The white tent smelled faintly of antiseptic and sawdust—a combination that did little to help the pounding behind Meryl's eyes. She winced as sensation returned to her bandaged right arm, currently slung across her chest like an inconvenient reminder of pain. Her shoulder throbbed with dull fury, a rhythmic complaint from a body overworked and overthrown.
Her costume was off. She was instead reduced to a plain nighty, modest and annoyingly sheer, her long legs ended in a pair of mismatched black and white striped socks, her undergarments over the years also started to match her costume, Monochromatic. A polka dot bra peaked out slightly from the low cut of her new sleepwear. She brushed her face instinctively and frowned. No paint. No mask. Just bare skin and exhaustion. The most naked she has felt in a while.
The light coming through the canvas was far too cheerful. She hated this kind of light. It had the gall to pretend everything was fine while making her uncomfortably warm.
Her feet dangled over the edge of the bed, toes curling as they met the cool wooden floor. She swept her gaze across the tent—it was unmistakably a first-aid post. Sparse in both decoration and population.
A man a few beds down was hunched over a metal basin, violently expelling glitter with each retch. Meryl stared at him blankly for a moment before shifting her eyes to the real spectacle—a child whose head was firmly stuck in the wooden mouth of a carnival prop, a stylized cockerel with a jaw like an exaggerated theatre mask. The child's legs flailed uselessly while a tiny fairy doctor, wings fluttering with agitated efficiency, used a small crowbar to pry the cursed thing apart. The crunch of splintering wood was oddly satisfying. Meryl had always hated that cockerel's stupid, grinning face, so she was glad to see it go.
She didn't have long to herself before Dr. Sips made his way over—he shuffled like a man who regretted every decision that led him to this very moment. His lab coat was stained with something sticky and probably magical. His voice, when it came, was clipped and devoid of patience. His wings fluttered barely able to take the strain. Like he was being lifted in the air by the scruff of his neck.
"You'll live, keep running off to that forest however and we will see." he grunted, glancing at her chart with a sigh. "Right shoulder's going to be stiff for a while. No miming any opera tragedies for a few days while the drugs work the magic. About time you took some holiday. You are the only one who doesn't."
"The owner wants a word. You don't need to move. He's coming here."
Meryl groaned and let herself fall back against the pillow with a dramatic sigh. "Can I at least have a cigarette, docteur?" she asked, her accent thick with Atlandrian drawl, slipping almost imperceptibly into Ancient Atlandrian as she purred the word tabac.
Dr. Sips didn't even look at her. "No."
She sulked instantly, tapping her good hand on her knee like a ticking clock of irritation.
"Docteur," she said again, dragging out the syllables like they offended her tongue. "You are deeply uncompassionate."
"Correct."
"Where are the people that helped me?"
"Don't know. Don't care. Excuse me."
With that, he shuffled off toward the vomiting glitter-man.
Now alone with the sunlight and the sound of a distant carnival organ wheezing out a tune in the wrong key, Meryl waited—head tilted back, expression sour.
The flap of the tent rustled before it opened with a soft, practiced flourish. The scent of honeyed perfume and starched linen drifted in ahead of the man himself.
Mr. Bruit entered like a theater curtain rising—overdressed, overdignified, overbearing. His round frame was swaddled in too many layers of brocade, his gloved hands clutching a silk handkerchief embroidered with tiny doves. His every movement was rehearsed, his smile a permanent fixture that never quite reached the eyes.
"Oh, ma perle! Mon bijou!" he cried, rushing to her bedside as if seeing her wounded was an offense to his very soul. "When I heard… that my pearl had been taken—by brutes in the woods, no less—I thought my heart would shatter like glass!"
Meryl sat stiffly, her body recoiling before he even touched her. But touch her he did—delicately dabbing a corner of her cheek with the handkerchief, wiping away the last stubborn fleck of white paint clinging just below her eye. A smudge, an imperfection in his collection.
"And then—a Peryton!" He clutched his chest with theatrical horror. "Can you imagine? Those monsters! To snatch you away like some common bauble!"
She opened her mouth, but his gloved finger immediately pressed gently to her lips.
"Shhh, ma colombe. It's alright, it's alright," he cooed, voice thick with syrupy fondness. "None of those awful people will ever touch you again. Oh, look—look what they've done to you!" His hand grazed the sling with all the performative grace of a mourner laying a rose on a casket. "So delicate. So fragile."
She wanted to scream.
"They don't understand you," he went on, his voice now lower, more intimate, like a man whispering to a cherished artifact. "But I do, my sweet dove. I've always understood. You are art. You are silence made manifest. They see a girl—but I see the masterpiece."
Meryl stared at him, her lips pressed thin, her fingers twitching faintly in her lap.
"You shall have your own private wagon!" he declared, as if granting a title of nobility. "The butler has already ordered fresh silks, and I've had your mirrors polished. No one will bother you. Not unless I say so. You'll be safe. You'll be perfect again."
She heard the words, but not the meaning. It was a lullaby made of locks and cages. A promise wrapped in velvet and shackles.
