The Ringmaster (Harrow Faire #4) - Kathryn Ann Kingsley Page 0,29

Harrow was to blame.

“She belongs to me, you reclusive pile of rat turds! Let her go this instant!”

He must have stayed there for hours, cussing and hollering, slamming his fists on the door until his hands bled. He knew it must have been hours, not because it felt like it…but because a whip suddenly coiled around his throat with a loud crack.

He let out a “hurk” as the leathery band dragged him off his feet and painfully down the stairs on his back. He smashed his head into the packed dirt, and it left him too dizzy to fight back for precious seconds.

When he came back around to reality, he was looking up at the face of a very angry, and very bloody, Ringmaster. “Oh. Hello, Turk.” Simon smiled sweetly up at him. “Whatever seems to be the matter?”

The doorknob clicked.

Mr. Harrow never came out of boxcar twenty-one. He never showed his face. He never, ever, opened his door.

And suddenly…Cora knew why.

The door swung open.

And there was nothing inside.

Not that the boxcar was empty. Not that it was dark.

But there was nothing.

Just a void. A perfect, impenetrable nothingness that both seemed too close and too far away at the same time. It matched the non-sky overhead.

It couldn’t be right. She reached out toward the darkness and expected it to part like a curtain. It was just a trick of the light. Or…or something. This couldn’t be real. This was supposed to finally be the moment she spoke to Mr. Harrow. She was supposed to convince him to let her go.

Not…this. Not nothing.

She reached toward the void.

And the void reached back.

Whatever it was that grabbed her, she had no clue. She couldn’t see it. But she supposed it didn’t really mater. It pulled her forward with such force that she couldn’t even react before it was too late.

Cora fell and tried to scream.

No sound left her.

But it didn’t stop her from trying.

8

Cora was face-down in damp grass.

That was not where she should be.

She was falling. There was a void. Then…grass.

“Are you going to just lie there all afternoon? Or are you going to give me a hand with this?”

Pushing up onto her hands, she lifted her head. It was sunny out. She was in a field surrounded by trees. She could see a lake nearby—one she thought she vaguely recognized. There were fabric tents around her, crude things with roughly stitched seams like they were made from the sails from a ship. Some had sloppy, coarse paint on them, but most were unmarked.

It looked like an old-fashioned Renaissance fair. The person who had spoken was hefting a tree limb that had been loosely carved into a pole. It was the last post of a tent that was nearly set up. He was struggling to get it vertical.

Clown. Clown-ish, anyway.

“Come on, don’t just sit there.” He huffed and pushed on the pole again. “Give me a hand!”

She pushed up to her feet and looked around in confusion. Wherever they were, she didn’t think this was a dream. It felt too real. But, then again, her visions were pretty damn real since she had come to Harrow Faire.

Oh.

Now she recognized the lake.

She walked over to Clown and took hold of the pole, and with a grunt, helped him heave it into position. He wiped his brow and grinned at her. “Thanks.”

“What’s going on?” She took a step away from him to look around. There were other people wandering around, setting things up. They looked like they were wearing clothing from the 18th century. She couldn’t peg when exactly. She didn’t really pay much attention to history class.

Clown chuckled. “You ask that question a lot.”

“And I don’t have a good reason to?” She looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I suppose.” He began to walk away and gestured for her to follow him. Without anything better to do, she fell in step beside him. “I’m sorry to do this. I know it must have been alarming. But it was the only real way to talk to you where we wouldn’t be interrupted.” He smirked. “Simon’s an insistent creature.”

“No kidding.” They walked in silence as they headed toward the lake. There was no wooden pier on it yet. But she could recognize the layout now. It hadn’t changed too much. “What year is it?”

“1761.” Clown sat down on a log and patted the spot next to him. “Let’s talk, Cora.”

She sat next to him. There was no point in being angry about the fact that