Born with a damaged heart, Leanna Weston has lived a sheltered life with little chance at adventure. When she hears that Finvarra's Circus is coming to her small town, she sneaks off to witness the magic first hand, sure that this is her only chan...
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Leanna shut her eyes against the closed door, against the sound of her father's retreating footsteps. The hard wood was a far, pitiful cry from the comfort of Finvarra's chest. Yet, against this lifeless surface, Leanna discovered one consolation that a million beats of Finvarra's cursed heart could never offer: a wooden door wouldn't ever reject her.
Holding tight to that solace, and to the folds of her skirt, Leanna opened her eyes to the incarnation of her fate: a closed door. She sighed. There was nothing else to be had.
"Take it," she rasped, voice hoarse and soul weary. "Just take my heart and be done with it all, please," was as much as she could say. If she dared any more, words would only wane to the cries of a sad, sad girl. Caging sobs behind clenched teeth, Leanna curled into the door the way a child would a mother. She shivered against it as if meaning to waken it from its eternal sleep. But it was dead, and regardless of her quiet tears, it wouldn't ever come back.
Silence stretched thick, cut only by two hollow steps behind her—away from her. Never did Leanna imagine a sound could hurt so.
Finvarra exhaled weightily. "It's too late to take your heart now, I'm afraid," he said, sounding anything but. "You're my tightrope walker, and what circus is a circus without a tightrope walker?"
He took two more steps. Bereft, Leanna no longer cared whether it were closer or off into the unknowns of the wind.
"Besides, the advance men have already posted the bills announcing your act," he added above the quiet footfalls and the gentle rustle of his cape. "It would be a pity for me to take your heart now. The notices really are quite nice," he murmured as an afterthought.
Chilling anger sent Leanna whirling wildly, smearing the world behind her tears. "I don't care how nice they are! They're a mistake—this is all a mistake! I am not some muse, neither am I magnificent. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not even free to come and go as I please!"
Leanna paused, struggling to keep the quaver from her voice. Failing, she said, "You're best off just taking my heart now, before..." Before my sorrow swallows it whole,she thought, but pressing trembling fingers to her mouth, she said no more.
Finvarra was quiet for a thoughtful moment. He clasped his hands at his back and walked around her bed quietly, a shadow of flowing black fabric and secret thoughts. Stopping at the vase on Leanna's night table, he admired the snow white lilies, caressing a finger slowly down the stem. He eased the flowers aside and peered within the porcelain vase curiously.
"No, I hadn't noticed. Still don't," he said distractedly. He let the lilies tilt back to their belonging stance and regarded Leanna. "The last I heard, it was your heart that was the problem, not your legs. Unless you lied, of which you told me you were no a liar. But then, it is like a liar to lie, isn't it?"
Leanna opened her mouth, a barrage of curses swelling in her throat. But she swallowed them and instead cursed her romanticism birthed from countless hours of loneliness spent living vicariously through the many damsels in her books. She'd always favored the likes of the tortured man seeming incapable of ever caring for anyone else. She'd always looked for the better in them. But Finvarra was not a fictional man, as magical as he may have seemed.
