“How?”
“That’s what we learn,” I reply. “Together.”
He inhales sharply. “Together.”
His voice holds something new—soft, trembling, and dangerous. It echoes inside the hollow parts of me and finds space I didn’t know was empty.
Before I can say anything more, the tent’s bells jingle violently—a sound like metal striking bone. The Ringmaster’s silhouette appears in the entrance.
“Joy,” he says, his voice tight. “We need you. Now.”
His eyes flick to Milo—cold, sharp, and fearful. Everything inside me curls.
“What happened?” I ask.
“The circus is faltering,” he says. “The lights won’t hold. The fireflies dimmed. The ropes are losing their warmth.”
My blood chills. I already feel it in my bones. The circus is starving because one spark went somewhere it wasn’t meant to go. Because Milo glowed. And because I let him.
“Joy,” the Ringmaster says again, his voice cracking with urgency. “You must come feed the circus.”
I clutch my jar. Milo rises beside me, panic flickering around him. “Let me help,” he whispers.
“You already have,” I say softly.
I step past him, feeling weak and terrified. As I walk out of the tent, I glance back. The spark above Milo glows bright gold—brighter than before—bright enough to be seen even through the dimming of Wonderhouse.
I know this is only the beginning. Borrowed warmth always comes with a cost. And tonight, the cost is coming due.
Chapter 12
The Dimming Performer
There isnothing louder than a circus losing its light. Not the drums, not the crowds, not the lions or the laughter. It’s the silence that roars.
By the time I reach the main tent, Wonderhouse feels like a body running a fever—sweat-slick, trembling, trying to hold itself upright while something inside buckles. The firefly ropes flicker in frantic pulses. The lanterns dim in uneven breaths. The striped canvas trembles, its seams giving tiny warning groans.
The circus is starving.
I step inside the performer’s entrance, and the Ringmaster is already there, pacing like a lion held too long in a cage. His cane taps the ground with a rhythm too sharp to be accidental.
“We need you onstage,” he says the moment he sees me. “Now. Before the first act collapses.”
My stomach twists, “I’m not ready.”
“You don’t need to be ready,” he snaps, then softens to a gentler ache. “You just need to be enough.”
I hand him my jar—it feels like giving someone a piece of my ribcage. He peers inside at the gold and pink-white sparks; they swirl weakly, like fish in oxygen-poor water. Even the strong Joys look sluggish. I feel their weakness as my own.
“You’ve lost too much,” he murmurs.
“Little Mirth never falters,” he says to me as he hands the jar back. I almost drop it. It’s heavier than before, but I am weaker.
I slip through the curtain, and the world beyond blurs. The crowd buzzes with unease. There should be sparks, but there are barely any—only thin trails of color rising from worried laughter and weak glimmers from distracted clapping.
The Barker announces me: “Ladies and gentlemen… our softest sorrow… our quiet glow… LITTLE MIRTH!”
I step into the ring. My vision swims. Every muscle in my body feels hollow, like someone scooped me out and left the shell to wobble upright. Judging by the hush falling over the crowd, they can see it. Sad? Yes. Delicate? Yes. But tonight, I look fragile—like a shadow missing its lantern.