Oh, he could.
He just preferred not to.
He returned to pondering her relationship with Simon. What a curious thing it was, her fascination with the Puppeteer. And his in return. Simon followed her around like a lovesick teenager, unable to let her out of his sight for more than a moment or two. It was easy to dismiss it as the combined product of his forced Sponsorship and a healthy dollop of lust. That he was only following her around like a shadow—ha!—because he felt her suffering and wouldn’t mind testing her flexibility out for himself.
Clown had listened to the others talk about Simon and Cora, whispering to each other at dinner. Unlike Simon, nobody hated him, and he was welcome at every table, so he heard everything. People treated him as though he were deaf just because he was mute. It was funny.
“What could she possibly see in him?” they had whispered. “He’s hurting her, I’m sure. It’s abuse. Or blackmail. Or manipulation.”
It wasn’t any of those things. It was simpler than that. But it was easier to believe the Puppeteer was the demon they had all painted him, than to take the time to see deeper.
Simon Waite. What an odd, tragic, terrible man. He was a monster, no doubt about it. He was a vicious, cruel, evil, and sadistic thing.
Because he’d taken his heart and cast it into his shadow. Because if he hadn’t, there’d be nothing left of him to salvage. He would have ruptured at the seams and become a drooling, catatonic mess. And where would the fun in that be?
And Simon was all about a good laugh. That was the one thing Clown and Simon had in common, even if they favored very different flavors of jokes.
He was surprised that Cora didn’t deny her attraction to Simon. That there was “something” between them. He expected her to roll her eyes, insist there was nothing going on, and try to hide it under the rug. But she was brazen enough to say, “Yes, it might be wrong, and, yes, he might be a beast, but, yes, I might just want to roll in the hay with him anyway.”
He could respect that.
Although he recognized her beauty, Clown wasn’t jealous. Those urges had wandered out of his mind a few centuries ago. It was probably for the best. Who would want to take him to bed, after all?
Turk didn’t remember his name because he had given it away in a Sponsorship. Clown couldn’t remember his name because he was just too old. How old? Hell if he knew. Turk liked to tell the lie that he was the oldest one who lived in the Faire.
Clown never felt the need to correct him. It honestly didn’t matter.
Cora was standing in the aisle now, at the base of the stage. She hesitated before setting her foot on that first step, and then quickly withdrew. He smiled. So shy. For now. You’ll be something amazing when you’ve come into your own.
When you become the Unbreakable Cora Glass.
He pulled in a breath and let out a wistful sigh. He smiled. He always smiled about death.
The platform was calling to Cora.
But she couldn’t do it. She backed away from the circular stage and continued to stare at in awe. The tent had a small flap in the back that likely went to a dressing room. It didn’t have a full proscenium stage like Simon’s, but she also figured she wasn’t meant to have as much stuff as him, either.
“I can’t. I just can’t.”
Clown let out a loud raspberry from behind her.
She turned to him. “No one would come to see me, even if I did.”
He snickered and shook his head. His expression was glittering with excitement, as if he was eager to prove her wrong. He pointed at the stage. When she silently shook her head, he pointed again, firmer than before.
She sighed. “Fine.”
Turning back to the circular stage, she chewed her lip. It was a terrible habit. She couldn’t help it. Why was she so afraid? It was only a stupid stage. It was just a bunch of planks of wood, polished and painted in a black and white spiral. It was eerie. It was very Tim Burton. But, then again, everything in the Faire was just a little too spooky for its own good.
Must be the murder soul-eating thing it does.
It was just a stage.
So why did it feel more important than that?
“Well, well…and I almost missed it. Clown, how dare you try to take this moment from me?”
She whirled at the voice. She knew it well by this point, but it still gave her a chill every time. Standing in the entrance to the tent—her tent—was the sharp silhouette of a man. As he stepped into the light, the red and black stripes of his suit became clear. And so did his sick, manic smile. “Simon? I—”
“The Contortionist is about to take her stage for the first time and thought to do it without me!” He slapped his palm over his heart. “I am offended!” His freakish gaze, hidden by his mismatched sunglasses, turned to Clown. The other man shrank away from him in fear. Simon’s anger seethed. “And it is your fault.”
“Stop it. Leave him alone. He was just being nice.” Cora walked up to them and put her coffee on a bench so she could take Simon’s arm and pull him away from Clown. “He was just showing me the tent.”
“He was taking you to see your tent. Your—” Simon visibly checked his anger. He turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs resting against her neck. It quickened her pulse more than she’d like to admit. He gentled his tone as he began speaking again, running one of his thumbs in a slow line along her. “You don’t understand. This is a big moment for anyone who comes here. The moment they take their stage for the first time is a cause for much celebration and reverence.”
“I’m not performing. There’s no audience.” She took a step back from him, not liking the uninvited rush of heat his touch brought her. “It’s just us.”
“It still matters. And he wanted to steal it from me.” He glared at Clown, who had been making childish faces at the back of Simon’s head. He almost got caught but managed to smile sweetly at the last second.
Cora hid her laugh by covering her mouth with her hand.
Unaware of what he had missed, Simon pointed at the skull-faced man accusatorially. “Don’t meddle. You’re as bad as that fat ball of lard of a Ringmaster.”
Clown pointed at himself as if to ask “who, me?” then shook his head rapidly.
Simon did not take kindly to the claim of innocence, and, with a flick of his hands, the air was filled with a thousand of his faint, silver strings. Many of which were wrapped around Clown, judging by how he was yanked up off his seat and pulled in unnatural directions.
“No! Stop it!” She shoved Simon hard. It was a reflexive action. She hadn’t meant to do it, but now it was too late. The man staggered a few steps and lowered his hands. With them went the strings, and Clown slumped back onto the bleacher. “Leave the poor man alone. He wasn’t trying to do anything, Simon.”
The Puppeteer kept his back turned to her for a long moment. He pulled the glasses from his face, wiped his palm down over his features slowly, then replaced the glasses with careful precision, as though every action took an ounce of patience, and he was running thin on his supply.
He flicked his hand. She worried for Clown for a split second. But it wasn’t Clown Simon was after.
Suddenly, she was frozen in space. Unable to move. Unable to advance or retreat as Simon turned to her and walked, with a careful tempo, toward her. “Simon—”