House of Mirrors (3 page)

“Thank you,” Talbot whispered. The blankets rustled as he turned onto his side. “Where are you from?”

Had his accent slipped again? He was a good actor, but this Talbot might have shaken him. “Great Britain,” he said vaguely.

“But where? Ireland? England? I can’t place your accent.”

Rafe focused his attention on pulling back the covers of his bed. “One thing you’ll learn, Talbot, is to never ask a traveler too much about his past.”

“No, of course not. I apologize.” More rustling as Talbot shifted again. Rafe was too aware of his every move. A sigh rose from the blankets. “I think I’ll be grateful for that rule, sir.”

“Call me Grimstone.”

“Is it your name?” Talbot began, then gave a short bark of laughter. “Golly. I can’t believe I asked that. I guess I’m beat-up pretty good if I can’t keep a rule in my head three seconds after you give it to me.”

“Not a rule. ’Tis more a way to get along,” Rafe said. “Go to sleep now. I’m sorry I woke you.” He was indeed. He wished the infernal, intriguing Talbot was asleep.

“Oh, you didn’t, sir—Mr. Grimstone. I was awake.”

Hell and damnation. Did he know Rafe had stared down at his body like a mesmerized fool?

“Good night, then,” Rafe said coolly, and without another word, slid into bed and blew out the light. He usually slept in only a pair of loose-fitting pants, salvaged from the belongings of some Russian jugglers who’d left in the night. Tonight he didn’t even undo his braces before getting into bed.

Chapter Three

Jonah swam up to consciousness like a catfish reluctant to leave the murkier depths of a river to approach the light at the surface. It was dark and safe and comfortable in the depths. Who knew what dangers and predators the sunlight world would offer?

He ungummed one eye—the other was swollen closed and throbbed as if someone had punched it, hah—and looked toward the rumpled covers of the nearby bed.

Mr. Grimstone was gone. That was good. He’d have a moment to acclimate to his new surroundings and draw a breath before facing the rest of the carnival crew. He was nervous about entering this strange world and began to wonder if he shouldn’t simply travel on his own, but he was broke. He’d barely had time to gather a few possessions and throw them in a bag before leaving home. The savings he’d earned throughout the years were safely in the Farmers and Merchants bank. His father’s name was also on the account, and Jonah doubted he’d find the funds still available to him even if dared go into town to withdraw them.

He had to take the job Grimstone offered and the opportunity to travel with a group, which would afford him some safety. The carnival folk were strangers now, but he would make them friends. He could be very personable, and he’d make certain not to cross anybody and to do whatever work they gave him without complaining.

He groaned as he struggled to sit. Right now it was questionable whether he could rise and walk, let alone tote water and oats, haul hay bales, or shovel manure.

From outside came the sounds of men’s shouting voices. Someone was bellowing, “Whaddaya mean we’re packing it up? We could pull in another night here.”

“Nay, rain is comin’. Poor attendance hereabouts, and I say we’re done.” Jonah recognized Mr. Grimstone’s voice. He sounded decisive and more Irish than before. “The one-in-ten side pole broke, as have a few too many staubs, damn the bad wood. We need to make other repairs. That farmer in Bartonville has the big field we’re welcome to use with no trouble from the law. It’s less ’n two days’ ride.”

“We were there less’n a year ago. Don’t want to suck the place dry,” the first indignant voice said.

“It’s a straw stand. Plenty of rubes in that neck of the woods,” a woman replied.

Mr. Grimstone said, “True enough. When the man said, ‘when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian,’ he must have been thinking of Bartonville.”

“What man said that, Grim?” the woman asked.

“No one important. Get ready to strike before the rain starts. Not much worse than packing in a downpour.”

His words about the dead Indian seemed familiar; then Jonah recognized the line from
The Tempest
. For a man who loathed Shakespeare, the carnival owner knew the plays well enough.

Boots thumped on the wooden step, and Mr. Grimstone opened the door. He was dressed unremarkably now, in tan trousers, a white shirt with a blue vest but no jacket. His dun leather boots were dusty, and he looked more like a farm laborer than a mystical phantom of the night. Yet the hint of performer hung about him—his shoulder-length black hair, perhaps, or the mustache and goatee that dramatically accentuated his mouth, and the erect, graceful way he carried himself.

