The Circus AU

North Carolina
1947

She worked in the pale sliver of the moonlight, upright against the colorfully decorated wagon. Scenes in purples and blues have been painted in rich hues- dainty women flipping between trapeze, lithe tigers jumping through flaming hoops, an elephant balancing on a ball with her trunk outstretched to a ringmaster in cool turquoise, and an abstract crowd of onlookers. Peeled gold letters read SCOTT FAMILY FLYERS in big letters, curling around a curtained window that looked into the tight confines of a familial home. But the moonlight and the swirls of stars only shine on the girl with the pale brown braid as she hunched over herself, looking at the current mending of a pair of tights she received after the night's show. She carefully pushed up her wired framed glasses to rub the spot between her eyes. Performers, she thought to herself with a crease in her brows, Performers were the worst. So inconsiderate; she had fixed these exact tights only two weeks ago. It’s not like nylons grew on trees.

It was late. But that didn’t mean that the grounds were quiet. They had arrived at the top of the week and set up for a show only a day later. Besides the brilliant red and white big top and the rectangular side tent, there were over a dozen other structures dotting the area. From cloth and canvas tents to modern and sleek metal caravans, signs of civilization fill the empty space of the field. Not too far away, a mess tent glows with the light of a campfire, shadows dancing against the tall grass while its revelers tell stories and drink alcohol from thick brown bottles. Gruff voices turn light with laughter until there is a stall in the conversation. Lazy fireflies blink on the outskirts, illuminating the night even more to those trudging back to their makeshift homes without flashlights or the stringed bulbs of the midway that had turned cold hours prior. A contortionist yawns while making her way to the cream-colored yurt. The lion tamer makes his way over to a rusted truck and trailer, whistling a soft jazz standard. The show-folk were night owls, but everything had its limits. Even now, conversation dwindled and left only the songs of crickets, bullfrogs, and cicadas. Everyone was slowly making their way to sleep. The show did that to them- a hard night’s work translated to a calm nights sleep. Even the big cats and elephant had found peace in their pens- the owners refuse to cage them for anything besides travel, having built pens and tents that could hold the gentle beasts. It seemed everyone had found their calm for the night.

Everyone except the girl.

Even when she finished the tights, there were skirts and trousers and even socks that needed attention. And while she had a machine, the dexterity of her fingers was the only thing she trusted for costumes that she had slaved over herself. And she had built them to last and endure the rigorous performances. But those performers… were stupid. Or rather, they did stupid things. And while she did not expect them to land each trick perfectly, she did expect to be in the know of act changes. If she had known that Ginger was going to use a flaming hoop in her tumbling act, she would have made something flame retardant, using something besides satin, which now lay singed in a heap on her lap. While everyone else went to sleep, satisfied with how they had sung for their supper, Noelle Scott stayed up to fix. To mend. To transform.

But she still took a moment, laying her head back against the wagon, the softest sigh escaping her lips. Once she changed position, she was reminded of how tired she was. She had spent the evening running from working the ticket booth to tech with Sam, to a quick wrap up with her mother, to cleaning up the big and side tents, to now. Savoring the sweet night air was a small pleasure that she indulged in, for just a moment. A hand reaches to her mouth to place the needle between her teeth and then falls to feel the fresh grass underneath her palm, twirling up into her fingers. An old hat box is open with various sewing supplies- a multitude of thread, needles, and ribbons. A block of beeswax with many indents from years of use. Some fabric swatches and patches for everyday clothing. Her tools.

Noelle found her mind wandering, as it often did in these small moments of indulgence. Settling in the space around her, in the cool and symphonious night.  To zipping to earlier that day, watching her mother run rehearsals and practicing her act. To wrangling her little sister, chasing her through camp. The thoughts finally landed to her favorite place- the animal pens. Her darling tigers and lions that she had spent her childhood bonding with, nursing back to health. Leaning back against the brilliant orange fur of her Glenn, and pulling out a copy of whatever book her mother had found and just enjoying the life that they had carved out with a combination of blood, sweat, tears, and dumb luck. It wasn’t perfect but it was theirs. After almost a decade, they finally had a sense of stability. Granted, it wasn't literal stability- they moved every couple of weeks, have toured most of the east coast and have inched west over the past couple of years. But the best years of her entire life had been here, with these people, with her surrogate family.

Minutes pass before Noelle opens her eyes again. She reaches for the needle between her teeth and places it carefully in her makeshift sewing kit. She looked at the work done- the tights, the lion tamer’s jacket, the headpieces for the horses, pants, skirts, dresses… Not bad for a night’s work. Especially considering that the next day was dark for shows- just a day for training, mending, and rehearsal. After fixing any garment that crossed her path, she planned on spending the day following Sam and Steve around, maybe checking in on Jake. She shook her head, a soft smile on her face. That boy wore through clothing like no other. Outgrew too. Didn’t help that he was already 6’5”, he seemed to just KEEP growing.  It was a mystery, she thought with a silent laugh. Still, the boy knew how to make a delicious hash. Maybe that’s why Lazarus kept him around.

When she stood, she felt her spine pop and stretch with her. How long had she been hunched over? Had to have been a couple hours at least, based on the soreness that reached her shoulders and neck. Definitely, time to turn in. Noelle stretched one more time, her pale skin hitting the pale moonlight, making her glow if only for a moment. She carefully grabbed the clothing, both finished and unfinished, as well as her kit. Very carefully, she stepped to the door of the long wagon, stepping into the compacted space. She was looking forward to curling into bed next to her sister, underneath the thick knitted blankets they had brought from Maine, that had followed them to New York, and to the circus.

They had been following the caravan for a couple days now.


Silent shadows, they had stalked the colorful cars. Painted scenes of circus life made them so easy to follow, the security in numbers made the group lax in their security. Hardly any of them suspected that twin sets of grey eyes tracked their movements from the tall tops of the evergreens that surrounded them while bodies built for their environment move hand over hand through branches. They rest in the foliage hidden by the dark greens and deep shadows. One looks towards the other and a nod is exchanged before they drop in tandem to the softly pine scented forest floor.


Just like deer, she thinks as the two of them stalk towards the campground. Patience is key.


Bare feet pad gently over the dry needles, leaving hardly a trace in their wake. The broader of the two falls back behind the woman, letting her race ahead towards the dark circus campground. Her hand reaches for the nearest caravan and she grabs hold of the sturdy wood, pulling herself with a grace born of years of climbing trees. He waits in the corner below her, hunched low and pulling his frame tight. A flick of her hand, and the man moves forward around the caravan and into the now empty campground.

His hand reaches for the knife kept on his person, drawing the razor-sharp metal from its hiding place and into the warm night as they make their way to the largest of the cars. It’s a large wooden car, classic in its design. A wooden door at the top of a small set of steps separates the interior from the exterior; it’s been elaborately carved with intricate geometric patterns. A small, stained glass window is set into the top of the door, warm in color and done in those same patterns. The sides of the car are painted and carved in near equal measures in trailing patterns and birds of flight. Masterfully done, they flit across the flat planes of the car, swirling and ducking along an unseen breeze. A bronze lantern sits next to the door, illuminating the steps in soft light.


One calloused hand comes to rap against the thick wood.


After a long moment, the door swings open to reveal a white-haired man. Silver framed lenses flash in the light of the lantern as he leans out to see who had knocked.


A body surges forward to knock the man back into the car. His shout is muffled as the fall into the thick wooden interior. The young woman pushes into the space shoulder first as the white-haired man rolls onto the wooden floor with a wince. The young man follows, grey eyes gleaming in the dim light of the room. The knife in his hand is that same pale grey, flashing with that same light as he darts forward in soft candlelight.

Bright blue eyes widen as they catch the light of the knife and in one smooth motion, his body shift upwards in the span of a short motion. A sharp elbow catches the girl in the ribs, another movement throws her knife from her hand. She takes a step back, growls at him as her brother runs forward with his own knife and teeth bared.


