The Orphan's Tale(84)

But it is not my warmth she seeks. She reaches for Theo and I pass him to her, offering one of the few comforts that remain, pressing him into her arms. She clings to him like a buoy at sea, seeming to draw strength from his tiny body.

I pick up the still-warm bowl of porridge and bring it closer to her, but she shakes her head. “Astrid, you have to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Think of Peter.”

“I am thinking of him.”

“Every second, I know. But is this what he would want for you?” She reluctantly takes a mouthful and turns away once more.

“Emmet was asking for you,” I say hesitantly.

She raises an eyebrow. “Again?” I nod. He is the boss and even Astrid will push him only so far. But what can he do to her, really?

“Please, Astrid. We need you. I need you.” Astrid is my only friend in the world and I am losing her.

Astrid raises an eyebrow, as though the thought has never quite occurred to her. She sighs, then stands up. She takes off her dressing gown and I am surprised to find she is already wearing her leotard. Gratitude washes over me. She will not let me down. “Let’s rehearse,” she commands.

We step outside. It is midmorning and the backyard is busy with trainers feeding the animals, performers on their way to practice. The few laborers who remain struggle to mend equipment and put things in place with a third of their usual number.

At the door of the tent, she turns to me. “I don’t want to do this.”

Is it Peter or the baby or Metz? I wonder. I squeeze her hand. “I understand. But you can do it. I know you can.”

At least she is here, willing to try. I start for the ladder. Then looking up where the man had hung, my stomach turns. I stop, still holding on to the ladder and staring upward.

I wonder if the memory of the clockmaker will stop Astrid. But she climbs the opposite ladder without hesitation. Then, halfway up, she stops and grows concerned. “Something is not right,” she says.

Nothing is right. The fairgrounds had not been prepared when we arrived, the earth rough and strewn with debris. “I asked about leveling the ground,” I say. I’ve performed here with Gerda a handful of times, gotten used to the rickety apparatus and the way that the slope of the earth changes my fall. But Astrid has not been here since we’ve come to the town. To her it is jarring, a disgrace.

“Is it the ladder?” I ask, tugging on it to show her that it is firmly secured.

But she shakes her head sadly. “It is just everything.”

I watch her intently, waiting for her to climb back down and insist on seeing the head of the grounds crew. She might refuse to perform. Then she shrugs and keeps climbing. Even this does not matter anymore. She reaches the top and grabs the bar, nearly losing her balance. It is too soon, I fret; forcing her back to the trapeze so quickly had been a mistake. But she rights herself.

I start up the ladder, wondering if she will need my help. But she holds out her hand to ward me off. “I need to do this myself.” I step away from the ladder and back close to the entrance, standing in the shadow of the tent flap and giving her space to find the trapeze once more on her own. She leaps without hesitation, seeming to grow stronger and more assured as I watch.

I had wondered if the days away from the act or all her body had been through would slow Astrid or make her rusty. But it is the opposite: her moves are more intense, razor sharp. Once she had held the trapeze bar lightly with an artist’s touch, but now she grasps it like a lifeline. Her moves are punishing, as if trying to break a wild mare or great steed, taking out her anger on the trapeze itself. She vaults through a series of dizzying pirouettes and somersaults. I sense a slight movement of air around me and I can almost feel Peter admiring her performance with me as he once had.

There is a noise behind me. I turn, for a second actually expecting that Peter might be standing there. But of course he is not and the space behind me is empty. The wind howls through the campground, shaking the tarp and making the sound I had just heard once more. I relax slightly.

Then suddenly an arm grabs me from behind without warning. Before I can cry out, someone pulls me from the tent. I jerk away and turn, preparing to fight my attacker.

There, in the entrance to the big top, stands Luc.

“Luc!” I blink, wondering if his tall, dark figure before me is some sort of strange dream. But he is here. I stare at him in disbelief. How had he made it all this way to see me?

“Noa,” he says, reaching out and touching my cheek. I throw myself into his arms and he wraps them tightly around me.

I pull him farther away from the big top, behind the shelter of a shed. It is best if no one sees him. “How did you find us?”

“I came to the circus looking for you,” Luc says. “But you left.” His face falls. “After that, I went back to my father’s house. I hadn’t planned to,” he adds quickly. “But I needed to see if he knew where the circus had gone. I didn’t want to believe that this might be partly his doing. But I had to know.” I can tell from the pain in his eyes that even after everything that has happened, part of him still wanted to believe in his father. “He denied it, of course. But I found the order in his desk with his signature on it.” Luc’s voice is heavy with sadness. “I confronted him with it and he admitted the truth. Then I left to find you.” I imagine his journey across the miles to reach me. He kisses me long and full on the lips. His face is rough from not shaving, his lips salty and unwashed.