“Ah, Talbot, back from the dead.” He tossed Jonah a hunk of bread. “You missed breakfast. We’re heading south as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir. I overheard.” Jonah wondered if the change in plan had anything to do with him, but no, of course not. One bedraggled stranger wouldn’t cause a whole carnival to abandon a lucrative stand. He rose to his feet and tried to appear hale and hearty though the world spun a bit and every muscle screamed. “What can I do to help?”

Mr. Grimstone looked him up and down, his mouth quirked in a sardonic leer. “You lie low. Rest for now. Once we’re at our next stop, I’ll show you around, or Mindy shall do that. Yes, that’s best. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re my protégé.”

“Why is that, sir?”

Mr. Grimstone raised one dark slash of a brow. “’Tis better. And pray, do not call me ‘sir.’ It’ll annoy me. I’m Grimstone.”

“I’d really like to earn my keep, sir—Mr. Grimstone. Packing up everything must require a lot of hands. I can make myself useful.” Jonah took a tentative step, and his leg started to buckle. The carnival owner caught him before he could fall and lowered him into the single chair in the room. The sensation of those hard hands supporting his body left an impression even after Grimstone let go.

“Don’t cross me, boy,” he growled. “If I want you to work, I’ll tell you so. Right now I’m ordering you to keep out of the way.”

“Yes, sir.” Jonah couldn’t break himself from using the formal address that courtesy demanded. He sat on the seat, gripping the thick wedge of bread his host had given him. Before Grimstone stepped back, Jonah caught a whiff of sweat mingled with a sharp, spicy scent of pipe tobacco. He’d never been around anyone who smoked a pipe—certainly his father had never indulged such a vice as smoking—so the smell seemed exotic to Jonah.

“There’s water in the pitcher to wash with and to drink, a flask in that cupboard if you decide you want to attempt another nip of something stronger. Now I’ve things to attend to. I’ll see you later in the day.”

With that, Grimstone turned on his heel and stalked out of the trailer. He moved with such an air of confidence and fluid grace that he looked like a king disguised as a peasant. Jonah’s stomach gave a little clench of appreciation as he stared at the man’s backside before tearing his gaze away.

When the door closed behind his host, he braced his hands on the threadbare arms of the chair, rose, and hobbled to the washstand. He examined his battered face in the small, smeared mirror over the stand and then washed his face and neck, wincing at the pain.

A mug sat on a narrow shelf a few steps away—everything was a few steps away in this tiny dwelling. Jonah filled it with water from the pitcher and drank deeply. There was a faint bitter taste to the water, and he guessed the mug was the same one Grimstone used for drinking alcohol.

And then, in defiance of his father’s rules which no longer applied to him, Jonah got the metal flask from the place Grimstone had indicated and poured amber liquid into the chipped cup. He smelled the stuff, which could’ve been whiskey, gin, or ale for all he knew about strong spirits, before taking a tentative sip. Fire flared in his torn lip, and he yelped.

He tipped the cup and swallowed the molten fluid in one gulp, making his throat burn and his eyes weep. He exhaled a swear word—another old rule broken, but then, he’d destroyed much more serious commandments over the past weeks.

He sank into Rafe Grimstone’s tatty yet comfortable chair and nibbled on the hunk of bread he’d been given to break his fast. His stomach rumbled as he remembered the smell of his mother’s ham and eggs, but at least the dry bread tasted like freedom and wasn’t laced with the bile of guilt and shameful secrets.

The liquor he’d drunk roiled around in his stomach, looking for a place to settle. Heat pumped through his veins, and he felt even dizzier. Liquor, the devil’s brew. He supposed his father had been right about its effects on the body, especially a body that had rarely ingested anything stronger than ginger beer. Yet the bread seemed to settle his stomach, and soon his light-headedness abated.

As he ate, he listened to the whistle blasts outside. There was some chanting that reminded him of the work crews he’d seen in the fields. The words they sang out sounded like nonsense. He recognized Grimstone’s voice shouting commands.

After he’d finished the bread, he rose and examined the contents of the trailer. Each item in the seeming clutter inhabited a particular place, and he had no doubt each served a purpose or they’d have been jettisoned. The traveling life didn’t allow for extraneous possessions or people who didn’t pull their weight.

Perhaps Grimstone was testing him. Maybe he should go out and find something to do to prove his worth. Besides, he had to piss desperately, and there was no chamber pot that he could find. He decided to take a chance and go outdoors, locate the privy and someone who could put him to work.