The both hear the door open a touch too late. Neither of them had been expecting another person.


She turns to the very brief sight of a darkly skinned elbow. It fills her vision just a moment before everything for her goes dark, thoughts and consciousness forced to abort from the blow. The young man watches his sister crumple to the floor, knife flashing with deadly purpose before he too is knocked to the ground. The white-haired man walks over, leaning down to pick up the knife embedded in his floor. One brilliantly polished shoe toes at the larger man’s body, turning it over to reveal a young face pocked with freckles and crossed with lines deeper than his age would suggest. He and the woman are just a little gaunt, but oh.

Lord, oh, he thinks as his thumb swipes across his pale cheek. It comes back with a line of blood smeared against the pad. He turns to the other man with the knife loose in his fingers, eyes cunning and already working through an endless row of possibilities. They flick back to what he assumes are twins on the floor and he waits.


He wants to make them an offer.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------


Lazarus McKay considered himself a man of simple needs. He has his circus, his pride and joy. He has the performers and staff, the strange family he’s accumulated over the years. And he has his husband.

Lord, he loves Sam, he thinks as the four of them walk towards the one car he could trust with the hot mess he has on his hands. Sam has two dark hands in a vice grip on the two twins’ shoulders. They’re huge when they’re not trying to kill him, both pushing six feet and each as broad as a barn. Whip fast with a wild strength, Lazarus knows he could turn them into a formidable act. Something acrobatic maybe? Knives would be a great addition, he thinks as his cheek reminds him of the cut.

One hand raises to knock at the door, hoping that the occupant he wants to speak with is in. Karen Scott would know what to do with the two glaring daggers into the back of his skull.


The sight that greets whoever opens that door is something strange, something not expected in the late evening hours after dark has fallen and the performers have headed to bed. The head of the circus, white hair slightly ruffled yet dress shirt, pants, and shoes untouched. A cut bisects his cheek and a small bit of the bridge of his nose. Bright blue eyes flash with something half quietly pleased, half exhausted. Behind him, his husband; a man of considerable size at six foot something. Dark skinned, long hair pinned in a messy bun, and still dressed in his oil stained work clothes. He has a tight grip on the two flanking him, their figures unfamiliar to any of the circus workers.

Twins, skin a dark tan and flecked with freckles. Their hair is a dark, curly mess; their eyes a piercing grey, challenging and wary of this new space and the deal they found themselves stuck in. Their clothes are old, tattered, and look handmade. Their eyes flick back and forth across the campsite they now found themselves in. They look unsure, untethered, annoyed, and rough. The two of them had come to kill a man, but now?


Now they find themselves in a tentative truce.


The door lock clicks, and they both find themselves tensing, waiting to see what existed on the other side of that door.

As the door clicked and open, it revealed a middle-aged woman with a long, ash brown braid that draped over her shoulder. She wears a silky, blue nightgown that has a delicate, faded floral pattern. And while age has been kind to her high cheekbones and modelesque features, time is shown by her deep smile lines and light crows feet, as well as the silver streaks in her hair. There was something in her stance and gaze that she has seen many things in her life, good and bad. She has lived a story and created something out of nothing. Yet, her own wide brown eyes were half open and her face stretches in a yawn.

“Lazarus? What in the he-“ She breaks off, blinking at the group in front of her. Of course, there was Lazarus McKay. The owner of the circus and, technically, her boss. While she was used to the man knocking on her door late at night with a new act that needed a be or a nice, warm welcome. But never with a cut on his face, and rarely Sam. The dark skinned man gripped the shoulders of two feral looking kids. They couldn’t be that much older than her own daughter, and while they were broad and strong looking, Karen looked past the glare and into the hollow hunger underneath. She noticed the gauntness of their faces. She frowned and kept her gaze o the wild looking twins. A Boy and a girl. It was a slow look of appraisal, of decision. Where would they fit? Would they fit? But her eyes soften at their uneasiness, their fear. These two have been alone for a long time, Karen guessed. They have most likely been relying on only each other. She sighs and steps out completely, the soft breeze ruffling her gown slightly. And, for a moment, she closes herself and loses herself in time.

Remembering her own hunger. How, for a couple years a long time ago, every scrap of food that was found was given to her daughters. How she had turned to selling her old clothes, her furniture, her paintings, anything. How it turned into selling apples and pencils and, lastly, flowers. Flowers that she had picked from random parts of the city, had arranged, and had her eldest daughter push and peddle while she pulled whatever trick she had. How many nights were filled with desperation and fear and hollow bellies. How she got out of there by the skin of their teeth, by a lucky break.

Karen opens her eyes, back in the present. Back with a slight predicament. Two hungry children who had been stuck in survival mode for just a touch too long. Who had found themselves here, where second chances were given. She grabs the doorknob from behind and closes the door quietly. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn’t something she wanted her daughters to listen to it right now. Her gaze falls back on Laz, quietly examining the cuts. They weren’t deep, but they were well placed. She leans against the closed door, looking between everyone in the group, communicating something different in a silent language only mothers and teachers know.

You’re okay. I’m here fer you. You'll be safe here.

Jesus, what did Laz get you into this time?

What’s your angle?

And finally, she speaks out loud. Her accent is familiar to the two older gentlemen; it’s something between crass and sophisticated. It’s carried over from an old life, a coastal one on the shores of Maine, the wife of a lawyer. The cadence is smooth as butter and pleasant to the ears, but there is a hidden edge from years of enduring whatever life had given her.

“Well? Who we lookin’ at here, Lazarus?”
--
Meanwhile, Noelle had been awakened by the soft rap on their front door. She stared at the ceiling, absolutely still as her mother began to move to the door. Unsurprisingly, staying still and not making any noise was very easy for her. She was used to not being noticed. After a while, it was just second nature. She slowed her breathing down to match her sister’s deep breath next to her. Finally, she heard the soft click of the door opening and her mother speak. And after that, the door closing behind her.

One.

Two.

Three.

Noelle slowly sat up, careful not to wake her sister. She didn’t know why, the girl slept like a rock, always had. Growing up with a circus, she had slept through people cheering, shouting, fighting, and moving at all times. But Joy slept soundly through it all, her short ash brown hair mussed all over her face, her freckled face moving with her deep breaths. For a moment, her cute button nose twitched and her angular eyes scrunched, but they quickly reset to a relaxed and deep sleep. Noelle wasn’t as lucky, any disturbance woke her up. It usually was just a drunken argument between two performers that ended with them passing out. But this? This seemed interesting. New acts usually came during the day and in McKay’s caravan. Noelle made a choice, looking around.

It was a long interior and tight, but with the help of some amazing organization skills, the room felt both cozy and larger than it actually was. The walls were painted a soft blue that really opened up the small space. On one side of the caravan was the bed- a little larger than a twin with handmade knit blankets and quilts both from the present and past. Along one side was ‘kitchen’- a squat ice chest with a beautiful pale wood façade, a small gas stove and oven with two burners that Sam had rigged for them when they first arrived, and some matching counter space. On the stove top was a soup pot from earlier that day- due to the show and how late everyone would be out and eat, Jake had given the Scott family some dinner to heat up. Inside all of the cabinets are ceramic plates, bowls, and mugs. Also on the stove top was a turquoise kettle that was chipped at the spout that was well-used and well-loved. Following the wall was a simple wastebasket, and then a cream, L-shaped booth-style square dining at the corner of the room. The table was fixed to the floor, much like all the furniture, and is also made out of pale wood. On the other wall was a comfortable blue sofa with a plethora of blankets and pillows that made it out as a bed, where the matriarch of the family slept. Adjacent, tilted at a jaunty angle, was a high backed armchair often used for reading, entertaining, and family meetings. It faced the couch slightly and had a basket of scrapbooks and photo books next to its legs.

