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Authors: Hannah Barnaby
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surpass Caroline’s final age.
The last line, in smaller type than the rest, was the evidence of Mister’s concession to bury Caroline among his family members. He had, of course, refused her admission into the mausoleum itself but agreed to house her on the McGreavey plot. Caroline’s family had requested this, for they did not want their own land sullied by suicide.
Portia wished for a sharper tool, something that could scratch Mister’s wretched name off Caroline’s grave so she wouldn’t have to spend eternity pinned underneath it. But there was only the trowel.
And she could not afford to spend the time, precious currency that it was.
Portia began to dig. The dirt was still loose at the base of Caroline’s headstone, and it was quick work to fashion a pocket in the ground just large enough to hold the collection of letters that Caroline had torn so thoroughly apart. Portia couldn’t have said why, exactly, she felt that this was the correct place for them. It was entirely possible that Caroline would be angered by this and come back from the Great Beyond to nag Portia unceasingly.
Portia almost hoped that she would.
Perhaps she was simply tempting fate.
Her task completed, she patted the soil back into place, tucking in a few errant strands of paper that peeked out of the dirt like curious insects. She decided against taking the trowel with her and looked around for a good spot in which to leave it. It was only then that she noticed the other headstones.
Twenty or thirty of them, set even farther behind the mausoleum than Caroline’s lone monument. They were arranged in two long rows, like chess pieces. Portia pulled her coat more tightly around herself and stepped closer, close enough to read a name.
RUBY LEDWITH
The cold she felt now was nothing to do with the rain, or the graveyard air. She peered at the marker next to Ruby’s.
DAISY SINCLAIR CREAMER
And the next.
HAZEL DANFORTH
There were names that were new to her as well, but most of them were familiar. She did not need to check her notebook; she had read the names so many times that she knew them as well as if she had known the girls themselves. As if they all had been friends once, instead of just coincidental passengers on the same nightmarish vessel. And here they were, her imaginary friends.
She had wondered, hadn’t she, what had become of them?
Now she knew. Mister was worse than what even she had imagined. He had recognized something in her, she thought, after Caroline died. Another killer. A kindred spirit.
She sat down, hard, on the damp grass.
She sat there for a long time.
Portia could not see Mister’s house from where she sat, but she felt it there, gazing down at her from the hill, sending its dank breath through the fog to surround her. Finally, shaking, unsteady, she made her way back to the bicycle, took her place on its back, and began to move.
PART TWO
Welcome to the Wonder Show
Portia’s legs ached, but she kept pedaling. Her toes were numb, and her feet were burning and swollen in her shoes, but she kept pedaling. She kept going until she found the circus.
The rain had finally stopped and her clothes were nearly dry, but parts of the road were too muddy for riding, and she had to walk the last mile. She kept her eyes forward, trying not to think about the small army of headstones in the graveyard, the girls pinned beneath them like butterflies under glass. When she saw the tips of the huge tents piercing the dawn-streaked sky, she almost wept with relief. Before she arrived at the foot of those canvas peaks, however, she found herself surrounded by a smaller cluster of trucks, trailers, and tents that were dwarfed by the rest.
There was a boy sitting in the back of a pickup truck, shaggy-haired and lanky, his face pink with sun. He was reading as if the whole world around him were nothing more than a painting. But he looked up when Portia stopped in front of him, and she just started
The last line, in smaller type than the rest, was the evidence of Mister’s concession to bury Caroline among his family members. He had, of course, refused her admission into the mausoleum itself but agreed to house her on the McGreavey plot. Caroline’s family had requested this, for they did not want their own land sullied by suicide.
Portia wished for a sharper tool, something that could scratch Mister’s wretched name off Caroline’s grave so she wouldn’t have to spend eternity pinned underneath it. But there was only the trowel.
And she could not afford to spend the time, precious currency that it was.
Portia began to dig. The dirt was still loose at the base of Caroline’s headstone, and it was quick work to fashion a pocket in the ground just large enough to hold the collection of letters that Caroline had torn so thoroughly apart. Portia couldn’t have said why, exactly, she felt that this was the correct place for them. It was entirely possible that Caroline would be angered by this and come back from the Great Beyond to nag Portia unceasingly.
Portia almost hoped that she would.
Perhaps she was simply tempting fate.
Her task completed, she patted the soil back into place, tucking in a few errant strands of paper that peeked out of the dirt like curious insects. She decided against taking the trowel with her and looked around for a good spot in which to leave it. It was only then that she noticed the other headstones.
Twenty or thirty of them, set even farther behind the mausoleum than Caroline’s lone monument. They were arranged in two long rows, like chess pieces. Portia pulled her coat more tightly around herself and stepped closer, close enough to read a name.
RUBY LEDWITH
The cold she felt now was nothing to do with the rain, or the graveyard air. She peered at the marker next to Ruby’s.
DAISY SINCLAIR CREAMER
And the next.
HAZEL DANFORTH
There were names that were new to her as well, but most of them were familiar. She did not need to check her notebook; she had read the names so many times that she knew them as well as if she had known the girls themselves. As if they all had been friends once, instead of just coincidental passengers on the same nightmarish vessel. And here they were, her imaginary friends.
She had wondered, hadn’t she, what had become of them?
Now she knew. Mister was worse than what even she had imagined. He had recognized something in her, she thought, after Caroline died. Another killer. A kindred spirit.
She sat down, hard, on the damp grass.
She sat there for a long time.
Portia could not see Mister’s house from where she sat, but she felt it there, gazing down at her from the hill, sending its dank breath through the fog to surround her. Finally, shaking, unsteady, she made her way back to the bicycle, took her place on its back, and began to move.
PART TWO
Welcome to the Wonder Show
Portia’s legs ached, but she kept pedaling. Her toes were numb, and her feet were burning and swollen in her shoes, but she kept pedaling. She kept going until she found the circus.
The rain had finally stopped and her clothes were nearly dry, but parts of the road were too muddy for riding, and she had to walk the last mile. She kept her eyes forward, trying not to think about the small army of headstones in the graveyard, the girls pinned beneath them like butterflies under glass. When she saw the tips of the huge tents piercing the dawn-streaked sky, she almost wept with relief. Before she arrived at the foot of those canvas peaks, however, she found herself surrounded by a smaller cluster of trucks, trailers, and tents that were dwarfed by the rest.
There was a boy sitting in the back of a pickup truck, shaggy-haired and lanky, his face pink with sun. He was reading as if the whole world around him were nothing more than a painting. But he looked up when Portia stopped in front of him, and she just started
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