I press my palms together once to hear the soft slap of paint on paint, then push through the flap. Outside, Wonderhouse breathes.
I see the world is layered twice: once in dirt and canvas and sweat, once in color and light. A father lifts his daughter, and a gold spark lifts with her like a crown. Girls giggle near the cotton candy, and pink-white lights scatter like dizzy kites. No one else notices. They bump through them and walk on.
"Little Mirth!" The barker near the main tent catches sight of me and grins. I see the thin line of lavender hanging above him, drifting from an argument he had earlier. He cried afterward, alone behind the ticket stand. I saw that, too. Now the lavender trails him like smoke from a snuffed candle.
"You ready to make them sigh, Little Ghost?" he asks, tipping his hat.
My red mouth pulls into a small, careful almost-smile. I lift my hand and give a tiny, clumsy wave, letting my wrist flop like it has no bones. The barker laughs, and a little spark jumps above his chest—pale, like coffee with too much milk. I watch it and memorize its shape. I am not allowed to take before the show.
I step into the ring, and the honey glow of the lanterns flattens the world at the edges. My act is simple—a small thing in a small spotlight. I let my shoulders hunch and my head hang, a tiny Pierrot lost in a circle too big for her.
I stumble. I fall. I mime a suitcase that is too heavy until I drop on my backside with a softpoofof dust. The children roar, and gold sparks pop in bursts around them. I pretend not to notice, my painted eyes wide and wounded, surprised that anyone would find me funny.
Laughter makes the brightest sparks. They come in clusters... I feel them brush against my arms—little whispers of warmth. Not inside me; never that. Always just close enough that I canimagine. The calliope slows, its wheezing breath turning into the opening notes of a waltz. It sings the words I know by heart:
“Every lantern knows your name
Every rope remembers how
You once laughed beneath the sky
You can laugh like that again now.”
I end the routine pulling an invisible rope from the air, hauling a line of soft blue and amber that is attached to nothing and everything. I yank and fall backward in an exaggerated flop. Applause follows—not thunder, but enough to lift dust from the floor. Enough to make my chest ache in a way I will never call Joy.
"Little Mirth," the Ringmaster calls from the edge of the ring, his voice rich with approval. "Our delicate little shadow."
I step back behind the curtain, and the light drops off sharply. The sparks fade from my sight, slipping out of the air like birds leaving a branch. The circus will drink them in slowly, like a thirsty thing.
My hands shake. The jar is waiting. I press my palm flat to my chest, but no light jumps to my hand. It never does.
It is all right,I lie to myself.I do not need my own spark. The circus needs them more.
Chapter 2
The Afterglow
The thingabout Joys is this: they never stay where you leave them. They drift. They cling to corners and rafters and quiet places where people forget to look. After every show, the air inside the Wonderhouse ring is thick with leftover sparks, like iridescent confetti the world hasn’t figured out how to sweep up.
My job begins when the applause ends.
I slip back into the dressing tent only long enough to peel off my paper hat and set it on the crate. The jar sits beneath it, the black ribbon curled like a sleeping cat. I touch the glass once, feeling the faint, rhythmic vibration of the lights trapped inside. The jar hums under my palm as if it is listening.
“Time to feed you,” I whisper.
I pick up the jar and step back outside. The tent flap closes with a soft sigh, muffling the distant music. The crowd has moved on to the next act—the fire-breather is out there now, swallowing flame like candy. His sparks are bright red and volatile, beautiful but dangerous to touch. I leave those for the circus to absorb on its own. Mine are the soft ones. The quiet ones left behind by hearts that glowed only for a moment.
The ring is empty when I return. Lanterns sway above, their honeyed light dulled after the show. Straw whispers under mytoes as I step into the center. And there they are: gold from warm hands that clap; pink-white from laughter that comes easily; lavender still trembling from a mother who cries into her sleeve.
This part always feels like a prayer—or a betrayal. I try not to think about which.
I untie the black ribbon. The bow loosens with a small sigh of fabric. When I open the jar, the air inside shivers, hungry and expectant.
“Come home,” I breathe.
A gold spark breaks away from the rafters and floats down like a feather. I guide it with one finger, careful not to touch. If I touch it, I will feel the warmth for half a heartbeat, and then I will lose it. Better to pretend the warmth is for the jar, not me.
One by one, the rest follow. Pink-white spirals. Blue drifting ribbons. Lavender trembling clouds. They come willingly, like birds returning to a nest. Some nights I imagine they know me. Some nights I imagine they pity me.