Elian blinked, unsure if he heard right.
The performer's words lingered, heavy, absurd. Her husband? My eyes?
Miranda stepped between them before he could say anything.
"Fred," she scowled, her voice soft but firm. "Don't harass our guest. Focus on your balance before you fall on your neck again."
Fred raised both hands, laughing awkwardly, and turned back to the suspended rope.
Elian kept quiet. His gaze shifted toward Miranda. So she has a husband. She's a mother, too.
That meant she wasn't just another performer. But the Ringmaster's wife—maybe the one who ran the show when no one else could.
"Come along," Miranda called, now facing him. "You should rest. The cold gets worse at night."
Elian stared at her for a while before he nodded.
She led him through a row of curtains, the sawdust smell paint heavy in the air. Behind her, the circus dimmed into warm orange light. The noise of moving props and snapping ropes faded.
