1 I found him in the woods, a broken thing more reptile than man, and I dragged him home. He was Silas, the Snake Charmer—a creature of scales and silence, loathed by everyone in our traveling carnival. They called him a freak, a monster. I was the only one who saw the boy beneath the skin. I was the one who got on my knees in the dirt, begging my sister to let him stay. My sister, Seraphina, the carnival’s golden girl, had laughed, pointing a manicured finger at us. "You want to keep this stray, Wren? Fine. Then you marry him." Silas had stared at her with eyes like cold glass, intense and unblinking. For his trouble, she slapped him—hard, a sharp crack that echoed in the tent. I was terrified he would hate her for it. So, on our wedding night, I spent hours whispering her praises, trying to smooth over the edges of her cruelty. But when the raiders came, riding out of the dust storm with guns drawn, Silas didn't hesitate. He threw himself in front of Seraphina. He shielded her body with his own, leaving me exposed to the rough hands of the bandits. I was beaten until the world went gray. And later, when I lay dying from the injuries, Seraphina didn't weep. She told the others I had Typhus, a plague that would rot them all from the inside out. She ordered them to burn me alive. I heard later that when Silas found out, he didn't just break; he shattered. He unleashed every viper, every cobra, every rattler in his collection upon the carnival. The screams of the people who had watched me burn rang out for days, drowned only by the hissing of the snakes. 1. The show was in full swing when the raiders hit. The music of the calliope was drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the crack of pistol fire. Panic tore through the big top. The audience screamed, a stampede of terrified bodies mixing with the rough shouts of the bandits. I was dragged by my hair, my forehead slamming against the hard-packed earth. A man with a jagged scar across his cheek hauled me up, the rough gravel slicing into my skin. Blood trickled into my eye. It hurts… God, it hurts. My first thought, stupid and instinctive, was for him. Where is Silas? Is he safe? Fear, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. I didn't care about the gun pressed to my ribs. I fought, thrashing against the bandit’s grip until a heavy boot stomped onto my back. I heard the sickening snap of a rib cracking. "Help! Someone, please!" It was a delicate, terrified cry. Seraphina. Seraphina. Is she okay? She’s too beautiful for this world; if they take her… I tried to crawl, to drag my broken body toward her voice. But a shadow moved faster than I ever could. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her behind him, a living shield against the chaos. He stood there like a tragic hero from one of the dime novels Seraphina loved. The bandits hesitated as a dozen small vipers slithered from his sleeves, hissing a warning. It was Silas. I stopped struggling. My heart stuttered, then slowed. Silas was there. Seraphina would be safe. "Thought you could run, did you?" The scarred bandit yanked me back, backhanding me across the face. The sound was loud enough to cut through the noise. Silas turned. He looked right at me. For a second—just a heartbeat—he hesitated. But then he turned back to Seraphina, ushering her away from the danger, treating her like fine china while I was treated like trash. Before she disappeared, Seraphina glanced back. She offered me a tight, mocking smile, mouthing a single word: Idiot. They rounded up the rest of us—the roustabouts, the freaks, the unwanted. They tied us to the acrobatic poles, the rough hemp rope biting into my wrists. I heard Pa, the Ringmaster, haggling with the bandit leader. "Look, take the cash box. Take the horses. Just leave the talent. We starve without the animals. If you want… take the Clown Girl. She’s yours. Do whatever you want with her." I let my head hang heavy. The Clown Girl. That was me. The bandit leader swaggered over, gripping my chin and forcing my head up. But when the light hit my face, he recoiled, dropping me like I burned him. "What the hell is this? A goblin?" My greasepaint was smeared with blood and sweat, a grotesque mask over my scarred face. I bit my lip, tasting iron, and looked at the ground. In the end, even the bandits didn't want me. They took the money and Pa’s prized white stallion. When the dust settled, Pa was