“I follow rules—at least, ones with a bit of sense to them. The church has a frighteningly small number of those. There, see? I’d never be much good at religion, now would I?”
“There’s more to God than his rules.”
“Such as?”
“Freedom. Freedom from our iniquities.” I breathed deep and recited a memorized Psalm. “And I will walk at liberty: for I seek thy precepts.’”
He cocked one eyebrow. “Why yes, of course, you do live as one utterly set free.”
I cringed. Oh, how terrible was the corner in which I found myself. But how could he possibly understand the complex nature of my heart these days? If I had to explain at this moment what my relationship with God might be, I’d have to say “sparse.” Yet I’d tasted that freedom once, years ago in my lowest moment, in an alley outside the wretched Seven Dials district, and no honey had been sweeter on my tongue.
Like a kaleidoscope that had unexpectedly shifted, I suddenly realized I’d lost sight of so much. God’s silence these days—possibly by my own doing—left a bitter taste that mixed with the invasive dust of the road. I turned away with a frown. As it turned out, the trouble was not that Jack Dorian was wrong—it was that he was terribly right.
When we stopped, the sun lay evenly across a field of tall grass, and sunshine had warmed the air with the promise of spring. It was an unusually placid March day, despite the gray clouds overhead threatening rain. Last year’s cattails waved stiffly in the breeze as Jack handed me down from the coach, and I couldn’t rid myself of the sensation of drowning, of utter despair, as I looked across the empty field stretched before two gray, peeling barns—and little else. What had I gotten myself into?
“Come on.” He pulled me along, leaping like a stag across the field. The man who always sparked with color had connected to his life source, and now, with wind whipping his hair about his boyish face, he shone brighter than the sun. “Youneedn’t be scared. There was a ten-foot yeti living here once, but I bested him and made him leave long ago.” He winked.
I hefted my skirts higher and trudged after him with a heavy sigh and a slight eye roll. “What is this place?”
“My childhood home. Well, one of them.”
When we reached the double doors of the largest barn, a four-story monstrosity with rotting wood curling its edges along the bottom and the earthy smell of livestock and hay, he grabbed my hand and spun me. I had barely caught my balance when he unlatched and flung the doors wide, and everything overpowered my senses. Light, smell, noise, color.
“Welcome, my lady, to the grandest place on earth.”
I staggered and gaped, chills climbing my skin. It was a circus—quite literally. Lanterns hanging on every post set the massive place ablaze with light, showing people scurrying about on every level, animals moving about below. An awful roaring came from the west end of the building. I spun with a cry to see an elephant—anelephant—saluting me with his trunk from a straw-filled stall.
I grabbed for Jack’s arm, and he looked down on me with a blazing smile. Then he raised his arms. “Look alive, old friends, see who’s home!”
Like a tidal wave, all the attention turned toward us, and I felt very small beside elephants and loud voices and enough color to knock a man down.
“Ah, if it isn’t little Jackie Dorian.” A barrel-chested man with a voice to match pounded him on the back as the two embraced. “Welcome back to the fold.”
“I’m afraid it’s just a visit this time, Doc.”
“With company, it would seem.” He folded his beefy arms and shined that magnificent smile on me. “What’s a sweet little thing doing with the likes of Jackie Dorian?”
“We’re working—”
“Hello, Jackie.” A sultry feminine voice came from behind, smoothing right through my awkward words. It was a slender woman with flowing blonde hair, her face solemn and snapping with emotion as she sized me up, then turned back to Jack. “You’ve come back.” Every inch of her seemed soft and hopeful, almost like a daisy unfurling soft white petals just for him. How many women waited in various towns across England for dear old “Jackie” Dorian?
“Lizzie, there you are.” He swept up her hand and kissed her knuckles. Her lashes fluttered at his touch, but she said nothing. “Would you mind terribly if we borrowed your bar? I’ve a few tricks to teach a new pupil of mine.”
Her gaze flicked over my face. No approval registered. “I suppose.”
“Grateful, old chum.” With a quick pat that sent her stumbling forward, Jack marched toward the loft and motioned for me to follow.
Poor Lizzie looked on with wide eyes, her far-from-chummy heart upon her white face.
I forced my attention back on where we were going and tried to come to terms with exactly what this unusual man’s past was. “This is the circus. You are ... from the circus?”
He skipped up the loft steps to the third level. “It’s the heart of the circus, all holed up in this barn between shows. There’s a big white tent folded up there.” He pointed to the topmost level above us. “This barn is for keeping warm, practicing, and ... you know, training reluctant ballerinas.” He lifted his eyebrows and handed me up onto the landing with him.
I handled the increasing height perfectly well ... until Istopped and looked down. My vision doubled and came back together, blurring at the edges. I saw people like tiny crickets below, funneling out the door with jolly shouts of goodbye until only a few were left. I swallowed and shivered with the chill of sudden perspiration along my skin. I backed toward the wall, and Jack folded his arms.
“This doesn’t bode well for what I have in mind,” he said.
“I prefer to stay on solid ground.”
