“Tell me what you’re doing,” he whispers.
I swallow hard. Rain seeps through the torn roof, running down my cheeks like cold tears.
“I’m going to save Wonderhouse,” I say softly. “Just this once.”
Milo’s breath breaks. “No. Joy, no. That’s not your job.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s my curse.”
I step forward, each footfall wobbling. Milo grabs my wrist. “Joy, you’ll die.”
The Ringmaster appears like a shadow torn from the storm. “She’s right,” he shouts. “Let her go.”
Milo spins on him. “You don’t get to choose her death!”
“I’m not choosing it,” the Ringmaster screams, his voice breaking. “But she is the only one who can do this! Only Joy can return the magic to balance. This storm is the dam inside her breaking.”
I turn back toward the center of the ring—the exact spot where I first learned to beLittle Mirth. The place where I learned how to give Joy without ever feeling any. I lift my jar, and the black ribbon flutters loose.
“Let me go!” Milo roars as the Ringmaster holds him back.
“One last time, Little Mirth,” I whisper as the storm swallows my words.
I raise the jar above my head, and I prepare to shatter the only thing I’ve ever held close.
Chapter 19
The Shattering
The storm waitsfor me to break.
It coils above the ring like a living thing, a serpent of lightning and shadow, its center a swirling hollow of magic pulled taut to a single point: my jar. Every spark inside it trembles, pushing against the glass like birds desperate for sky. They know. They always know.
Milo is still fighting the Ringmaster at the edge of the ring—a struggle of fury against fate.
“JOY!” he screams, his voice cracking. “DON’T!”
I close my eyes. Not to shut him out, but to remember: tiny hands applauding my first stumble-gag. The soft glow of sparks rising from a child’s giggle. The hush of adults who forgot pain for a moment because I made them smile. The thousand Joys I gathered, protected, and cherished. And the one Joy I tried to keep for myself—the boy who taught me what it meant to want more.
My fingers tighten around the glass.
“Joy,” Milo pleads, his voice breaking into pieces. “Please. I just found you. I just felt something. Don’t make that my first and last Joy.”
Tears burn down my cheeks, mixing with the rain leaking through the torn canvas. But I smile anyway—a small, sad Pierrot smile.
“My name is Joy,” I whisper, “and I want to see you glow.”
Then I lift the jar higher. I look at the jar, at the thousands of stolen suns trapped behind glass. It was time to give them back. The air in the tent begins to vibrate, the music of the circus reaching a deafening, beautiful crescendo:
“Let the lanterns kiss your skin
Let the music stitch the places
Where the light once lived within.”
With a roar that isn't mine, I bring the jar down. The sound is not shattering glass; it is thunder. Light erupts. A supernova of color explodes outward, ripping through the storm in a wave of warmth so powerful the tent bulges before collapsing inward. The sparks rush past me in a torrent: pink-white, lavender, amber, blue, and gold upon gold. They pour into the dark like fire meeting dry brush.
I am inside the explosion. Light sears my skin, fills my lungs, and blinds me. The circus absorbs the wave—canvas stretching, ropes humming, and lanterns igniting in a cascade of golden flame. Performers collapse in awe as a thousand Joys surge into their chests, reigniting their hearts.