Enne sighed. She didn’t have many friends, so Lourdes’s business trips typically meant months of loneliness. Enne would go home every weekend to an empty house.
“Be careful while I’m gone,” Lourdes said seriously, though maybe Lourdes was the one who should have been careful. Enne had heard some appalling stories about the City of Sin. “If I’m not back in two months, I’m dead.”
Enne stiffened, even though Lourdes had given that warning before. “Don’t be so dreadful.”
Then the memory deviated from what had actually happened, and the dream took over.
“I don’t want you to go,” Enne whispered. In that moment, she was no longer the same person from last February. She was present Enne, the one who’d spent a day in New Reynes, who knew what the future held. “Please don’t go.” Her voice was stronger this time.
Lourdes shushed her. “I have to go.”
“Why?” Enne demanded. “What could be so important? You’re the only person who matters in my life. What else is out there that matters to you? That is so dangerous?” She grasped for Lourdes’s hands, but Lourdes leaned back in shock. “Why do you keep secrets from me?” Hot tears sprang from her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about what you do—”
The black door opened to the hallway, suddenly, forcefully, and evicted Enne from her memory. She landed painfully on the black-and-white floor tiles, and the door slammed in her face. She cried out for Lourdes, but woke up before she heard a response.
Her sheets were damp with sweat. She rolled over and gazed out her bedroom window, where the sunrise illuminated the stunning view of the trash collectors in the alleys behind St. Morse. Enne waited for the details of her dream to fade, but even as she rose and readied herself for another day in the City of Sin, they never did.
* * *
The St. Morse acrobatics troupe huddled in a back hallway, bags slung over their shoulders, coffee in their hands, waiting for Enne. She was over ten minutes late. In her defense, the parcel Vianca’s staff left at Enne’s door had come only with a leotard, not directions, and every opulent hallway in St. Morse looked the same.
The troupe stared at her as she approached. Enne might’velookedlike an acrobat, with her small build and wide shoulders, but she wouldn’t fool them for long.
So she’d decided to be honest. She couldn’t have been theonlyone without any experience, and acrobatics talents weren’t common. Vianca had already hired her. Certainly they’d be willing to teach her.
“You must be Enne Salta.” A young man shook her hand, his grip firm to the point of hurting. “Thedancer,” he sneered.
She withered. “’Lo,” she said, mimicking the way people spoke here.
He ignored her. “Everyone, this is Enne, the replacement.”
“Replacement?” she echoed.
“Last week, a girl broke her leg and quit.” He looked her over. “Clearly Vianca had to make due on short notice. Do you have any experience?”
“No,” she answered weakly.
“Neither did the last girl.” He shook his head. “We have a week until our next performance. Try not to break anything.”
An acrobat, Enne seethed.What was Levi thinking?
Now that the troupe was complete at twenty people, they walked out the back doors into an alley behind the casino. Enne crept quietly to the back of the line. The cool morning breeze teased pieces of her hair out of her neatly coiffed bun, and she shivered. New Reynes didn’t seem to understand the concept of summer.
Past several garbage bins—reeking and still awaiting the morning collectors—they reached the doors to a warehouse. It was no warmer inside, and it smelled of feet.
The troupe dumped their belongings in the corner of a massive square mat. There was equipment sprawled all around the warehouse: sets of bars, trampolines and even a full flying trapeze. She craned her neck back and stared at it, her palms growing sweaty. She hated heights.
They spent over a half hour stretching, and no one said a word to her. She didn’t mind—she was accustomed to that treatment from school. The warm-up and the leotard felt familiar, normal, and she missed her dancing classes back home. She’d never been the best dancer in the room, but at least she’d been confident in her abilities. Today she’d consider it a victory if she left with all her bones intact.
After a while, the troupe split into groups. Enne lingered on the mat, awkward and alone, until a girl approached her. She was several years older than Enne, with blond hair and freckles covering her face and arms.
“I’m Alice. I write the routines.” Enne shook her hand. “I get to spend the week rushing you through the choreography.”
If she didn’t want to make a total fool of herself and the troupe, Alice explained, Enne would need to manage a single back handspring and brave the flying trapeze. Alice had cut Enne’s part down to the most basic material, and unless Enne also fractured a limb, she would be performing the number next Saturday with the rest of them.
Enne nodded along, feigning determination instead of fear. All she needed was to survive today’s rehearsal so she could go to the Sauterelletonight, to find information on Lourdes. One day at a time.
While Alice explained the different roles of each of the troupe members, Enne found herself imagining what it would be like to encounter her mother tonight. To spot her sitting at a table in the corner, smoking one of her foul cigarettes, a newspaper and a glass of bourbon in front of her. What would Lourdes say about finding Enne at the same cabaret?
