Chapter 47

Forty-Seven

The stack of cards sits before me. I've read them a hundred times, and they still give me the same answer, so I read them again and again, but it never changes. I'm consumed by it, trying to draw a different conclusion, but it's the same every single time.

Death. Fear. Something bad is coming.

I know it has to do with Roger. He made that very clear, but past the warning, I get nothing else from the cards. They remain steadfast and silent when I need them most. I need a different answer.

The cirque has become my home. I'm happy here in this place meant for freaks and outcasts. I've found where I belong. Some part of me knew that as a child. I was always obsessed with the circus, and when my father brought me to Cirque Obscurum when I was young, it felt right even then. I wish all the events between then and now didn't occur, but I know it was necessary for me to become who I am. It was part of my journey, however sad it may be.

I can't let Roger swoop in and take it away from me. I can't let him take away my happiness again.

I reach forward and spread the deck out, hovering my hands over the cards once more, seeking clarification.

Hilda appears through the ten flaps. She left a while ago to fetch dinner, but I claimed I needed a few more minutes.

It's been an hour.

Her eyes soften upon seeing me, but there's strain at the corners too. We've both read the cards, but I've been obsessive about it. Still, it doesn't change my need for a different answer.

"Ember," she says, drawing my attention as I stare at the same card I've drawn a million times—death. When I look up at her with furrowed brows, she blows out a breath. "Child, we can't force fate to our whim. We can only read it."

"But I need . . . more. I need something else," I croak, pulling another card—fear. My shoulders droop. "This is my home."

"It's home for all of us," Hilda reminds me. "Don't think that I don't care just because I don't draw the same answer repeatedly. I don't wish death on anyone in this family, but it does occur."

"But this time, it'll be my fault," I grit out. "I brought him here. I'm the reason he's coming."

Hilda pauses at my words, at the pain behind them, before she comes over and takes a seat beside me. When I go to shuffle the deck again, she covers my hand with hers, stopping me. I glance up at her, at the wisdom in her eyes.

"It is no more your fault than it is mine," she says, shaking her head. "If we were all measured by other people's darkness, then we would be in trouble indeed, no?" She pulls me into a hug. "Death may come, but we'll face it when it does, Ember. You won't be alone in that. You won't face him alone."

I don't realize I'm crying until I sniffle and hug her back, feeling teardrops plop on her shoulder. The sobs rack my body so quickly, I can't breathe, wrapping its tendrils around me. I let my fear spill out—fear that it'll be someone I care about, that it'll be one of my men.

"Don't let it consume you," she rasps, holding me tightly. "He has no claim on you, and when he comes, we'll remind him of that."

Even as Hilda comforts me, I realize that the new woman I am isn't okay with her answer. Old Ember would have accepted it, but new Ember doesn't want to wait. She wants to act.

But how?