The last piece of furniture was a well-maintained sewing machine- it was probably older than Noelle and maybe took a couple fingers of woman stronger than she, but it was a formidable foe to any other. Noelle had tamed this beast- she supposed it was a talent she had. It was black and curved with a needle that glinted murderously and a floral scene painted on the body. The foot pedal below the wood desk was well oiled and polished. On either side of the machine were piles of mended clothing and torn clothing. There is a metal rack flushed against the wall, where spectacular costumes are hung. Some are simple body suits made of brilliant colored fabrics, suits with bright gold buttons and intricate patterns, and big, showgirl skirts and tops that were hand stitched with dazzling rhinestones and jewels. They were an accumulation of old costumes of performers past, new pieces that needed to be delivered, and concepts she was playing with. Everything as durable but delicate, industrial in strength but personal in design.

Noelle slowly inched off the bed, her feet hitting the woven rug, toes stretching. She raised herself to her full, willowy height- the moonlight from one of the 4 windows hits her skin with a pale glow, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the profile of her nose. She reaches to a small bedside table that stands at the foot of the bed. As opposed to the one at the head of the bed, whose bedside table was a mess of drawings and paper dolls, the one Noelle reached for was way neatly packed with a small stack of books and a pair of wire circular glasses. She takes the glasses with nimble fingers and places them carefully on her nose. After, she moved so quietly past to the other end of the wagon, her feet making a little sound between the few rugs that covered the wood floor. She looked a little silly with her homemade candy striped pajamas and frayed braid, but she was determined to find out what was going on.

Once she reached the door, she carefully climbed up on the couch, standing to reach the high window at the top. She pushed aside the simple, lacey curtain and peered outside. Her eyes flick between her mother, who was standing with her hands on her hips. Then Lazarus. They were talking about something. Something pressing. It was rare to see this from him- usually, he was so calm and collected. And while he was still cool in his demeanor, the cut on his nose and cheek told a different story. Finally, her eyes hit Sam. He was holding two savage looking people. A boy and a girl, broad as anything, similar enough that they had to be siblings. They couldn’t be much older than her, but their faces were drawn with… something. Not age, but time. Hard time that Noelle saw on her own mother’s face on late nights that were softened by whiskey and reminiscing on a time that Noelle tried to forget. Their hair was wild and tangled and Noelle was pretty sure she saw a couple leaves dangling at the ends. They wore clothes that were torn and stained with mud and blood. She followed their eyes, which flicked all around in stimulation overload. Was this a new act? Wildmen? There had to be something more here. From both ends. From McKay- he didn’t get out of bed for just two bear children. And the siblings- they had the glare in their eye that showed some sort of purpose. She wondered who approached who. How these vastly different people met.

And why Sam was grabbing them so hard.

The door opening makes the two high strung twins flinch back. The squeak of metal hinges pulling open was too high pitched, just another strange noise in this cacophony of strange noises and sounds they had stumbled into. He can feel his twin on the other side of the man holding them, the two of them straining against their bonds. Still, the man held on. Fingers calloused and cut only dug deeper into the flesh of their shoulders.

A low growl escapes the two of them: his, more of a warning; Agnes’s, more of a threat. She wouldn’t hesitate to tear everyone here a new one, bite into the hand holding her tight with teeth sharp enough that the insides of her lips were crisscrossed in pale scars from the amount of times she had accidentally scraped against them. Tobi wrenches his shoulder back with the enormous strength and desperation of a man forced for years to live without any comfort, but the man holding him just plants his foot heavier on the ground and hauls the two of them back.

Lazarus turns to them as the door slowly opens. Twin sets of pale grey stare into bright blue. Tobi doesn’t want to say he’s cowed, but there's something in those eyes that takes some of the fight right out of him. It’s a strange sort of feeling; Lazarus doesn’t even look mad. There’s no threat there, no thinly veiled or open promise of violence should they not behave, and yet. They’re pinned.


“Now, now. We had a deal.”


He turns back then. The twins blink as a figure emerges: a woman. She’s looking the group of them up and down and while the expression on her face doesn’t seem surprised when she sees Lazarus, her eyes do widen fractionally as she looks at the two of them. There’s something there in her eyes, some sort of memory maybe? Pity? Tobi can’t quite read it. Years without real human interaction had made the two of them a little rusty at reading the expressions of a face that didn’t mirror their own.


But.


In the pale moonlight, Tobi’s struck with a strange sort of feeling blooming in his chest the longer he looks at this woman and the longer she looks at him. There’s a familiarity, whether that be in the woman’s willowy frame or in the way that she seemed at least slightly concerned about them. It could have been the fact that he smelled food as she had opened the door, something savory that pulled the memory of his gnawing hunger back to the forefront of his thoughts. Could have been how he was slowly coming to accept the fact that he was exhausted and desperately keening for a safe place to sleep.

He’s kidding himself though. One look at Agnes and her eyes tell him that she feels the same sort of cognitive disconnect. The universe is throwing the two of them for a loop because this woman? This tall, quietly elegant woman with a face that spoke of nights in the past similar to theirs and eyes that silently asked them if they were alright.


This woman was making them feel safe.


It puts Tobi on even more of a razor’s edge.


It’s gotta be some sort of trick, some sort of strange play by the people surrounding him to make the two of them let down their guard. There’s some hidden catch here, some clause in the deal where the man was drawing out his revenge for the two of them drawing blood. All of this, just some elaborate plot to kill them in return. Something had to be here lurking and just waiting for the right moment to finally leave them fresh corpses on the soft grassy earth.

Blood pumps harder in his veins as his heart picks up tempo. Quicksilver eyes flick between everything with an unrelenting awareness. He’s watching Lazarus and the woman talk when he does see something. There, just briefly in the window of the thick wooden door. Movement. Just a small flicker of something, briefly there and then gone like it knows it had been noticed.

One small movement.

One hair trigger.

The two of them snap.

.
.
.
.


“An act, Karen.” The white haired man explains to the woman in front of his. His voice is quiet and doesn’t carry; he’s careful to not wake the children inside the car. “One that while not exactly… orthodox in its arrival looks incredibly promising.” One finger comes up to thumb absently at the blood seeping slow from the cut on his cheek. The blood sticks to the pad of his thumb. Sharp eyes examine it briefly as he rubs it between his thumb and forefinger.

His head turns to glance at the twins in Sam’s grasp. “At first, when I asked them their names, they claimed they were, and I’m quoting here, ‘ain’t gonna give no court’sy t’a wraith an’ ‘is wolf, can go take y’all questions an’ shove ‘em up y’all’s ass.’” He shakes his head, though he has to admit, he was a little fond of the descriptor. ‘A wraith and his wolf’ had a ring to it, he might have to save that for some future act.

“The second time around, they told me to call them Tobi,” he motions to the boy. “And Agnes.” A motion towards the girl. Both broad as a barn, both looking like they were two steps away from bolting if given the chance. He could see his husband’s boots digging into the soft grass underneath them, his arms and fingers straining to keep the two of them in one spot. Sam’s chipped fingernails were a hair away from drawing blood,he could see that from here and the sort of shitshow that would incur was something he would rather avoid.

“They’re scared, Karen.” He crosses his arms over the still impeccably clean royal blue silk of his shirt. “And though it might not be a long story, it’s too complicated to explain well at this hour. That,” he winces lightly as he notices that by crossing his arms, he’s smeared a bit of the blood from his thumb onto the sleeve of his shirt. “And I’m still bleeding. Shit.” he grumbles low, almost too low to hear.

“The important thing is that we’ve made a deal. They will be staying for a time, and I would appreciate if you could keep them with you until Sam is able to build them a place to stay and I figure out how they fit.” He leans in, lowering his voice to talk shop for just a minute before he lets her back to her evening, but suddenly, there’s a sharp noise behind him that. Lazarus turns, just soon enough to catch what's happening, bit not quick enough to prevent what happens next.


