“Luca might be here,” I say.
“You have black lipstick on your teeth,” Venera says, and I scramble to fix it before pulling up the curtain.
The performance does not begin well. Tree goes into a tantrum during his act, forcing me to take control before he starts tearing out his branches, which Venera works so hard to keep trim. Crown never smiles once through his entire performance. Unu and Du hiss at each other during their dance routine loud enough that the people in the first row definitely heard Unu call Du a “growth worse than toe fungus,” which will earn him one of Nicoleta’s tirades after the show.
During my act, I scan the rows for Luca but don’t find him anywhere. My stage smile falters a bit, but I regain my composure enough to produce the illusion of a giant bird, the size of the tent and more. Every person in the room rides on its back through thunderclouds that light the sky in blinding flashes of violet. It all runs smoothly until I trip on my Strings and fall, tearing a sizable rip down the side of my cloak.
After the show, Blister isn’t there to give out high fives.
“Luca wasn’t there?” Venera asks from her usual perch at her vanity.
“Is that the boy—” Hawk starts.
I flick her on the forehead, and she clamps her mouth shut. I’m already so nervous that my stomach is cramping up. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to see him now.” My words sound brave, but it’s all a farce. I wipe off my rouge, and it smears pink down my cheek. I look like a clown.
“A date?”
“Sure,” I lie. If you can call hunting down the murderer of your uncle and brother a date. Nothing we’ve done has ever been even remotely romantic. Even the party was a business rendezvous for Luca.
“Make sure he comes tomorrow night,” Venera says. “So I can decide if he’s worthy.”
* * *
I decided to leave on my black lipstick from the show to remind Luca—without needing to tell him outright—that the Freak Show has reopened. When I enter his tent, relieved that he is indeed all in one piece, I catch him staring at my lips from where he’s sitting on the corner of his bamboo floor, and he quickly shifts his gaze to his hands.
My stomach churns.
“How was reopening night?” he asks.
“Not so dandy,” I say. “Tree was on his absolute worst behavior, and Unu and Du’s language made a few audience members gasp.”
“I’m sure your act was mesmerizing,” he says. “And I’m sorry I missed it. I intend to catch tomorrow night’s show.”
I mentally decide to wear my scarlet mask, which Venera always tells me is alluring.
“Should I start wearing makeup for my show, too?” he asks. “I could paint my lips blue, like a corpse.” He smiles at his own morbid joke.
I wince. The memory of his head rolling off the stage to my feet now seems more like a nightmare than a dark parlor trick.
I sit beside him. As soon as I open my mouth to speak, he rises to pour himself a glass of gin. I watch—impatiently—as he finishes the whole glass.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says.
“Is that a good thing? You told me you drink gin to make yourself nicer.”
He white-knuckles his glass. “Have you heard what people say about me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“You’re missing eyes, Sorina, not ears.”
I cross my arms. Yes, I’ve heard the rumors—from both Nicoleta and Venera now—but I don’t know what to think of them. If I even believe them. “Is there something you want to tell me? Because I’d rather hear it from you.” I probably don’t have any right making demands of him, but I really want to hear what he has to say.
“As I told you, I’ve never been in this position.”
“What position?” I snap. I initiated the kiss. I’m the one who feels completely mortified. What position could he possibly be talking about?
“This.” He gestures wildly between the two of us. “I spend my free time investigating people, studying people. Every single aspect of their lives. And half of my information comes from prettyworkers. I know people’s desires and the most intimate details of their relationships. And I’ve never understood them. I’ve never wanted or needed that in my life.”
“And what is that?” I ask.
“The thing you’re asking for. The thing everyone expects.”
“I’m not asking for anything.” I’ve never seen Luca get this worked up. Not about assassins, not during the havoc in Cartona...but apparently one kiss is enough to cause a breakdown.
This is altogether mortifying. I wish I hadn’t kissed him at all.
“You’re asking for things that I can’t give you,” he says. “I can’t promise to give you everything that you want.”
So Venera was right. Luca isn’t interested in any sort of romantic relationship. But then why doesn’t he just come out and say that?
“Well, what do you want?” I ask.
“Things I never thought I would.” He runs his hand through his hair. “But, mostly, time.”
My chest lifts from a tug on my single strand of hope. “I can give you time.”
“Thank you.” He takes a seat at the table. “You don’t have to keep sitting on my floor.” He holds out his hand, and I grab it and slide into the opposite seat. When I envisioned this conversation in my head, this is not how I pictured it—Luca, across the table, fidgeting in his chair and looking everywhere but at me. We sit at a respectable distance apart, our postures rigid. Like a business meeting.
“Is your family all unpacked?” he asks.
So this is what we’re doing. Small talk. “Yes. And the show was decent, and how about this weather?” I smirk. “If we’re going to change the subject, I actually have something I want to discuss with you.”
“Go ahead.” He refills his glass of gin. “Do you want some?”
“No. That stuff is vile,” I say. “Yesterday, I visited a fortune-worker. And she told me to warn you.”
“I don’t put a lot of stock in fortune-workers.”
“She’s a good one. I’ve known her for a long time—”
“I know whom you’re referring to,” he says. “Kahina. The one with the snaking sickness.”
“I can’t decide if I prefer it when you pretend you don’t know everything about my life, or if it’s convenient that you do.”
“I’ll admit that I didn’t know all of this when I first met you. I may have asked around after we started working together.”
“I’d rather you not pretend to be all-knowing.”
“There’s little fun in that. So, tell me about this warning,” he says, sounding bored.
“It was imminent doom.”
“Naturally.”
“You should take these things at least somewhat seriously,” I say. “Since, you know, I wouldn’t like to see you meet imminent doom.”
“There’s a fortune-worker several tents down who drops to his knees whenever I pass and foretells of my upcoming demise,” Luca says. “As he’s been doing for about three months now, this Saturday. Forgive me if I’m not immediately convinced.”
“You’re impossible,” I say.
“So said my mother, many times. Then I ran away to join the circus. And you’re not half as scary as her.” He takes a swig of his gin. “Well, I’ve spent most of today and yesterday interrogating the rest of the people in Gomorrah with strange abilities.”
“You questioned them without me?”
“Yes. You were getting too personal with it. Too sensitive.”
“And did you let them all go after hearing their made-up logic?”
He leans his head back, as if asking the heavens why he has to tolerate someone as annoying as me. Well, he doesn’t. He doesn’t have to help me if I’m tormenting him too much with my concern. I can’t help it if I can’t detach myself from what we’re doing—we’re searching for whoever murdered members of my family. I’m not sorry for caring. And I’m not weak for doing so.