She stepped from the platform onto a crystalline bridge that arched over a starmap like a frozen wave. Below, a glowing spiral of constellations spun endlessly, each thread a path, a memory, a story. She walked slowly, her boots clicking faintly. The bridge felt delicate, but sure.

Beyond the opaline vines and light-spun meadows of Elathria, the sky arched lower, tinged now with the cool silver of twilight. The landscape shifted from crystal gardens to smooth, dark stone veined with luminous threads that pulsed softly beneath Lily’s feet.

A rifle shot cracked through the quiet, the bullet slicing past Jed’s ear with a hiss like an angry rattler. He kicked Comet into a hard gallop...

But that was just it, Eugenie didn’t want to be a lady, not in the way society demanded. Oh, she liked the dresses and the parties, yes. But she wondered what it would be like to live as the other half lived. To know real purpose, real connection.

The cottage smelled of cinnamon bread, and my aunt was kneading dough at the kitchen table, humming, while my grandmother cradled Isadora, wrapped in a blanket embroidered with protective sigils and stars.

A splash of color caught her eye near the garden fence; delicate purple and yellow blooms pushing up through the thawing soil. Pansies.

Jed was a rider for the Pony Express, and tonight, he was carrying a vital message – news of a potential treaty with the Sioux, one that could mean peace or war. Jed had been riding for hours, swapping horses at relay stations every ten miles or so. His leather chaps were worn smooth, his face weathered like the canyons he traversed.

As the weeks passed, our connection deepened. The other performers had begun to notice, too. Marte and Edie teased me about it one mild evening after dinner. We had reached the northern edge of Texas, and we were all grateful for the warmer temperatures.

Henry stood beside her, his posture steady, his gloved fingers brushing hers in silent reassurance. He had asked her again that morning if she was certain, if she was truly ready to leave behind the name Ashcombe, to forge a new life without titles, estates, or expectations.

He held the door open, and we stepped through. The warmth of a potbelly stove was comforting. The shopkeeper nodded politely, and my aunt headed over to the fabric. Dr. Rigby led me to the back corner, where a few wooden shelves stood half-filled with books.

Eleanor nodded, letting him lead her down the main street, her boots clicking softly against the wooden planks of the walkway. At least it was cleared. The street looked like a muddy, slushy mess. She tried to ignore the curious glances from passersby, newcomers were surely noticed here.

The train jerked as it pulled into the station at Thistle Creek, steam billowing from the iron engine. Outside, the town was bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon. A row of wooden buildings lined the dusty main street, and beyond them, the towering peaks of the Rockies stood like silent sentinels.

She let out a breath, unfastening her cloak and laying it over the chair. “It’s not the Montrose estate, but it will do.”

Henry smirked, shrugging off his own coat. “I’d take this over a ballroom full of scheming aristocrats any day.”

Later, as I lay there, I thought about the doctor’s gentle hand on my back, the kindness in his eyes. He had a calm, quiet way about him. I remembered the palm reading my grandmother had done when she discovered I was with child. She had said the father would be a healer… a gentle man. Could that be him?

I missed being on the trapeze, flipping and flying through the air with my cousins, aunt, and uncle. Our grandmother was a fortune teller, and many people lined up outside her tent to get their palms read and have her gaze into their future in her crystal ball.

Eleanor met his gaze. She thought of Lord Rutledge, stranded on the Liverpool docks. She thought of the life she had left behind—the corseted expectations, the ballrooms filled with whispers, the future that had never truly been hers.

Eleanor’s heart pounded against the stiff bodice of her traveling gown. She had packed her finer clothes for a coarser cloak, hoping to conceal her identity, but it could not hide the tension in her posture, the urgency in her steps.

It had been a week since she had last seen him, and in that time, she had told herself a thousand times to forget. To push away the memory of his warm gaze and how, when he said her name, it felt like a caress.

He was fifteen years old, the circus rolled into town one crisp, autumn day. For a week the townsfolk patronized The Greatest Show on Earth.