.
.
.
.


Soon as Tobi saw the movement in the window, he wrenched backward in Sam’s grip. The suddenness of the movement after so much time spent close to still throws the man off, and hsi hand comes free of Tobi’s thick shoulder. His sister might not understand exactly what’s happening, but she does what she can; her own arms come up to grip the arm that’s holding her and she pulls hard. He stumbles with her and offers a bit of resistance, but he’s stunned as his body doubles over towards her. Sam hadn’t had time to change out of his work clothes this evening, for obvious reason, so when Tobi pulls a screwdriver he had forgotten to take out of his pants from his pockets, he curses. Loudly. He tries to turn and grab the boy again, but his damn sister still has her hands around his arm and is digging in her fingernails now.

Tobi’s out of reach now anyway, the screwdriver loosely hanging from his fingers as he winds his arm back. A moment later, it shrieks through the space between him and the door, only narrowly missing the two adults standing there. A thunk echoes in the silence that follows, the screwdriver having found its mark. It sticks out of the thick wood of the door, solidly jammed in bit first.

It’s deadly quiet between the five of them: Lazarus wincing from where he had to stutter step backwards, Karen standing nearby, Sam frozen with Agnes still gripping him by the arm, and Tobi still slightly hunched and staring at the screwdriver stuck solid in the door.


No one moves for a long moment.

Karen saw the screwdriver flying towards her, but unlike Lazarus, she refused to step away. In her line of work, she has had balls, clubs, knives, and swords thrown at her both in rehearsal and in arguments. Flying objects did not scare her, did not even phase her really. If it was aimed to kill, she would have dodged, deftly. If it was thrown to harm, she could live through it, and it would give an excuse for her to pull out her aged shotgun and give anyone a right scare. And while these twins might not know it, she was a crack-shot. Karen didn’t play security often, but when she did, she chased anyone off the land while instilling the fear of God in their poor, poor hearts.

But still.

Damn.

It lands, lodged into her front door, mere centimeters from her face. But she stays still, her eyes locked on the boy that threw it, her warm brown almost matching the steel in the grey. And yes, in her mind, he was a boy. Not a man. While he was tall, broad, and had that look of someone who had to grow up rather fast, he was a kid. A sad, scared, lonely kid who probably hadn’t interacted with ANYONE in years, let alone eccentric circus folk. A kid who hadn’t had someone looking out for him except this near identical woman, who looked like a feral dog who had been backed into a corner.

Not a very stable home life.

But Karen can’t help but feel… something. Her caravan had been the halfway house for new acts since Lazarus started placing more responsibilities on her, trusting her more than a common acrobatic act. And since then, she had so many stories pass through her door. Some more compelling than others, some more lasting than others. But these kids were tugging at something in her that only few had tapped through. Only a few of those younger acts have pulled at her like that; Jake, that tall boy that had met them and tried so hard to make them feel welcome, although he was only a couple years older than Noelle at the time, not even a teenager yet… And Steve. Darling, sweet Steve. The first kid she opened her door for. The kid that drove her crazy with his lizards and unwavering optimism. She had a good feeling about both of those boys. And now, staring at these feral children, her gut squeezed with that sympathetic, motherly instinct.

It also didn’t help that Tobi’s shot was that damn impressive. And, judging by the cut on Laz’s cheek, it wasn’t dumb luck. They had real skill, probably from years of practice. Hunting, perhaps. Didn’t matter where it came from- sharpshooters were a dime a dozen, but they usually just shoot bottles at a couple feet away, telling stories of past conquests. But these two? Silent, letting their work speak for itself?

God Damnit.

Her gaze doesn’t waiver, however, and is just hard set in that something. Her expression doesn’t give her thoughts on the matter, although she had many. First and foremost being that this “attack” of sorts, had been impulse. While the two wild-children looked unhappy to be there, Lazarus claimed a sort of truce. They didn’t look like they were people to go back on their word. And even if they were, there must have been a better time to plan this, Karen rationalized. Why not on the way over? Why wait to hear what she had to say on that matter. No, this was something unplanned, on instinct. He had been spooked.

By what, though?

She knew the answer before she even asked herself. She almost sighed. Of course, it had to be. Without moving or turning her gaze, she lets out a whistle between her teeth. It’s loud and shrill, but short. A call to someone who knew it’s meaning from years of being called to dinner or to cut out stupid shit. It carries across the grounds for a second before Karen calls out:

“Noelle. I know you’d been listenin’ in to this nonsense. Make yaself useful. Grab tha’ first aid kit. An’ tha’ soup you ain’t finished. Bowls too. An’ warm up some tha’ tea, if tain’t too much trouble. Please. And thank ya.”

Her voice is loud enough to be heard past the door, loud enough to alert the subject of her requests. She doesn’t worry about Joy, girl slept like a log. Would need someone to actually drag her out of bed to get her up. From inside the caravan, soft steps and sounds of bowls scraping on the countertop. The click of a burner, the shifting of a tea kettle. Small sounds that alerted Karen, and the others, that the presence inside was among them, was someone completely and utterly harmless. Still, Karen relaxed her stance, taking a very slow step toward the group. She makes direct eye contact still, formulating what to say next. What she should direct towards the two. She doesn’t need to look at the two men escorting them; she knew that they would have her back. That they would trust her with this.

Why else would they come, she mused to herself.

“Now, listen.”

Her eyes glitter as they meet the twins one by one, her tone changing to something familiar to anyone- the gentle but authoritative voice of a mother who was urging her children to pay attention very carefully, to make a smart decision even if she wouldn’t reveal it. And, most importantly, the very down to earth, non-judgemental way her face softened fractionally as she continued speaking.

“You don’ gotta stay here. This ain’t no prison camp, no hostage situation. Don’ wanna stay? I ain’t gonna stop ya from runnin’. Hell, you ask nicely, we’ll leave tomorrow mornin’. I can tell this is ya land an’ ya ain’t takin’ kindly to strangers. I respect tha’. We all do. An’ we don’ take in people who ain’t wantin’ to stay. Now… Tha’ bein’ said…”

She pauses, then sits down on the bottom step of the caravan, suddenly looking much more tired, much more relaxed, and much less steely. It altogether made her seem completely at ease, giving a more laid back environment. If she wasn’t focusing on the threat of these two, maybe they wouldn’t think of the threat presented by Karen and the two men that had brought them over. She stares at Tobi, then Agnes, then the screwdriver that was still stuck in her doorway. And then, back to them

“Tha’ bein’ said. Y’all got some natural, raw talen’ I ain’t seen in years. Untrained and rowdy, sure. But raw. And, with the righ’ trainin’? Shit, ya could be headliners. And tha’ money ain’t bad… Now, I know that ain’t somethin’ ya prolly care about, but think it through. We’ll give ya housin. Free housin’, four walls and a roof. Blanekts, pillows, whatever I can spare, I got ya. We all do. I betcha get mighty cold round these parts in winter, but Sam there? Mechanical genius. Will rig ya up somethin’ that’ll fit ya needs.”

She pauses, listening for Noelle again. The steps had stopped, now only the faint clinks of teacups being placed on a tray. Maybe the bowls too. Karen decided to add the more… motivating part of this deal.

“Ya got steady food here. Good food. Cooked food. We got a cook, so ya don’ gotta worry ‘bout hunt or catch. Hell, we can discuss givin’ ya double rations to keep ya strength up. An’ not just a meal every once in a while. Three solid, square meals in a day. Veggies, fruit, meat. We go’ t’all and stock up regularly from local stores and our own huntin’. We even got options for dietary preferences…”

A couple more steps from the far end of the wagon told Karen all she needed. She shifted over in her seat just as Noelle made herself over to the front door, and slowly opened it. And there the girl stood, her mousy brown hair frayed in a long braid down her back. Her red and white striped pajamas are slightly faded and a little short around her ankles. Her glasses are ever so slightly askew from the quick movement inside the caravan, and her hands grip tightly t a wooden tray riddled with scratches. Her eyes are still wide, but her expression is between annoyance and curiosity. Like she had found a riddle that she just couldn’t make sense. A slight frown and a furrowed brow completed this look of haphazard frustration.

