Another crack of thunder splits the air. This time the ground shakes hard enough that a nearby wagon tips onto its side, spilling props into the mud. Flames burst from a lantern. A rope snaps and whips across the sky. The carousel’s lullaby distorts into a warped, haunting wail.
Wonderhouse is unraveling. And the boy who once carried nothing now carries me and every spark I ever wanted.
“Milo…” I whisper, gripping his shirt. “I’m scared.”
He looks down at me, eyes fierce and soft all at once. “Then hold on to me,” he says. “I’m not letting you go.”
Note by note, the circus’s magic collapses around us. The storm funnels closer. And Milo strides straight into the center of it—with me in his arms, my jar clutched against my chest, and a spark above him that refuses to die.
The moment we step beneath the main tent’s arch, thunder cracks so loudly it sounds like the circus itself is screaming.
And this time, it is.
Chapter 17
The Circus Dies
The main tenthas always been a cathedral of wonder.
Tonight, it is a mausoleum.
Canvas walls shudder like lungs gasping their last breaths. Lanterns swing wildly overhead, their dying flames stretching thin and blue. The ground itself trembles beneath Milo’s feet as he carries me inside. Every performer who hasn’t fled stands frozen, silhouettes carved against lightning-lit canvas: the tightrope walker trembling atop a sagging wire; the fire-breather clutching a torch that refuses to stay lit; the tumblers huddled together, praying the floor won’t split.
Their sparks—usually bright flickers from nerves, excitement, anticipation—are gone. There is nothing left to gather. Wonderhouse has eaten everything it can reach.
Milo tightens his hold on me. “Where is he?” he murmurs. “Where’s your Ringmaster?”
A ripple of thunder splits the tent in half, and the floor shudders. At the far end of the ring, the Ringmaster steps into view. His coat is soaked through with rain and static, his top hat slightly askew. He clutches his cane like a weapon, and his eyes blaze with a real, ancient fear.
“Joy,” he breathes, as he looks towards Milo, relief and horror tangling in his voice, “you shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should she,” Milo fires back, moving forward despite the ground quaking beneath us. “Not like this. Not dying for you.”
The Ringmaster flinches, but he doesn’t deny it. He steps closer, voice cracking like torn cloth. “I warned you, Joy. I begged you not to give him a spark. You don’t understand what you’ve done.”
“Whatyou’vedone,” Milo snaps. “What you’ve taken from her.”
The Ringmaster’s jaw tightens. “I have taken nothing. The circus only survives because?—”
“Because of her,” Milo says. “Because she bleeds light for you.”
The Ringmaster’s face twists—guilt, grief, and fury bleeding through at once. “I never wanted this for her,” he says quietly. “But the circus was dying when she arrived. She was the only one born with enough… potential.”
The word slams into my ribs. “Potential?” I whisper. “Is that what you call it?”
The Ringmaster turns toward me, slow and pained. “Joy… you were special. The curse chose you before I did.”
“Curse?” Milo echoes. “What curse?”
The Ringmaster exhales, the weight of decades dragging the air from his lungs. He explains that Wonderhouse is held together by pure Joy distilled from human hearts, and that it needs a vessel—a conduit who can gather what they cannot produce.
“You mean someone who can’t feel,” I whisper.
His eyes soften. “I never wished that part on you.”
“But you used it,” Milo snaps. “You built your entire world on it.”
The Ringmaster reveals the devastating truth: the "curse" was a dam shaped around my heart to keep me from being drowned by the swarm of sparks I could see as a child. It saved my life but doomed me to be the circus’s source. And now, every Joy I give away breaks that dam a little more, bringing me closer to death.