“Books. Why am I constantly afflicted with uppity women and their blasted books?” The look he gave her was weary but just the tiniest bit curious, and she struggled not to crow in triumph. “What is it you want, Mrs. Harville?”

“Something only you can give me, Master Stain.”

He chuckled darkly. “Bad news, pet. I’ve a wife. And she’s a fortune-teller. And as she hasn’t killed me in my sleep, that means it’s not in the cards for us.”

“Bit full of yourself, aren’t you? But I expected nothing less.” She looked him up and down with no attempt to hide her appreciation. “Fortunately, that’s not what I want.” His eyebrows rose in lieu of repeating his question. “I’m here for a story.”

“Unless the headline is ‘Famous Reporter’s Bones Found Near Scarborough,’ I can’t help you.”

“Ah, but you can. I’ve built my career writing about the most hidden, exciting, mysterious places in Sang. And now I want to write about something the city folk can’t begin to fathom: life in a caravan.”

“You’re funny, I’ll give you that. Good night.”

Criminy tipped his hat and turned to go, shaking his head in amusement. As a younger woman, Jacinda would have panicked. Instead, she said, “Brutus, record.” Clearing her throat, she spoke loudly and carefully. “World-renowned caravan ringmaster Criminy Stain was the most handsome man I’d ever met, and also the most dangerous. Luckily, he underestimated me, and that’s how I came to be pointing a salt-dipped arrow at his back.”

Criminy froze, and she struggled not to laugh.

“I understand that you lie for a living, love, but you tread on dangerous ground,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Turn around and call me a liar again.”

Criminy’s hands made fists at his sides, and he spun smoothly to face her, his eyes shining in the night like an animal’s. She waggled the little crossbow just a little, letting the warm light of the conveyance twinkle against the salt clinging to the arrow’s barbed tip.

“How the hell did you manage that?” He seemed more amused than angry, which was what she’d banked on.

“I keep it hanging beside the door in case unsavory characters come knocking.”

“And have they?”

“They have. And I have the scars to prove it.”

“And yet here you are, on my caravan’s doorstep.”

“That’s how dedicated I am to my calling, Master Stain. I intend to write a book about your caravan. I wish to interview your carnivalleros, provided they’re willing to share their stories with me. Tales, illustrations, and a very fine engraving of the dashing gent in charge. Do I have your attention?”

He grinned. “Depends on what my cut of the profits would be.”

She didn’t even have to think. “Seventy/thirty, and you pay for printing.”

“Sixty/forty, but you must be terribly flattering toward the rakish gent who runs the show. I get full editorial privilege. And I expect color illustrations. And gilt on the cover, which will be red.”

“I’d already decided as such, so I’m agreeable.”

She stuck out her ungloved hand, which he shook firmly.

“To an exciting partnership,” she said.

“And to my rules, which you’ll follow to the letter.”

Jacinda withdrew her hand and cocked the crossbow. “I’m not overly fond of rules.”

“Consider them nonnegotiable. First, you submit to being glanced upon by my wife, Lady Letitia, and agree to leave immediately if she demands it. No one gains access to the internal workings of the caravan until she’s touched them and determined they mean us no harm.” She nodded, and he stepped up into the doorway of her wagon. Despite the crossbow between them, it felt far too close. “I protect my own, Mrs. Harville.”

“Understood.”

“Second, the carnivalleros participate of their own free will; I won’t order them or even ask them. Under no circumstances may you badger them. Several of my folk have reason to hide, and I have offered them refuge and anonymity.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m deadly serious. I can see that you’re a woman accustomed to getting her way, but if they refuse to talk to you, it’s over. You turn this conveyance around and get back to buggering mummies, or whatever you do.”

“I may be persistent, Master Stain, but I’m not cruel. We all have our secrets.”

“That we do. And three, you pay admission every night and don’t cause me a bit of trouble.” His eyes went a shade darker. “Or else.”

She didn’t hide her grin at that. “Very generous. I agree.”

“That quickly? Blast. My reputation’s going to go to hell.”

She finally lowered her crossbow. “I promise to write you up as a fearsome, bloodthirsty scoundrel.”

“Don’t forget the pointy teeth, lass.”

When he grinned like that, it didn’t seem like a difficult task at all.

.3.