furious. He kicked me in the ribs, right where the bone had snapped. "Useless trash. Even the snake-freak didn't save you. Why are you even alive? You’re just a waste of food." I coughed, spitting blood onto the dirt. No one helped me. The troupe looked at me with a mix of pity and disgust, their eyes saying what Pa wouldn't: Why don't you just die? Only Pip, the little golden monkey I’d raised from a baby, hopped over. He nuzzled his furry head against my chest, making soft, chirping sounds. I hugged him tight, letting the tears finally fall. Pip, living hurts so much. I’m just glad I have you. 2 It was the Great Depression, and the world was a hungry, violent place. Pa had been running from debts and the law for years. He dragged Ma out to the Dust Bowl, cobbling together a ragtag carnival to survive. That same year, they had a daughter. Seraphina. She was perfect—blonde, blue-eyed, the hope of the family. The carnival grew. We picked up drifters, acrobats, and animals. Money started trickling in. Life was almost good. Until I was born. I came out with a port-wine stain covering half my face, a map of blood on my skin. Ma died birthing me. Pa and Seraphina hated me for it. I didn't even get a real name for years. Everyone just called me "Wren"—small, brown, easily missed. I had no friends. I had no love. To earn my keep, I put on the greasepaint and played the fool, the clumsy clown who fell down so children would laugh. I thought that was all my life would be. Until I found Silas. Silas was a "Geek," a sideshow attraction. He had a skin condition, ichthyosis, that made his flesh look like scales. He was dark, brooding, and dangerous. I found him in the woods near a town we were passing through. Locals had beaten him half to death, driving the "monster" away. He was bleeding, broken, but his eyes were still fierce. "Get away, freak!" a kid screamed, throwing a rock that struck Silas’s temple. He collapsed. My heart squeezed. He’s like me. Unwanted. Maybe… maybe we could be friends. I was so lonely I could taste it. I waited until the mob left. Then I crept to his side. He was in bad shape. His pulse was a fluttering bird. He needed medicine, real medicine, but I didn't have a dime. I went to Seraphina. She was the star; she had the money. She looked at me from her vanity mirror, applying her lipstick. She smiled, slow and cruel. "A clown who can't do tricks is useless, Wren. Tell you what. You learn to walk the high wire by tonight, and I’ll lend you the cash." 3 The scars on my legs, remnants of falling from that wire, throbbed in the cold night air. I think I damaged something inside me that night. I never got the money back. Pa abandoned me to the bandits, and Silas and Seraphina were gone. I curled up on my cot, trying to breathe through the pain. The tent flap opened. I looked up, hope flaring in my chest. Silas? It wasn't him. It was Gideon, the aerialist. He’d been captured too but managed to slip away. He looked at me, saw the hope die in my eyes, and scowled. "Stop it, Wren. He’s not coming. You’re such a fool. Stop pining after that cold-blooded snake. Can't you see? He only has eyes for Seraphina." Gideon hated my sister. He called her a siren, a creature who lured men to their doom. My chest ached. I forced a smile, but tears leaked out anyway. Gideon’s expression softened into pity. "Are they back?" I asked. Gideon nodded. He looked like he wanted to stop me. "Wren, don't go out there..." I didn't listen. I limped toward the main tent. Before I even entered, I heard laughter. The scene inside froze the blood in my veins. Seraphina sat on her velvet chair like a queen. Silas was on one knee before her, tenderly cleaning a small scratch on her hand. When I walked in, Seraphina’s eyes narrowed. "Silas," she purred, "show me your skin. The scales." She was talking to him, but she was looking right at me. I went cold. Silas was deeply ashamed of his condition. He hid his skin under long sleeves and high collars. He only showed it when he felt safe, when he felt loved. Please, no, I prayed. But he did it. He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the dark, shimmering patches of hardened skin that looked like obsidian stars. Seraphina smirked. But the moment his skin brushed hers, her face twisted in uncontrollable revulsion. I saw it. Silas saw it. My heart broke. Not for me, but for him.
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