On the tray were six teacups in two neat stacks. The cups were old and delicate, a relic of a past filled with garden parties and fancy soirees with soft laughter and smooth voices. They were one of the few things that Karen hadn’t sold during the lean times. A familial heirloom passed down from her mother when Karen debuted as a smart and daring young woman. When received, they were pristine white with pastel blue and lilac flowers crisscrossing around the lip. Now, a few were chipped and discolored from years of use. Next to the cups was that bright blue tea kettle, steam billowing from the spout and dissipating into the night air. The steam swirls and spins, curling up to Noelle’s nose and filling the space on the steps of her home with a scent of spice and warmth. Finally, and taking up the most space of the tray, are three ceramic bowls, two rather large and filled with a heaping amount of a thick beef stew. Not only did succulent brown meat glisten with glossy brown broth, but whole fingerling potatoes and baby carrots stick out, giving the meal much-needed color. The third bowl is smaller and less filled, obviously made for the one who put the tray together. Noelle’s bowl already had a spoon, and two others laid by the other bowls, although she figured they wouldn’t be used.

And hanging off of Noelle’s back is a canvas first aid kit, which had been constantly been restocked from the many accidents of the Scott family. Karen had become the unofficial first aid medic of the entire group, despite having absolutely no medical training in any form in her past life. But, after years of her daughters befriending tigers and climbing up to the high rope, she had quickly become versed in setting bones, giving stitches, and everything in between. And, just like most of her knowledge, she had done her best to pass the skills down to her eldest. A simple cut was something Noelle could mend just as quickly as any pair of socks.

Karen raises a hand, stopping her daughter from taking a step down to the others. Slow movement was key, purposeful movement was necessary. And Karen’s face was nothing but calm, cool and collected. Her eyes soften as she focuses on her next statement before releasing these two poor kids. Whether they ran to the woods or towards the meal, she wasn’t quite sure.

“Ya don’ gotta make that choice righ’ now, of course. If ya wanna sleep on it? I understand. But ya gotta understand tha’, we don’ wanna hurt ya. I don’ wanna hurt ya. An’ I know this is all a lot. But, I think we can give ya somethin’ ya’ain’t had in a while. I don’ know ya story. But I know wha’ someone who needs help looks like. And y’all need it. From us, or whoever else ya might run into.”

There is a soft, gentle silence for a moment as Karen takes a deliberate step forward to the other half of the group. She carefully raises a hand, one that is ever so lightly calloused and lined from age and work. It was a hand of someone who had used it for simple pleasures a lifetime ago, long fingers and a thin palm, but morphed into something well worked. Strong. The gesture is clear. Not a handshake for some sort of deal, some sort of contract.

It was a peace offering.

“Laz gave me ya names. I’m Karen. Karen Scott. Most of ‘em just call me mama. And tha’ there?” She nods slowly to the tall girl behind her holding the tray, who was stealing glances between the newcomers and her surrogate fathers, trying to silently communicate “Tha’s my daughter. Noelle. She didn’t mean to scare ya. She’s just a curious little bug, don’ mean no harm. Ain’t tha’ righ, Noelle?”

The question obviously throws her off. She was currently staring at Sam, pleading and begging for a quiet explanation of where these two came here in the first place while also avoiding eye contact with Lazarus. She loved the man, she really did, but she couldn’t help but feel guilty of causing the sudden tension. And, as it had been since she first arrived, she found herself striving for his highest opinion. And at this moment, she couldn’t help but feel the dread of disappointment. But, her mother’s voice brings her out of the stolen looks and gives her focus towards an answer. She meets the eyes of the girl first, and then the boy. The one that had thrown the screwdriver.

“Sorry. Didn’ mean to frighten you….”

Her voice is small but smooth and with the very hint of the heavy accent that marred her mother’s speech. She stared at the boy, trying to give a genuine moment, but the grey eyes pinning her down forced her own to shift away to the contents of the tray. Like the loud chime of a town bell, guilt struck Noelle, hitting deeper and deeper as she realized the mess that she initiated. For the poor boy who had felt so trapped, who didn’t look that much older than her. That could have been her if Karen hadn’t stuck by in the city if Lazarus never came round. That desperation wasn’t something foreign to her.

And just like that, the fight and annoyance flush from her.

She didn’t know if they were going to stay, but if they did, Noelle swore inwardly to make it up to him at least.

Tobi and Agnes are still for a long moment after the screw driver lands; Agnes still with a grip on Sam’s arm and Tobi sizing up the woman still standing in front of the door. Grey eyes sharp as the steel of the screwdriver stare appraisingly into the woman’s warm brown, thoughts waring in his head and across his eyes. There’s still a cord of something wary snapped tight in him and his sister, that fight or flight instinct screaming in them to make a break for the trees not fifty feet away. They hit those, and this bunch would never find them again, never see them again even. They’d continue to live their lives on that knife’s edge between hunger and satisfaction, between fear and safety, between life and death.

He can feel Agnes at this side let go of the large man and slowly make her way over to him, her own eyes on the three adults. She settles at his side, slightly in front of Tobi as if she were protecting him. Protecting him from these strange folks and the someone spying in the caravan behind the woman. That damn woman making them feel safe while someone was looking in and watching them. Tobi tenses as the man who Agnes had wrestled down to the ground and who had previously knocked the sense clean out of them rises slowly from the ground. Yet instead of going for the two of them again, he makes a beeline for the smaller man who Tobi had almost hit.

The man with the white hair seems to be in… pain, Tobi realizes, his head tilting in confusion. But he hadn’t hit him. The screwdriver had been aimed at the onlooker in the door window, not either of the two adults standing in front. ‘Old injury?’ he thinks as Sam wraps a hand around the other’s waist and gives a shoulder to lean on. Small murmurs reach his admittedly not great ears, the only words he can pick up being ‘fine, moved wrong,’ and then ‘fine’ again. Sam lets go only after Lazarus tells him something Tobi can’t pick up, but stays close.

After a lifetime of living in the woods, Tobi’s learned to pick up on even the smallest motions. He doesn’t miss the way Lazarus leans lightly against Sam.


Wounded animal, he thinks idly.


The sudden shrill noise rips him from his thoughts. It’s muted to him and his sister, but the two of them are used to either quiet or near silence. This is neither. They both take a step back, Agnes throwing her shoulder up to push Tobi further behind her. The two of them are so spooked, so on edge and yet, curiosity keeps them. Curiosity, and the slow drawled words of the woman in front of the caravan door. Twin eyes track her movements as she begins to speak in that authoritative voice of a woman who commanded attention. It was awfully similar to how their Ma…


“Now, listen.”


They do. Tense and with narrowed eyes, they listen. They strain their ears and they watch as the woman talks about the choice that they have, of how they’re free to do what they want. She talks of how the circus will leave if they ask nice enough. The woman then pauses to sit at the top step, earning her less of a steely glare from the twins and more of a confused blink. Agnes stands a little looser, still with Tobi tucked a little behind her while Tobi’s posture eases in the same way. It’s confusing, they think. Grey eyes follow brown as they look at the screwdriver in the door.

Talent, she’s telling them now. Of course they have talent. They’re alive, aren’t they? Money also means nothing to them, though the promise of somewhere warm is a little more enticing. THey had plenty of blankets stashed in their small home carved out in the woods, but it could get cold in the northeastern winter. Small flicks of fingers in a language familiar to them are exchanged quickly between glances at the adults around them.


‘Warmth’, ‘find them’, ‘trapped,’ trapped?’ ‘leave?’