The next morning, Jacinda stepped down from the ringmaster’s wagon, pulling her glove back on and feeling very peculiar indeed. Her notebook and pen were under her arm, the large metal dog waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. After Lady Letitia’s strange behavior, she was more intrigued than ever to finally walk among the carnivalleros.

The fortune-teller’s manners and accent had been strange, and touching the bare skin of someone who wasn’t a lover had been a puzzling experience.

“Oh,” was all the glancer had said at first.

“Oh?”

Letitia’s other hand clasped warmly around Jacinda’s. “I’m sorry. About your husband.”

Jacinda straightened her shoulders and struggled to hold in that one damnable tear that threatened to wiggle out every time she talked about Liam. “I am, too.”

Letitia leaned in closer, patting Jacinda’s hand excitedly. “It’s going to get better—I promise you. You’re going to have some amazing adventures.” An impish smile told Jacinda that the glancer was keeping secrets, but knowing her future made her queasy, so she didn’t use her uncanny ability to winkle things out of loose lips. She’d never placed much faith in fortune-tellers, but if Letitia’s blessing was necessary for her admission to the caravan, she was willing to undergo the glancer’s scrutiny. And pity.

“Does that mean I can write the book?”

Letitia grinned. “Of course. Don’t worry about Criminy and his threats. He’s just a puppy, really.”

One eyebrow shot up as Jacinda thought about the ringmaster’s fangs. “A puppy?”

“A wolf puppy, maybe.”

“Then I owe you my thanks, Lady Letitia.”

“Please, honey. Call me Tish. And promise me you’ll be careful.”

The older woman’s nervous concern made Jacinda really study her. Fine lines webbed Tish’s eyes, and strands of white threaded her dark hair. The woman’s energy, strangely accented voice, and entire mien were of a younger woman, and yet she had to be at least ten years older than Jacinda. The outside did not match the inside. Something odd was going on here.

“So what’s your story, Tish?”

A coy smile told Jacinda she was about to get the brush-off. “Let’s just say my story didn’t really start until I got to the caravan. Besides, fortune-tellers are always more intriguing when they’re mysterious. Now, forget about little old me and go talk to the carnivalleros.”

With the glancer’s blessing, Jacinda was free to explore the caravan, yet she didn’t know where to start. Each lacquered wagon was painted a different color, most of them with beautifully calligraphed words proclaiming the talents of the denizens within. But no one was walking around or practicing in the weak morning sunlight, so Jacinda tapped her hip and began to explore the perimeter of the circle of boxcars with the mechanical dog clicking at her heels. It didn’t take long before she realized where all the action was: inside the circle, beyond the large clockwork animals that stood in the spaces between cars. A soaring patchwork tent, ragged but beautiful and open on the sides, was the source of the laughter and burbling voices that carried over the wind. It reminded her of the desert caravans she’d once traveled with at Liam’s side. She froze, seeing beyond the clockwork kangaroo to a past she couldn’t forget and couldn’t escape, to words shouted in anger and a heavy thump and the sudden silence, after.

“Can’t find your way in, eh?”

Jacinda turned to the aggressively dressed girl who had materialized by her side. Black-rimmed eyes hooded with glittering blue shadow glared back at her. In her younger days, the journalist would have felt the sting of otherness, of knowing that she didn’t belong among the brightly painted circus folk. Now the difference between her own serviceable adventuring costume and the girl’s lurid pink and green getup only made Jacinda feel more powerful. She didn’t need paint and gimmicks to get what she needed.

“No, I’m afraid I’m quite new to all this.”

The girl’s smile curled like a cat’s mouth barely containing feathers. “Always glad to help the new girls. I’m Emerlie, by the by. Tightrope walker. I’ll show you the way, shall I?” She took off, and Jacinda had no choice but to follow, her eyes dancing with spots from the vibrant acid green of Emerlie’s tutu.

“So you’re the tightrope girl?”

The tiny hat bobbed. “Tightrope, unicycle, juggling, bit of this and that. Been with the caravan forever. What’s your act?”

“Oh, nothing so impressive. I’m a writer. A journalist, to be exact.”

Emerlie dropped back, her expression avid. “You here to talk to Marco, then?”

“Marco?”

The girl’s shoulders shivered in excitement. “You don’t know? The new knife thrower—Marco Taresque? He’s a murderer.” But she didn’t look disappointed by the fact. Far from it.