Excerpt: The Confounding Adventures of the Magician's Menagerie

The side of the wagon had been painted and repainted far too many times. It used to be done every year, updating the attractions and to fit the style of the times. But it fell into disrepair, at least three generations ago, and now the paint was peeling away. “The Magician’s Menagerie” was still visible across the top in bright letters, though they were starting to flake on the elaborately designed “M”s. There was the remnants of “Freaks! Monsters! Curiosities!” scrolling in a curlicued line on the bottom, and through the peeling sides there was a constant glimpse of years past--the “King’s Own!” that gave way to “A Favorite of the Royal Family!” with “Popular in the Finest Households!” scrawled on top. Purple paint, and yellow, and red, green, blue, all worked into longevity that meant the paint stayed, and couldn’t be scrubbed off, no matter how many hours were spent attempting that very feat. “The Magician’s Menagerie” was the clearest mark, outlined again most recently, and “Freaks!” was a brilliant red against the flakes of a golden banner painted behind it. The rest looked miserable, to be blunt, and not the least bit attracting. The other side had a clock painted on it, with delicate numerals and painted hands that had moved once, but whoever had worked them was long gone. Now they just sat looking a little sad and smudged at twenty past nine.

The young woman who sat on the tiny bench at the front of the wagon was more of a draw, dark hair with pale white in her bangs and in small curls at the base of her neck. Her vest was patch worked, handsewn from scraps of colors almost as bright as the paint on the side of the wagon. A full skirt rose in thick folds around her hips, and she tugged idly on the laces of brown leather boots with the neat lines of bronze-colored eyelets--boots that were for going places and meeting people. The chug of cogs made the wagon vibrate under her, and she made soft sounds to herself that vibrated their way out of her chest and past her lips. The leather thongs wrapped around her neck were heavily worked, bearing copper-colored trinkets and little symbols pressed into the hide. She reached up to brush a pale flyaway curl from her eyes and wrinkled her nose, staring blankly at the passing countryside.

Long fields of green and gold stretched out, and the works keeping the wagon from lurching in ruts and potholes were stretched to their limit, making unhappy groaning sounds at each bump in the dirt road.

“Hush.” She reached back and slapped the wheel idly, feeling grit for a second under her thumb before it rotated away again. “It’s your job, isn’t it? Nothing to complain about.”