Would the show go on without me?
The dark desire to run flickers inside me again. I look down. More people stream past in a wave of colorful suits, ties, and hats. Oceans of flowing skirts, matching gloves, crocodile purses, wombat collars, and fur stoles—the height of fashion for 1943. I envy them. Their freedom is more enchanting than the magic pulsing through my veins.
They’re not cursed to forever run from an enemy like we are.
I feel the heat of eyes on me, reminding me there’s no more time for wallowing in fantasies. An old white man glares upward, finding me. His gaze burns. His sharp chin is as pointy as a dagger. His scowl tells me he’d be the type to wave a Confederate flag. I smirk, knowing it’s probably the first time some of these white folks have looked up to a Black person. It makes me wish I got to see more brown and black faces. Customers who can’t afford tickets to our sold-out shows with their rations in this era. Sometimes after experiencing so much of the future, I forget how sharp the color lines of the past are.
The skies above Harlem will ignite soon. Not with our fireworks, but with the flames of white-owned businesses burning. The Harlem Race Riot of 1943. The neighborhood has no idea what’s to come.
A cloud trembles overhead. Then, a snapping sound, so soft that only I can hear it, before silver flecks of stardust drizzle down like glitter.
The people below cheer. Some twirl in the shadow of the big top, dancing in the sparkling rain. The crowd doesn’t know that I’ve conjured the stardust, but they do know to expect the unexpected. Le Cirque Noir’s banners flicker, full of promises:THE MAJESTIC. THE MARVELOUS. THE MAGNIFICENT. MAGIC MADE REAL AT THE GREATEST SHOW OF ALL TIME!
A small girl with hair as dark as raven feathers claps her hands and stares at the shimmering specks, her joy lighting up the night.
My sister’s happiness used to do that too.
The moon disappears, and the stardust thickens into a haze that hangs over the crowd like cotton candy, blocking their faces from my view.
Grace and I would watch the patrons arrive from up here. We’d make guesses about what sorts of secrets they had or where they were headed after the show. She never shared my jealousy of them. I can almost hear my sister’s voice whisper on the breeze, “We’re the lucky ones, Emma. We’veperformed everywhere from New York City to San Francisco. I’ve traveled from 1880 to 2050. I’ve seen the world in so many forms, never bound by the limits of time. This life is everything! We’re blessed!”
And I guess I was when she was here.
But now, it’s just me.
My hand rises to the necklace at my throat—a miniature silver clock cradled by a crescent moon, a star poised on the other side. My star. I kiss it softly before climbing off the ball and carefully positioning myself on the slope of the tent roof. I need to be more like Grace and less like myself.
Past the circus entrance gate, the tops of flashy cars shine in the parking lot—Cadillacs, Hudsons, Kaisers. Most of them this year’s models. I imagine getting behind the wheel of one, racing along the highways. Not that I’d ever be allowed to. After what happened to Grace, my family holds me so close it’s suffocating.
A raven perches on the wrought iron fence. Its eerie call makes the hairs on my neck stand up. Grace was terrified of ravens. Even Mom believes they’re a bad omen, but she never says why.
I narrow my gaze. “What do you want?” Unease fills my chest as its eyes burn into mine.
With a sudden flap of its wings, the raven dives like a missile in my direction. I duck, and it brushes against my hair before flying away. My stomach roils even after the bird is out of sight. What does it mean?
Our circus clock chimes. Eight thirty. I don’t have any more time to think about the bird. Mom’s eyes find me. I push myself forward, rocketing my body down the circus tent. The wind rushes through my hair, loosening a few strands from my victory rolls. Stars sparkle at the edge of my vision. My tiny skirt flutters as I launch myself into the night sky and prepare for the perfect landing on Mom’s platform.
It’s showtime.
“Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages!” The gleam of the footlights and layers of makeup give Papa’s handsome face a mysterious glow. “Welcome to Le Cirque Noir!” The sequined jacket of his ringmaster costume shimmers in the torchlight. “The place where magic is a dream made real.”
From his podium, he gazes around the tent, his smile proud as he takes in the opulence. Colorful paintings and lush tapestries in fine pink-and-gold satin and velvet line the tent’s inner walls. The whole space is illuminated by large torches with black stars and blue constellations etched on their handles. Their light casts strange shadows onto the seated crowd. The liver-spotted old man who glared at me earlier is in the front row, his scowl cemented in place.
Papa inches closer to the crowd, his jeweled buttons shining and his white glove stark against the gold ball on the top of his cane. “For generations the Baldwin family have traveled the world and entertained audiences. We have showcased for you the world’s most prominent singers, performers, and peddlers of otherworldly delights. And tonight”—he lifts his left hand, and with a swirl of white, his glove floats off his dark brown fingers—“we carry on that tradition!” The glove expands into a massive balloon above the audience. With a loud pop, it explodes into white lilies that shower the crowd. “Welcome to the best show in the land, the best show of all time!”
Applause erupts, and some rise, clapping delightedly. They probably think he did that trick with wires or string so thin you can’t see it. But what Papa conjures is real—there’s no sleight of hand. If you’re quick enough to catch a lily, its pollen will briefly tickle your nose before the flower dissolves into the breeze.
Appearance is more important than honesty in my family. Even our circus is a pretense. Papa makes it sound glamorous to a crowd. But behind his words is a lifetime of monotony—of rehearsing acts we know so well we could do them in our sleep, of setting up the stages, of cleaning the costumes, of performing nearly every night, and, of course, of running when there’s a Davenport-family sighting.
The wonders of our act, Le Cirque Noir, echo in the wind no matter where we travel. Some think we’re vying for the audiences of the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, but we don’t think twice about them. Over the years, my family has reinvented itself in different decades. We’ve performed in speakeasies, vaudeville theaters, opera houses, juke joints, and jaw-dropping circuses, all while trying to avoid the Davenport family.
Grace flutters through my mind again. Her skin dark and beautifulas midnight, her gently sloping eyes, and the dimples framing her angelic smile. I touch the silver clock pendant on my necklace, grit my teeth, and shut down the memories.
Papa glances at me with big eyes. “And now, my beautiful daughter, the great Emma Baldwin, is here to astound you with an act you won’t soon forget. She can make your wildest dreams come true. How about a round of applause for her?” Polite claps echo as Papa steps off his podium and exits stage left, no doubt heading to the family tent, where he likes to relax between introducing acts.
Music pulses around me. I push away everything else and dance toward the stage. My hips rock fast as my feet slap the carpet, mimicking the fast footwork I’ve seen performed by Josephine Baker.
My palms are still unsteady, but I raise them high, willing the stardust I gathered outside to form a shimmering spiral. Thankfully, the trillions of hours I’ve spent practicing, learning to control it, are starting to pay off. The drumbeat reverberates through my limbs, stirring in me the stories Grandmère shared of our ancestors fighting for freedom.
