the stove and turned the gas on. Nearly blew up the house. At least you didn’t do that.”

“If I hadn’t helped her, you would have.”

Audrey didn’t answer her. She motioned toward the big top for emphasis. “That stunt back there means you’re getting stronger.”

“Stronger than what?”

“Stronger than me.”

As they walked in silence, Lara mulled over her mother’s words. Why was she getting stronger? She knew that Audrey claimed to not practice her magic out of principle, but Lara didn’t believe it. Yet her mother was rattled by what she’d just seen.

They wandered out to the concessions area where T-shirts and mugs were sold and performers were posing for pictures. Lara noticed a fortune-teller’s booth. Madame Fonseca was nowhere to be found. Instead a young boy stood in front of the only empty booth in the circus alley. “Oh, look at him standing over there. I feel bad for him.”

“Then go get your fortune told,” said Audrey, fumbling with her purse. “We’ve got time until the crowd thins… getting out of here will be a nightmare. If anyone needs her fortune told, it’s you.”

Lara made a face and approached the boy, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

“You don’t look like a Madame Fonseca.” Lara pointed to the sign, which depicted an old woman looming over a crystal ball, her hair in a turban—so cliché it was comical.

“She died two days ago.” A hint of a deep Southern accent in the boy’s voice—Alabama or Mississippi, Lara couldn’t quite place it.

“Oh.” Lara hadn’t realized Madame Fonseca had been that old. “So I guess you’re Mr. Fonseca?”

“Hell no.” The boy bowed. “Shane Speer at your service, ma’am.” He was dressed in a blue robe with green piping that looked too big for him, like a choir robe.

“I like your robe,” said Lara, lying.

“I have a green one, too.” Shane’s expression was deadpan.

“I bet you do.”

She followed him behind the curtain into a small area lined with dark-blue velvet. It felt like they were in a closet, and the room smelled like SweeTarts. Shane sat down opposite her and turned on a table lamp. “Cards or hands?”

“Dunno. Which is better?”

“For me?” The boy considered this. “Hands.”

Lara flipped over her hands. He touched her palms and frowned.

“So how’d you get into this line of work?” She thought she’d start with small talk.

The boy kept studying her palms. From somewhere under the curtain came a small brown monkey dressed in a little green tuxedo. “Hello, Mr. Tisdale.” The boy leaned in. “I swear he likes to eavesdrop on my all sessions.” The boy picked up the monkey, lovingly placing him on his knee. “I guess you could say I have a gift.

“When it comes to the dead, I see things other people don’t.” He fiddled with his fingers on the table. Lara could also feel his leg shaking with energy, the little monkey bouncing. “It was like they were hidden behind my mama’s dirty curtain that had once been clean and sheer. So for a while, people gave me money to visit the places where people had died. Loved ones—you know, to see if I could feel their energy and talk to them.”

The kid was like a windup toy. He wouldn’t stop chattering. Lara thought he must be nervous filling in for Madame Fonseca. She was a fucking legend. He seemed not to have stopped for a breath.

“At first, my work was limited to local folks who knew about me—mothers who’d lost their kids. It’s always parents looking for answers.” He went back to her hand, turning it over then scrutinizing her fingers.

“Why, that first summer, I spent a lot of time standing along the bad dip in County Road 68 down in Alabama where those makeshift crosses were crafted at the hairpin turns, or out on Interstate 10, walking the brim of the highway while the big rigs blew by me.”

He looked up like Lara should know Interstate 10. “But then Madame Fonseca found me when they were in Montgomery and she helped me hone my ‘craft’ as she called it. She taught me the cards, too.”

Lara exhaled. The story was done. Shane turned Lara’s hand back around. The monkey reached over and touched the lines on her palm. With his expressive brown eyes and human face, he seemed to regard her gravely.

“I know, Mr. Tisdale,” Shane said, nodding. “I see it, too. It’s crazy, but this little guy can pick out exactly the thing about each reading.”

“My fiancé left me at the altar nine months ago,” blurted Lara sardonically. “Did he pick up on that?”

Shane Speer studied her face, squinting as though he was trying to bore holes in her. She could see an enormous zit forming on his adolescent nose, and she wondered if Mr. Tisdale would point that out, too.

Shane closed his eyes, more for show than anything, Lara was sure. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” It was the same thing Audrey had said the afternoon of her wedding.

“It happens,” he said, like he was apologizing for failing to get a boner. “Sometimes, they just aren’t there… this fiancé. He’s gone.”

“Well, hell, I know that,” snapped Lara. “Gone to where?”

“He’s nowhere.” Shane shrugged. “That boy is not your destiny.”

“What did you just say?” Lara leaned in, her voice rising. It was the same thing the man had said to her in the field all those years ago.

“He is not the point.”

Lara thought he was exactly the point