Circus of Silence

Costume Change

~*~

Faster.

You move faster, so as best to get away.

So do they.

They move so quickly that you blink, and they're in front of you, blocking your path.

Their hand feels cold, dirty, like the air around a grave.

Suddenly, you want to go home to take a bath.

~*~

            Harrison sat in his chair, staring at Rosalind like she was something dirty, something rotten. Filthy, false, and fake. He couldn't move. Not with Shula here, singing him a lullaby that wouldn't make him sleep. That didn't ameliorate his wrath. The type worse than what you'd get doing math. He couldn't speak, either. That was probably for the best. She needed to stay calm, to complete this test.

She faced Harrison, her fists clenched tight. Her grandmother was at her side, whispering soothing sayings softly and encouraging whatever it was inside of her to fight. And Rosalind tried with all her might.

Important, a voice inside her screamed. The voice from a nightmare she'd long ago dreamed.

"Wherefore, sweetheart, what's your metaphor?" her grandmother said, teasingly, both hands on Rosalind's shoulders. She'd told her grandmother that she didn't think she was what her grandmother thought she was. That she couldn't do... this, whatever this was. That she wasn't being stubborn just because. The quote, of course, was from Twelfth Night, but it was referring to liquor, and not magic.

To both, Rosalind answered; "It's dry, sir."

"Nonsense, dear Rosaline. Try once again, I'm sure you're mine."

Rosalind tried again, unfurling her fist and snapping her finger. Nothing. Not a speck of anything her grandmother had told her to expect. No fire. No water. No snow. No strong wind did a'blow.

Finally, her Grandmother stepped back, her sparse, still-grey brows pressing up against each other. "We'll try again later, then." Her bony hand slid off Rosalind's shoulder. She disappeared in a puff of cold, ash-like smoke that stuck to Rosalind's dress like pollen in the summertime- though wearing a dress like this in such a hot month would make her smoulder!

Shula seemed to get the idea, frowning down at her heavy skirts. "It's been three months," he said simply, and the four words sent  Rosalind backwards, into the canvas walls of the tent. Those words.... they couldn't mean what she thought they meant.

Rosalind hadn't been here any longer that a couple of days.

Though those the Circus took a liking to, she knew, would face extended stays.

Though her skin was burning, a shudder shook her shape. Three months... Something inside told her that was not good. That she should try to escape, if she could.

"I'm sure your grandmother would be pleased if you changed." More than just her clothes, she was sure. The Circus marquee wanted to consume her.

The snake charmer looked over both of his shoulders, one of the snakelets on his shoulders letting out a small hiss. He leaned in closer to her, and the tapping of his fingers against his thigh kept both her and Harrison Wallis routed to the ground. "The magic inside of you, Miss Maybrush, is ranged. Be one with this Circus, and the Circus will be one with you. It's really not all that hard to do."