Their hands abruptly stop as the door behind the woman opens. There’s a girl there. Tall and willowy, a smaller version of the woman in on the steps. Tobi hardly needs an explanation to tell that this is a daughter. Long, mousy brown hair is done in a long braid that trails down her back with little flyaway stands poking out from the loosely tied hairstyle. Pajamas that look a mite too short for her hang on her frame, and large circular glasses cover her wide brown eyes. She looks just about the furthest thing from a threat, Tobi thinks. Looks downright bashful and a bit annoyed carrying that tray, but oh lawd, one smell of what’s on it and Tobi suddenly doesn’t care about the girl any further than the hands carrying it.


One sniff of the air and he’s pushing against his sister in front of him. Agnes stiff-arms him back, but it’s clear that she’s also keening for what’s in those bowls. The gauntness of their cheeks damn near cuts them as their stomachs realize suddenly how thin their eating has been,how hungry they really are. Tobi and Agnes don’t hear a lot of what Karen says then over the deafening want clouding their minds, over their drooling over the succulent smell of meat in the air, of savory stew and tender root vegetables. They do catch ‘double portions’ and lawd, they think in tandem, this woman knows how to play them like a fiddle.


Together, they watch the girl with suspicion clouded with longing towards the food in her hands as the woman on the stairs stops her and offers the two of them an assurance and a gesture of goodwill. She won’t hurt them, she promises and strangely enough, Tobi believes her.

“Laz gave me ya names. I’m Karen. Karen Scott. Most of ‘em just call me mama. Tha’s my daughter. Noelle. She didn’t mean to scare ya. She’s just a curious little bug, don’ mean no harm. Ain’t tha’ righ, Noelle?”

Tobi and Agnes both focus on the girl who had up to that point been sending glaces at the darker skinned man still acting as support to Lazarus. The girl turns, almost startled by the question, offers an apology, and just like that, the twins evaluate the situation.


The white haired man, agile before but now leaning on the larger man to take the weight off his right leg.

The larger man, powerful enough to knock the wits clean out them but tied to the smaller man as of now.

Karen, sitting on the steps, promising not to hurt them.

Noelle, her wispy daughter holding a tray full of food and looking about as dangerous as a field mouse.


There’s no danger here, they think in tandem. And so they move forward slowly under the appraising gazes of everyone surrounding them, Agnes still leading her brother. They reach the girl with the tray and stop, piercing bright eyes looking her over before calloused hands with scars that trail up along their forearms come forward to take the ceramic bowls from the tray. Spoons ignored, they steal them away to a spot a little farther from the group and sit together with their backs against another close by caravan, eyes still watching the small group of adults and Noelle. They take their first sip of the stew though and the group is quickly forgotten as they devour the contents of the bowls.


“Well,” Lazarus sighs. “I think you have guests tonight, Karen.” He makes a move to sit on the ground and Sam follows. His dark hand comes back to brace against the ground behind him and Lazarus leans heavily against the scarred muscle there. “Tea if you could, Noelle. And that medical kit too, I’d rather this not scar.” his hand comes up to prod gently at the cut across his face. Sam smacks his hand away from the wound.

“As long as you’re making it,” Sam nods towards the tea. His eyes track up to the door and the screwdriver still in it. “I’ll fix that tomorrow, Karen, if you don’t mind waiting.”

Karen watches the twins carefully take the bowls.

She and her daughter stay absolutely still with an unwavering gaze, the only indication of anything besides the white knuckle grip on the tray as arms trail up and grasp the ceramic bowls in a gruff manner. But as soon as the stew leaves her tray, a slow breath escapes Noelle’s thin lips. It’s a relieved sigh spouted from a quick and deep intake of air, her lungs clutching onto it as if it was her last. She rationalized that it very well could be, the boy threw a knife at her. Noelle’s large, bespeckled eyes tracked their movements away, focusing on the small details. The tattered clothes, how they frayed at any point of action- the knees, the elbows, the shoulders. The floating strings that, she was sure if they got caught on anything they would pull the entire garment apart. The faded colors from, what she guessed, was years of mending what they had with spare fabric scraps. Or she assumed.

The girl’s focus snaps back to Lazarus as he speaks. It’s not as if she hasn’t seen the man fall back on his leg before. Noelle had been around long enough to see him falter at least a couple times before, she overheard her mother mumbling something about the Great War and how he needed to ‘stay off tha’ fuckin’ leg, so help him God’. She knew that the distinguished man had a bum leg from some horrific accident when he served as a pilot. Noelle made it a conscious effort to never ask him about it, despite her terrible curiosity. Deep down, she knew that he wouldn’t mind the questions. But she felt a silent level of understand and respect distilled from years of looking up to this self-made man.

Noelle turned to carefully place the tray on the top step, the teacups clattering ever so softly. She exchanged a glance with her mother for only but a moment, but Karen’s gaze was clear in its message. She would take care of the tea, Noelle would dress the wound. The two of them countered in movement, Noelle fumbling with the first aid kit and Karen reaching for the tea kettle. Once Noelle settles in her spot, deft and nimble fingers start to pull out supplies from the canvas sack.

Rubbing alcohol. gauze, surgical thread, and needles, ointment, a scalpel… It was pretty well stocked. And due to her steady hands and precision, Noelle had found herself comfortable in the role of nurse most days. Setting a bone or dressing a gash was just as much a part of her job as putting a garment together or fixing the lights.

Fixing.

She figured that was what her job mostly entailed. Fixing performers, fixing costumes, fixing everything that needed to be put back together. And while it was fulfilling in the sense she was always seeing her work in action, the fruits of her labor on display each show, it wasn’t…

Well…

For a second, Noelle was back to the first show she saw. She had been at camp for a total of three days, a pale waif who could have given the Human Skeleton a run for his money. She sat in the back, put there by her mother who gave her very explicit instructions to sit still and if there was trouble, run as far as she could. She gripped the painted bench, her nails digging into the ancient wood. It was late, the dull glow of the stringed lights cast shadows that, one day, would soften her evenings out. At the time, it just made darkness creep in, putting Noelle even more on edge. She sat there for a while, watching as more and more people walked in. And the types of people. Rich, well-to-dos from the city, urchin kids who weaved in and out from the crowds, mothers, and babies in worn-out clothing, a couple men who looked like they jumped off the last train with holes in their shoes. People from all walks of life chattered excitedly about the mysterious circus that made its way into their lives. They chittered, excited to escape from the crummy, desolate landscape that was the Great Depression. She watched as these people crammed into their seats, waiting for something to happen.

And boy something happened.

Lazarus was still doing his master of ceremonies bit regularly. He stood in the middle of the ring, challenging anyone to doubt the natural cool charisma and gumption that oozed from his sharp eyes. Noelle felt the gaze penetrate her air of discontent and general anxiety of being in space packed in by strangers.

Lights Dim.

Music Starts.

And her mind just shut off as her wide eyes turned to pale saucers. Flips and tricks and feats of strength and aerial artist and fierce lions and tigers and an honest-to-God baby elephant. Her jaw dropped as a ginger-haired boy who couldn’t have been that much older than she jumped from a platform and landed on the back of the grey beast in a swear-to-Christ handstand. The night not only was tinged by warm lighting but also laughter and applause and cheers for everyone that crossed the stage. It went by too fast, Noelle found herself clinging and memorizing every moment, every step, every tumble and moment of extreme suspense. And, as the Lazarus McKay rounded out the night with goodbyes and promises of wonders with the shows to come, Noelle made a decision:

This is what she wanted to do.

She wanted to make the air feel electric with anticipation, make the crowd sit on the edge of their seat and gasp and cheer and stomp their feet. To make them rise to an uproar when she finishes and bows. The smiles, the thrill of the performance coursing through her veins.

She blinked.

