Circus of Silence

The Last Hurrah

~*~

Hearty laughter from behind you.

Turning your head, you see the same red-headed lad who saved you who-knows how long ago.

The cat-faced predator has joined the show.

When you turn back around, the girl is gone.

You're alone with the man and Hecate, the Circus khan.

~*~

         She'd passed, or, at least she'd come closer to passing than anyone ever had before. The last of Whisper's hope was closing its door. Her brother was distraught, pacing back and forth and back and forth, growling under his breath and scratching himself violently at even the slightest itch. He refused Whisper's help with those. He did love to be difficult.

If she'd had a voice, Whisper would have yelled at him. If she'd had noise, she would have banged a pot or pan or spoon against the bars of his enclosure until he came to his senses. Around that, the Witch and her pet had built fences.

As she slipped a waistcoat over her white dress, Whisper wondered wishfully if Rosalind Maybrush, if she became their new Witch, would be able to free her. If she'd be Rosalind Reverter, Rosalind Remedy, Rosalind Returner. If she'd give Whisper back her Sound. If she'd turn her brother human again. Were those magical skills so hard to obtain?

Whisper finished buttoning her coat, then placed the trendy top-hat atop her head. She put on her polished pitch boots, and grabbed the brush for her brother's fur. He didn't like being brushed. He'd bitten her once or twice. For that alone, she'd withheld his mice. She'd needed an Arctic ocean's worth of ice.

Feral feline, she'd thought, and then the ice on the arm had burned her cold. She'd come close to remembering something, she'd been told. Something stolen, and very old. A memory that Shula had bought and sold.

Something that slipped away so quickly she wanted to scream. If only, she thought with a frown. She motioned for her brother to lie down. There was too little time 'til the Tiger-Tamer's Tricks. The sight of him now would make the audience sick.

Her brother's ears drew back, his lips curling away from his teeth. They were just like white daggers, pulled from their sheath. He growled. 

Unable to do the same, Whisper bit her thumb. 

With a little more hesitation, her brother surrendered and sat on his bum. She pushed him down all the way, and started to comb his fur in the hay.

She was resting on his shining stomach when Shula and his pestering pipes came to fetch them. It was time for the afternoon show.

~*~

              She almost noticing who sat in the front row. Almost didn't notice Rosalind, with the Witch in her tow. They both sat beside Shula, who watched with narrow eyes. The fresh blood, the southern boy with hickory-coloured skin, stood behind them- barely breathing, barely blinking.

He came to every single show, and each and every twist was one he'd already know. He was usually meant to keep her and her brother in check... but tonight, Whisper wondered whether she or Rosalind Maybrush were being monitored tonight. Rosalind's controlled, dopey grin was gone with her mourning clothes. Her new dress fell halfway down her legs. Whisper winced, wishing the Witch would leave her mind alone before she scrambled it like last breakfast's eggs.