Page 47 of Lux

It doesn’t matter who gapes or stares, or who looks at my odd, abominable frame in disgust.

This high up, no one can touch me. No one.

Fae or not, I can fly. My reflexes allow me to soar through the air. Catch myself. Let go. Spin. Jump. Sit on a swing and smile at no one.

However, there is a role to remember. There is more to this performance than just fun. I must be a distraction. A damn good one. So I stand, bracing my weight gingerly on the balls of my feet. I finger the edge of my red costume. I pull a string tucked into my waist.

Then I rock forward to nudge the wing beneath me into motion. Then I jump.

And I sprout wings.

They aren’t real, but that is beside the point. They spring from my shoulders, made of wire and sparkly red material.

The audience gasps in shock and awe.

Then, I perform my role. It is simple in theory, but oh so complicated when done. There are careful movements of muscles required. Intakes of air to propel me forward. Stamina to grip the bar long after my grip threatens to fail.

There is a point to it all, I know that.

Yet…

I simply forget. I move and react and let my body fly. I forget Minchae’s careful instructions and go painstakingly slow through the motions. Every movement. I make it last. This diversion. This distraction.

I draw it out until the last possible second when I’m finally lowered to the floor of the arena. Cyrus’s words bellow into my eardrums, a meaningless murmur. Belatedly, I remember that I am supposed to bow. Preen. Wave and smile for the crowd as Minchae does.

I can’t. I’m crying, and it isn’t fair. I truly don’t mean to. The tears spill down my face regardless. Through a blurred, hazy screen, blinded by the spotlight, I can’t make out any details of the figures seated before me. I can’t hear their voices or their shouts.

I can’t hear anything but my own heartbeat, playing a mournful rhythm. Thump. Thump. Go back. Go back.

Fly some more.

That entire routine couldn’t have lasted more than minutes, but I wish I could have stayed up there for an eternity. If given the choice…

I would never come back down.

“Again, we have the lovely fairy girl! Ladies and gentlemen, she will be accepting donations in the buckets being circled by our lovely volunteers.”

I blink. That voice. It isn’t Cyrus’s—a flaw in our plan. Perform. Distract. Minchae would sneak into his tent. Make an opening. Hide. I would come as he was busy closing up the show.

Something is wrong.

I spin on my heel and attempt to slip out of the arena. A stern hand comes from nowhere and seizes my arm. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? You hear them out there? They want a bloody encore!”

An encore. Only now do I finally hear. The screams. The shouts. Demanding. Pleading.

“Encore! Encore! Give us the damn fairy!”

Another performance. My heart soars. But then I remember—it would waste time. The plan is already derailed. Something is very, horribly wrong.

“No!” I try to wrench away from the man.

His grip tightens. His upper lip curls back from his teeth, his arm tensing. I know he will hit me. My body is already tensing in anticipation of the blow.

But then I remember something Caspian said—no, not quite like that. It was something he did. I was hungry and he went up to a food vendor. Give me, he demanded sweetly, his voice sin. So the man did.

“Let me go,” I say, copying his confident demeanor, making my voice sweet. But then I go further. Girls like you who bat their eyelashes, Minchae had said. I look him in the eye. I try to look meek and appealing. “Please,” I say sweetly. “Let me go.”

He does. He lunges from me as if burned. Struck. Dumbly he blinks and stares at his hand. “Um… You sick or something? Just go to the loo, then come back.”

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