Revelle

Flames licked my feet as I stabbed at the thick fabric to the right of the door. To the left of the door. Above the door. As close to the flames as I dared.

Grabbing the antidote-soaked rag again, I rubbed furiously at the fabric, then stabbed with the knife. Rub. Stab. Finally, finally, the knife cut through the black swath of canvas.

I had no time; the flames were closing in and the smoke was unbearable—

I slashed at the tent, widening the hole. Emboldened by the fresh oxygen, the flames leaped off the walls.

“Help!” The destruction around me drowned out my hopeless pleas as I stabbed and stabbed, forming a big X in the tent canvas. A few more inches in either direction, and I’d be able to push Trys through—

Something fell on my back. I cried out, my voice drowned by the devouring flames. We were out of time.

Lifting Trys around the waist, I shoved her feetfirst toward the hole. The angle was all wrong, her body too limp. She needed to be pulled out; she needed—

Trys’s legs disappeared, her narrow hips catching against the fabric as the hole ripped wider.

Someone was helping from the other side.

As soon as Trys’s feet disappeared, I turned and dragged Dewey off the counter, then dropped him in front of the hole. If I died because I saved this bastard . . .

Feetfirst, his body stretched the hole even wider. Flames licked my arms as I dove through after him, making it as far as my shoulders before getting stuck. That bullet wound screamed like hell as debris rained on my legs. The ceiling groaned something awful, the cupboards opening, dishes spilling to the floor—

Hands slid into mine. Soft palms with calluses from gripping the trapeze swing.

Luxe’s strong arms tugged me. Hard.

More people grabbed my arms, helping me as I tried to push my way out of the hole. My legs were burning, my shoulder screaming, my body much too big—

I landed on the soft dirt.

“Hurry! It’s going to fall!”

The Big Tent groaned loud enough to wake the dead.

Colette and Millie ran back toward the street, Trys hanging precariously between them. Luxe yanked me into the reeds behind the swaying tent. We half ran, half crawled, until the dirt was more mud than grass. I didn’t stop until the sea lapped against my ankles.

The salty air was the sweetest I’d ever tasted, and I gulped it greedily. It soothed my scorched throat, my ashy lungs. As I caught my breath, Luxe barreled into me. She was alive. Her hair was a wreck, and her skin was feverish, but she was alive.

I hugged her tightly against my chest, ignoring the shooting pain in my shoulder as the Big Tent groaned again. “Don’t look,” I murmured into her hair.

She squirmed to face the destruction of her home.

Swirling plum and ebony stripes folded inward, the enormous poles smacking together with a thunderous crack. Like a house of cards in a breeze, it just . . . folded. The Big Tent of Charmant, the Revelles’ home, their theater, their everything.

Gone.

Screams filled the air. Mournful, wailing cries. I covered Luxe’s ears, turning us away as the plume of dirt and sand pelted our skin, but there was no protecting her from this.

When it was done, seagulls cawed over our heads.

In a daze, we stared at the naked sky where the Big Tent was supposed to stand.

As if remembering herself, Luxe pushed my bare chest with both of her hands, hard enough for me to stumble back. “You’re a damn fool!”

“Me? Why?”

She threw her mess of soot-covered curls out of her face. “You went back into the fire!”

“For Trys!”

“You could have died! Both of you!”

She was shaking something awful. I reached for her, to hold her against me like we’d done in the closet, when, for a fleeting moment, I thought she’d felt the same. “I couldn’t leave her.”

“Of course not, I just . . . I thought you were dead.”

She hugged herself, struggling to regain composure. Blood peppered her arms, her hands, the front of her dress.

“Luxe,” I said softly.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, but no tears. Not yet.

“Luxe,” I repeated, even softer. Helpless, I stood there, fighting the urge to go to her.

She launched herself at me, burying her head against my injured shoulder, her arms tight around my neck. I held her close, relishing every inhale and exhale against me as she gasped for air, for control.

The pain she had to be feeling. The fear, the loss—I could hardly stand to see her so destroyed. No wonder Roger had convinced Margaret to let him take away her suffering.

Acrid smoke obscured her sweet shampoo as I buried my nose in her disheveled bun. “You stink.”

Her shoulders shook with a humorless laugh. “So do you.”

“Thank you for looking for me.” With Roger in New York and Trys unconscious, no one would have realized I was missing until it was too late.

“Like I said,” she murmured against me, “there are three people looking out for you now.”

I gripped her tighter, and her trembling arms did the same to me. “You’re a good friend.”

“You know it’s more than that.” She pulled back, soot-stained arms still around my neck. “That’s the problem. I always look for you. In every crowd, at every show, I always know exactly where you are. No matter how hard I try not to.”

“Really?” My heart swelled with each impossible word.

Her eyes searched mine, as if there were any doubt about how I felt. “Really.”

I lowered my head, gently pressing my forehead to hers. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, either. Not since that first night.”

She lifted onto her tippy-toes, swaying. “It’s a bad idea, getting involved with me.”

“It’s an excellent idea.” I wiped the soot from her cheeks. Exhaustion weighed down her smile as she leaned against me, not feigning invincibility. Not feigning indifference.

Her nose caressed mine, heating me from head to toe. “I really shouldn’t.”

My hands tangled in her mess of curls. “If you want me to walk away,” I whispered, my mouth millimeters from hers, “I will.”

Her grip on my arms tightened, rooting me in place.

I lifted her chin, closing the distance between us.

“Ahem.”

Our heads whipped toward the voice.

Dewey stood between the beach and the blaze, his black suit no longer recognizable beneath the dirt and soot. His legs wobbled something awful, and dark bruises marred the skin beneath his narrowed eyes.

His gaze swept over where I held Luxe against my bare chest. “I see.”

Luxe went rigid. “Dewey, I—”

Coughing seized him. Luxe stepped toward him, but he raised a hand. A silent command. “How long?”

“It’s not what it looks like—”

“How. Long.”

“Nothing has happened, I swear—”

He shook his head, his hands tightening to fists. “I need to see a Strattori.”

“Dewey, wait!” Luxe trailed after him, glancing over her shoulder one last time, regret written all over her face.

And pain. The tightness in the corners of her mouth. Her perpetual sacrifice.