Her hands were working without her, un-raveling some gauze and cutting it swiftly. Her hands reminded her of the reality: She wasn’t a performer. Her skills were suited for backstage work, for work that would be done in the shadows before, during and after each show. Her mother would balance between the worlds like the tight-rope she mastered, but Noelle would be relegated to sitting and fixing.

Speaking of which….

“The cut is deeper than I thought…” She speaks quietly, her long fingers brushing against the pale, freshly shaved skin of the older man. It was a small detail that she absolutely respected him for. While Sam was always in work clothes that were covered in grime, which he pulled off with his own grace, but Lazarus was always distinguished and well dressed and put together. Noelle had seen him in the pinnacle of performance but also running around trying to save the camp from an impending tornado. Always a smart suit or costume, always clean shaven, always neat.

The pads of her fingers draw back, grasping the bottle of rubbing alcohol. Her fingers grip and raise it to her lips, her teeth scraping on the cork. She opens her mouth ever so slightly, and bites down, pulling the bottle away and leaving a satisfying pop and the burning scent of something that was meant only to dress a wound or clean an engine. Noelle poured some of the liquid onto a spare cloth, raising it to the gash.

“This is going to sting.”

While Noelle’s focus was on the gash, Karen began to pour cups of tea for everyone sitting near and far. Her eyes occasionally glance over to the poor kids who scarfed down their meals like ravenous wolves. She knew she would have to top them off soon. She had to go inside anyways to get the cots set up for the girls…

If the twins could even fit in their small wagon.

She brushed the thought away as she made her way over to Sam and Lazarus, a cup in each hand. It was a blend that she made herself and kept in a tin under the sink- a sleepytime tea that they all needed right now. The new kids included.

“Don’ need ta worry ‘bout the door.” Karen smiles, dropping off the cup to Sam. Their eyes meet and Karen counted her blessings for the umpteenth time that it was these two men that found them. In another time, a time she wasn’t proud of, she might have turned her nose at them. At their relationship, at their profession, at their beliefs. It wasn’t that she personally thought it was wrong, but it was more of the society that she grew up around and into. A society that left her long before, left her behind to rot with the rest. And these two literally swooped down and saved her family. Showed them so much unnecessary kindness and warmth. She felt needed and wanted and useful. More useful than any of her years as a housewife, as a partner to the man that left her. She considered Sam and Lazarus just as much as family as her as the willowy girl sitting by their side, by the even smaller girl sleeping merely feet away.

So, Karen smiled and passed the next cup to Lazarus as Noelle cleaned the cut and began to thread a needle with her nimble fingers. “It’ll give Joy somethin’ to do besides climbin’ all over the wires. Lil monkey…”

She shook her head, laughing to herself, filling the rest of the cups. Her youngest was a hot mess, following around all the performers and hanging off of them like her own jungle gym. She always found trouble in the long hours of the day- she was too young to really work on anything of note and lacked the focus to begin training in any sort of field. Noelle was easy- she was quietly creative and had a surgeons hand for detail. She took her work seriously, like a real job. Joy saw her life at the show as just that- a show. A circus.

Her eyes glance back to the two sitting away from them. She carefully places two cups at the edge of the steps, another of many peace offerings that Karen assumed would be dotting her next couple of days. Still. She didn’t know anyone who would think a cup of tea was anything else but that.

Another cup To Noelle, who placed it on the ground just before she began to stitch. Karen settled across from Lazarus and Sam, deciding to be a ready distraction for when that needle pierced the skin.

“So. They’ll be stayin’ with us. I’ll make room an’ make sure they’re nice an’ comfortable…. Bu’ I gotta ask…. Why did they jump ya? What made 'em wander 'round this way? They musta saw all the other tents. Why you?"

The Next Morning

The sun broke into the clearing early that morning, but the camp was slow to rise with it. Only a couple of people walked from the mess tent to their caravans with breakfast, and fewer were making their way to the big top or training grounds to get practicing for the show the next night. And even those dedicated performers had that certain slump one gets after days of travel as they trudged their way to practice.

Noelle had already been up for hours.

She couldn’t very well sleep with the strangers asleep on the roof of the caravan. Usually, when rookies came in, her mother kicked her and her sister to the floor to accommodate. The twins took one look at the tiny space and made it VERY CLEAR that sleeping inside was not going to work. It took her ma all of thirty seconds to come up with a solution- Karen had gathered nearly every blanket and every pillow went outside and tossed them onto the roof in one quick throw.

But that wasn’t enough.

Oh no, Karen had to climb up, layout the thick quilts, fold the knitted blankets, fluffed the pillows, and placed them in a calculated positions to optimize comfort. Because it was Karen Scott. She had to do it.

But this led to Noelle barely getting a wink of sleep. If she was honest, it probably would add up to an hour total. She had laid and stared at the ceiling most of the night, waiting to hear the telltale creaks of movements of these two sliding down the roof and creeping to the window to throw that screwdriver at her again. This time right between her eyes. While she was used to marksmen using her for target practice, she was used to them asking for her permission. Most of the time. It also didn’t help that Joy had stolen their blanket and kicked her multiple times throughout the night.

It was around five when she heard her mother begin to stir. Noelle stayed rigidly still as her mother mumbled, rolled over, and stood up. Noelle also heard the daily head scratch, the fumbling for the hairbrush, and the slow steps to the bright blue kettle on the stove. This was how every morning went, even the ones on the road. She turned over to watch her mother lean over and to turn on the front burner, the soft clicking of the gas igniting accompanied by the bright flame.
“Noelle. I know you ain’t sleepin’. Please get up and help me.”

Her mother knew her well. She carefully sat up and scooted around her sister, doing her best not to disturb her. She would be excited by the new recruits, probably climb all over them like the little monkey she was. And Noelle had a feeling that the twins would like that as much as they liked being grabbed by Sam. Would give them a reason to not sleep on their roof and make her lose sleep.

Still, she dragged herself out of bed, reaching for her glasses from her bedside table with one hand. The other hand rubbed her eyes in one quick motion before placing the glasses gently on her nose. After a quick stretch, she made her way the few steps into the kitchen looking at her mother quietly.

“I need ya ta wake up the twins. Get’em ready for a walkabout. And don’ get that pout. Ya know we hafta.”

Noelle sighed and leaned against the counter, her long fingers beginning to palm through the tea bags in the small wicker basket. She really wanted a nice soothing chamomile after the whole ordeal the night before. And delay having to go wake up the barbarians on her roof.

“Noelle.”

“Yes Mama.”

Noelle couldn’t help but cave, but she kept her eyes averted. While she did not understand the two staying, maybe it wasn’t for her to understand yet. It hadn’t been her mother’s decision. It had been Lazarus’ decision. And they had trust Lazarus in the past, stood by his side even when others did not.

What could go wrong?

Noelle sighed and went back to the bed, pulling the privacy curtain that separated the bed from the rest of the wagon. Just because she had to start her day doing something a little scarier than usual, it did not mean that she had to do anything different. She would still dress smart and fix her hair to be just right. Get out of her kiddie pajamas.

.
.
.

“Excuse me.”

Noelle stood on her roof, her pale blue work dress swaying in the morning breeze. Her hands were on her hips, eyes fixed at the pile of sleeping giants at her feet. She had climbed up and waited for a few seconds, but they were dead asleep.

But they had to get up and show them around breakfast.

“Excuse me. It’s time to wake up.”

Still no movement, still no sound.

Noelle set her jaw, the breeze now pushing her long brown hair that was only held back by her black headband. With one foot, she tapped at the roof impatiently. She didn’t want to push them too far, didn’t want them to try and chuck something at her again. But Noelle also knew that if she didn't move quickly, her mother would march up here and embarrass her in front of the new recruits. And then they would never take her seriously.

So, she did what she did to wake up Joy sometimes.

Grabbing a fistful of blankets, she yanked hard, pulling it off the pile. And then another. And then another. Each time she grabbed a new one, the old ones would flutter down to the earth beneath them. When she got down to the last layer of warmth, she knew that it would be a fight. With all her strength, she grabbed and pulled.