She tried her best to tune him out, staring at the sterile light dancing on the canvas above. His voice, that lulling cadence of curated affection, washed over her like water over stone.
His praise meant nothing.
To him, she was never a person. She was a precious trinket—mute, lovely, tragic. Groomed into silence. Painted like porcelain. Tucked behind velvet curtains and put on display when it pleased him.
He didn't ask if she wanted the wagon.
He didn't ask if she was alright.
He didn't ask at all.
He imposed. He arranged. He curated. Like all the others.
Why had she ever come here?
Because it was better than being on the streets? Better than selling herself in back alleys?
Her stomach turned.
Ugh… stop. Just stop.
Her eyes closed. One long inhale through her nose. One slow, hollow exhale.
Eventually his roundabout wording on arranging her next dozen shows halted.
"Oh darling! How rude of me, I forgot you have just been hurt! We shall put this on hold for later. Take the week off.
The flap of the tent rustled before it opened with a soft, practiced flourish. The scent of honeyed perfume and starched linen drifted in ahead of the man himself.
Mr. Bruit entered like a theater curtain rising—overdressed, overdignified, overbearing. His round frame was swaddled in too many layers of brocade, his gloved hands clutching a silk handkerchief embroidered with tiny doves. His every movement was rehearsed, his smile a permanent fixture that never quite reached the eyes.
"Oh, ma perle! Mon bijou!" he cried, rushing to her bedside as if seeing her wounded was an offense to his very soul. "When I heard… that my pearl had been taken—by brutes in the woods, no less—I thought my heart would shatter like glass!"
Meryl sat stiffly, her body recoiling before he even touched her. But touch her he did—delicately dabbing a corner of her cheek with the handkerchief, wiping away the last stubborn fleck of white paint clinging just below her eye. A smudge, an imperfection in his collection.
"And then—a Peryton!" He clutched his chest with theatrical horror. "Can you imagine? Those monsters! To snatch you away like some common bauble!"
She opened her mouth, but his gloved finger immediately pressed gently to her lips.
"Shhh, ma colombe. It's alright, it's alright," he cooed, voice thick with syrupy fondness. "None of those awful people will ever touch you again. Oh, look—look what they've done to you!" His hand grazed the sling with all the performative grace of a mourner laying a rose on a casket. "So delicate. So fragile."
She wanted to scream.
"They don't understand you," he went on, his voice now lower, more intimate, like a man whispering to a cherished artifact. "But I do, my sweet dove. I've always understood. You are art. You are silence made manifest. They see a girl—but I see the masterpiece."
Meryl stared at him, her lips pressed thin, her fingers twitching faintly in her lap.
"You shall have your own private wagon!" he declared, as if granting a title of nobility. "The butler has already ordered fresh silks, and I've had your mirrors polished. No one will bother you. Not unless I say so. You'll be safe. You'll be perfect again."
She heard the words, but not the meaning. It was a lullaby made of locks and cages. A promise wrapped in velvet and shackles.
She tried her best to tune him out, staring at the sterile light dancing on the canvas above. His voice, that lulling cadence of curated affection, washed over her like water over stone.
His praise meant nothing.
To him, she was never a person. She was a precious trinket—mute, lovely, tragic. Groomed into silence. Painted like porcelain. Tucked behind velvet curtains and put on display when it pleased him.
He didn't ask if she wanted the wagon.
He didn't ask if she was alright.
He didn't ask at all.
He imposed. He arranged. He curated. Like all the others.
Why had she ever come here?
Because it was better than being on the streets? Better than selling herself in back alleys?
Her stomach turned.
Ugh… stop. Just stop.
Her eyes closed. One long inhale through her nose. One slow, hollow exhale. Violet shall cover for you.
The mention of the name caused her arm throb even more painfully despite the drugs. But at least she will be out of her hair for a while.
He gets up from the end of her bed causing a slight wobble.
She gasped to say something.
He glares at her and then uses his hands to signs to her with his hands:
Be a good girl and use what I taught you.
Meryl sighs and signs:
Can I have a cigarette?
He chuckles and answers.
"Well, whoever wrote that ghastly message was right. It's not good for your health. You really should think about quitting before it's too late."
He turns his back and leaves.
Meryl signs to no one:
You have no idea how right you are.
Meryl pauses and finally she spots him.
The Butler, who had been mentioned while Meryl tuned out, was in the tent. His glasses shined in the sunlight. He had a polite smile on his face.
He approached and handed her what she had been craving - a cigarette. Clicked his finger and a flame appeared on his gloved index and helped her light it.
It a was a moment of pure content. Like the smoke was a blanket that cushioned the burdening weight that was her situation. She could finally think and process what to do next.
The Butler's smile seemed genuine. He certainly was a man well trained to give people exactly what they wanted and he whsipers to her so that Mr Bruit doesn't hear.
"Not to worry my lady. I shall see to it that you make a comfortable transition."
His grin goes wider.
"We shall be in touch soon."