He opened the door. The nighttime carnival world, with all its mysterious glamour, was dusty chaos in the light of day. Sweating workers hurried to and fro, carrying poles, canvas, wooden planks, colorful pasteboard signs, swathes of fabric, and parts of booths. They were like ants scurrying from a hill some bad-tempered child had kicked in. Yet their flow was organized, their movements economical as each person went about his prescribed task.

Jonah stepped onto the hard-packed earth and limped away from the shelter of Grimstone’s trailer. He wasn’t sure what direction to go and felt a bit like a leaf caught in a current as the workers swirled all around him.

“Watch it!” A man wearing a sleeveless undershirt with suspenders stretched over his big belly carried a large wooden placard with an illustration of a pretty lady holding a hoop while a small dog leaped through. MISS JAMIE’S AMAZING DOG & PONY SHOW.

“Pardon me. Could you tell me where…” But the man had already marched past.

Jonah’s need to piss had reached the critical point. With no outhouse in sight, he headed toward the perimeter of the encampment. The House of Mirrors mural looked considerably less magical in the light of day, the paint faded and scarred. Jonah could see the words had been painted over some earlier incarnation but couldn’t quite read what previous exhibition the wagon had contained.

“You look lost.” A deep voice came from behind him.

Jonah turned around to face a vest. He tipped his head back to look at the owner of the garment, a man who towered over him. The man’s features were large and ill fitting, but a smile on his wide mouth crinkled the corners of his eyes. “So, you’re the first-of-May?”

“Excuse me?”

“New hire,” the man clarified. “That’s what we call the hayseeds that join up along the road, once the weather is fine.”

‘Hayseed’ was a term Jonah knew, but he didn’t take the mild slur to heart. He’d been called much worse recently. “I see. Actually, I am kind of lost. I could use an outhouse.”

The man jerked a thumb over a bony shoulder that stretched the fabric of his chambray work shirt. “There’s a whole open field right over there if you’re not too particular. Tell you what. Why don’t you take care of that, and then I’ll show you the ropes?”

“It’s a deal.” Jonah smiled at his self-appointed mentor, glad to have someone to steer him through the chaos.

He went behind the House of Mirrors, unbuttoned, and splashed on the trampled weeds. He noticed with some dismay there was blood in his urine, but that might get better with time. When he was done, he returned to his giant friend, who stood chatting with the pretty ticket taker he’d seen the night before. In the daylight Jonah could see she wasn’t as young or as pretty as she’d looked in the flickering lamplight. Without the exotic black liner around her eyes and no longer wearing a spangled costume, she looked like a farm wife in her work dress and apron.

“This is Mindy,” the giant announced. “And I’m Sam. ‘Kaspar the Great’ when I’m on the stage.” He adopted a thick foreign accent. “I come from the icy north of Rrrrussia, a nobleman nearly killed by my evil uncle, forced to flee and find sanctuary in far-off America.” His voice switched back to what sounded like a Kentucky twang. “It’s not enough to be a giant. Grim says we have to add dramatic flare if we’re going to attract customers.”

“Too damn many shows on the circuit these days. That’s the trouble.” Mindy’s voice was sandpaper on cement. She stared at Jonah, assessing him from head to toe. “We sure as hell don’t need another mouth to feed, times being as they are. Don’t know what Rafe was thinking.”

Jonah was taken aback by her cursing. The women he knew never said “damn” or “hell” or anything much worse than “what in tarnation?”

“Aw, give the kid a break.” Sam pushed her shoulder and nearly knocked her off her feet. “We was all new once. ’Cept for you.” He turned to Jonah. “Mindy was born here. Her daddy owned the show before Grimstone bought it. ‘Sylvester’s Astounding Extravaganza’ it was called then.”

“We were one of a kind,” Mindy said proudly. “People came from miles around to see our acts, and we didn’t have to rely on zoo animals or freaks to get them through the gates. No offense,” she said to the giant.

“None taken.”

“What kind of acts did you have?” Jonah asked, trying to soothe her ruffled feathers and hoping to learn more by getting her to reminisce.

“I walked a tightrope, and I danced. Daddy’s crew did acrobatic tricks. We had balancing acts, a torch juggler, a sword swallower, and a magician. Mama was such a spot-on fortune-teller, these hicks thought she had a real link with the other side.”