But some things, I am beginning to realize, are harder to let go of than others.
Chapter 4
The Joy-Seer’s Curse
By midday,the circus is fully awake, but the hollow place in the air hasn’t moved. It lingers near the juggler’s station like a bruise, invisible to everyone except me. Performers walk through it without noticing the way the light bends strangely.
I circle the space, jar tucked under my arm, ribbon secure. I’m not meant to collect sparks in daylight—day Joys are faint, confused things—but my jar hums softly anyway, sensing the wrongness.
A flicker of light catches my eye above the fortune-teller’s tent. It is a dense little knot of deep violet, heavy as a stone. Madame Lys must be furious again. I head toward her, weaving through the loud adrenaline of the performers—tumblers vaulting crates and Risha stringing ribbons with her toes. Everyone glows a little today. Everyone, except the hollow.
Inside Madame Lys’s tent, the incense hits me like a wall. She sits cross-legged, cards fanned around her.
“Joy,” she says sharply, not looking up. “Don’t step on the Nine of Swords.”
I freeze. “I’m not stepping anywhere.”
A small gold spark hangs over her shoulder—leftover resentment from the cook. But beneath it, the violet knot throbs.Violet means helpless anger or fear—the kind of emotion that only takes shape when someone is fighting themselves.
“I can take it,” I offer quietly.
“No,” she snaps. “You shouldn’t carry it either. Joy... child... you give too much.”
“I’m the one who sees it,” I say. “Doesn’t that mean I’m supposed to help?”
“No,” she replies, her voice suddenly soft. “It means you were cursed to see what no one should.”
I look at my hands. They are thin, with white paint still crusted along the cuticles. These are not hands built for breaking curses.
“Let me,” I whisper.
She exhales, long and resigned. “Take it. But don’t you dare keep it.”
I open the jar. The violet spark detaches with effort, dropping toward the glass as if pulled by gravity. When it slips inside, the entire jar shakes in my hands. It burns—not warm, not cold—like swallowing a secret someone never meant to speak.
“You gather Joys,” Madame Lys murmurs, her eyes meeting mine. “But you never create any. Do you think that’s an accident?”
“It’s just how I was born,” I say, my chest tightening.
“No,” she whispers. “It is how you were shaped. Joy doesn’t refuse to bloom. Joy is forced not to.”
The jar vibrates at my feet, and outside, the hollow place in the air pulses.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because Wonderhouse survives on what you gather,” she says. “And the only way to gather is to never claim any for yourself.”
“Every sigh a silver thread
Nothing ever truly fades
Once it’s whispered, once it’s said.”
The truth sits inside me like a stone in a well. No Joy for me means more Joy for the circus.
“Something is coming,” she warns, taking my wrist. “Something that will change the shape of your curse. Whatever arrives today will either break you... or free you.”
A chill races down my spine. Outside the tent, something shifts—a bootstep, a breath. The hollow has moved. And it is coming toward me.