The schoolhouse stood at the edge of town, a simple building with fresh whitewash and newly mended steps. Inside, she found the windows cleaned, the floorboards swept, and the stove blackened and ready for the coming winter.

Verity Hartley lay still in her narrow bed, the linen sheets crisp against her skin despite the warmth dawning beyond the glass panes. The larkspur grew just outside her window—planted by her own hand in memory of her mother—and it was from their gentle rustling, not the clamor of mining carts or the distant shouts of early risers, that she’d awoken. A lark chirruped atop the garden gate, its warble interrupting the morning hush.

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...

The halls creak when no one walks them, and some of the mirrors don’t reflect quite right. But it’s home—cold, drafty, and full of ghosts… of memory, if not of men.

She knew these woods. She passed the ruins of what were once the slave quarters. Sadness lingered there, and Marian hated that this was her family’s legacy. She had spent the better part of her adult life trying to rectify it.

Charlotte stared, and her breath caught. She had never liked the way some photographers left the deceased with eyes wide, gazing eerily into the lens. And she knew Catherine would have wanted it to appear as if she were peacefully sleeping.

That night, as the townsfolk came from far and wide to see the show, Augie couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut. He could see it in his men’s shoulders, taut as rigging rope. But the show went on.

A long table stood before her. At its head sat an older woman with iron-gray hair swept into a flattering bun. Her high black collar and silver jewelry gave her the air of a stern queen awaiting her court.

The candle on the table flickered violently, though no wind stirred. A sudden chill slid over her shoulders, and Tabitha looked past her—ears flattened, eyes wide.

A sudden draft snuffed out one of the nearby candles, and Amelia shivered. Then—another sound, closer this time. The hair on her arms stood on end as she spun around. What she saw made her breath hitch.

In an age when doctors treated sorrow with laudanum and despair with rest cures, Charlotte offered a gentler path—mint for consolation, rosemary for remembrance, violets for mourning.

That night, as the townsfolk came from far and wide to see the show, Augie couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut. He could see it in his men’s shoulders, taut as rigging rope. But the show went on.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Mary would rather be in the crowd of spectators listening to her father, and now her husband, rouse and move a crowd with passion and purpose. She groaned and let her head fall onto her arms, her hand cramping from the constant writing.

With a reassuring smile, he led her to a stone bench along the riverbank. The moment they sat, a parade of ducks emerged from the water, waddling toward them with eager quacks.