“It’s. Time. To. Get. Up. Breakfast. Is. In. Thirty. Minutes!”

Maybe it was the resistance, maybe it was something else. But whatever it was, the force was too much, and Noelle lost her grip and stumbled back. Her slight heel pattered on the roof, before she falters. And slid.

She landed on her back but was hanging half off the roof. A yelp escaped her mouth, as she reached for the lip of the roof to flip off or stabilize herself. But her fingers just couldn’t reach. Noelle was caught between desperately hoping someone would walk by and catch her, or just fall and crack her neck and not risk the humiliation.

It had been a rough night. After the two men had left them with the new woman - ‘Karen’, he reminds himself - they’d worried they would be stuffed in the same strange container that she and her daughter had come from. There was no way that would happen. Stew was one thing, they could accept the stew. Stew was food and that girl was eating it too, it couldn’t be bad. But that little cube? No sir. She’d opened the door and the two of them had stood their ground at the entrance. Agnes’s face had contorted as she glared and growled low at the space, putting a hand out to keep Tobi back. Not that he needed much convincing; he was rumbling his own displeasure at the arrangement and casting looks towards the trees that bordered most of the camp.

So Karen had thrown them up top. She’d motioned towards the roof with a wave of her hand, told them if they were more comfortable up there that that’s where they could sleep. Together they had scaled the car silently and sat there for a few minutes before Karen tossed up blanket after blanket towards them. These, these were new. He watched Agnes inspect each of them, from fluffy down comforters to colorful knitted throws to thinner sheets. Karen had climbed up after, helping them rearrange and fluffing pillows as the two of them perched on the corner, jsut watching. She had left them with a kind smile and a ‘good night’, and the two of them had unfolded themselves from the edge of the car only after hearing the door click shut.

He had to admit, this was… preferable. Out around them, each of the cars went dark if they weren’t already. He watched the lights slowly dim behind the windows in the car they had swarmed earlier that night with a passing curiosity. If they wanted to finish the job, suppose the time was now.

“Thinkin’?” His sister murmured beside him. His gaze didn’t falter from the now dark car. Her’s focused on the same sight. He could almost hear the thoughts flitting through her brain, absent little strings of murderous intention. He was full though, and more tired than he cared to admit.


“Nothin’ ‘portant.” he murmured back. Just like her shoulders dropped and she grabbed the closest blanket.


“Same.” she said as she rearranged some of the thinner sheets on the roof below them. He joined her, grabbing blankets and comforters to stack on top. Together, they stuffed themselves underneath the massive pile and slowly, fitfully, fell asleep. His eyes closed to the sight of stars above him and the feeling of hard wood below.


‘Not too different,’ he thinks, and drifts off.



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They hardly stirred the morning after. Their fitful sleep had eased its way into deep, deep slumber. Tobi’s thunderous snores did little to wake the woman next to him, curled as she was under the blankets. Only the top of her messily shorn hair stuck out from the top. Together, they were just one large, loud lump of blankets stacked on top of this car.


That is, until something started ripping them off.


He could feel the stack getting as he slowly roused to consciousness. Unfamiliar noises were beginning to pull at his senses,noises to metal clanging, people moving, doors opening. And just barely, only starting, the tempting smell of food being made. Something savory, something like last night. He grumbled as another blanket was torn from them and tried to tug the remaining ones back over him and his sister. Blankets were persistent though, and soon enough even the last blanket was ripped from him. Fine. He’ll get up.

Groggily, he lifts his head and pulls himself up onto his elbows, blinking sleep out of his eyes all the while. The sunlight’s bright, and it takes him a minute to adjust. His sister simply rolls over, grumbling the whole while. A moment passes and with his eyes now adjusted, he can see the sprawled out form out that one girl from last night, the same one he threw the screwdriver at. She’s bent over the front of the car on her back. ‘So that’s what were pullin’ them blankets off.’ he thinks to himself. Whether or not he’s gonna help her though…


Pro: she gave him and his sis stew.

Cons: She was snoopin. Also pulled off their blankets. But maybe it was to give them more food? Which is another pro.


Dang girl was struggling again. If he doesn’t do anything, Karen might yell at him. Might take away their blankets, and he doesn’t want that. He huffs, grabs her by a thrashing foot, and hauls her with enough strength to pull her solidly back onto the roof. ‘There,’ he thinks.

With the smell of food now solidly in the air, he nudges at his sister, hoping to toss her awake. After a few good shoves, she growls at him and rises, hair an absolute mess. He’s not sure if he looks any better.


‘Food,’ he signs at her, conscious of the company.

Noelle had prepared to fall.

She was moments away from it, and the hope of grabbing onto the car to somehow maneuver a flip seemed to slim to none. She had seen it in the ring, done by many performers. She just needed to grip, flip, and stick the landing. But her arms were hanging in the air beneath her, and she was already slipping fast. She closed her eyes, expecting the impact of the grass beneath her The cluttering of the door opening and her mother seeing her sprawled out on the floor.

And yet.

Something- Someone- had gripped her ankle like a vice, thick fingers wrapping and squeezing tightly. The hand hauled her back onto the roof, her legs and back scraping on the metal roof, her dress bunching up slightly at the waist.  It only was a moment, but as soon as the hand’s grasp let go, she felt the red rise to her cheeks as she looked down to see who had rescued her from utter humiliation.

Scruffy bedhead and a scarred fast swam in her vision. A thick frame, spooky grey eyes.

It would be one thing if it was the girl twin. She seemed fierce and scary in her own right, but she was quiet. And, ya now, hadn’t thrown a dang screwdriver at her face. But no, the large man with scars crisscrossed across his face, and shaggy brown hair that absolutely had to have had some animal nested in it. The one that had threatened to kill her the night prior. The one that kept stealing glances, sizing her up. And he had been the one that pulled her.

Great.

As quickly as possible, Noelle stood up, smoothing out her dress that had bunched in the back. She then took a moment to fix her mussed hair, her stockings, her shoes. In a matter of moments, she was back to the presentable young lady she had been taught to present- it was one of the few things that her mother’s life pre-circus rubbed off on her. Manners were still a standard in the Scott household, no matter their station.

“Good Morning.” She kept her voice even, her eyes trailing from Tobi, and then to his sister. “I hope you slept well….”

She trailed off a moment, unsure to wait for a response. They hadn’t spoken much already, she wasn’t sure if a response would be expected. Or if she truly even wanted a response. They might yell at her!

So she continued.

“Breakfast is in thirty minutes. But before, Mama asked if we could show you around the camp. So you don’t get lost… the grounds can be expansive. With the caravans, and animals, and mess tent, and big top…. And such…”

Noelle trailed off once more, staring at the two. Their clothes were nearly falling off their frame, they were so holey and worn through. That simply wouldn’t do, she would have to find or make some new clothes for them- some of Sam’s old fit might work for Tobias. They had similar builds, from what she could see- dense muscle, thick frame. She could see the hairy muscles shift and convulse through the holes of the fabric as he moved. Most of the performers were not of the same build- most were either short and compact, or tall and lean. They had strongmen who had muscles for show, oily, barrel-chested men whose muscles always seemed to be flexed. But, the type of muscle that she spied from Tobias was something else- built for function, not looks.

Well. She WAS looking at them now.

She caught herself staring for a second too long before the red returned to her face and she looked away, scuffing her heel on the roof of the car. She had forgotten something.

“I’m…. Thank you. For grabbing me. It woulda been a nasty spill if I fell…. Anyways, We’ll be ready when you are. On the ground. Of course.”

Finally, Noelle gave a curt nod, making eyes with either twin, heading back to the edge and climbing down to wait for them to join her and the rest of her family. She leaned against the caravan, smoothing herself out even more and waiting for the sleepy giants to hop down after.