Spectacular! - ON HOLD

Chapter Seven

The crowd parts as Myrna MacFellow strides forward, her plump arms crossed tightly over her chest, her ruddy face set in a scowl that oozes smugness. Her presence is as imposing as ever as nervous energy ripples through the air.

Cyrus's hand finds my shoulder, the heat from his fingers seeping through the fabric of my costume. But I refuse to cower beneath his touch. Instead, I roll my shoulder, slipping out from under his grasp, and stalk toward the crowd with deliberate steps.

The spotlight dims behind me, and all I can see is Myrna's face—round, sweaty, her black curls plastered to her forehead. I narrow my eyes at her, the woman who would sooner see me starve than share an egg. The memory fuels the fire in my belly as I step closer.

"Myrna MacFellow," I say, and it echoes across the big top as I tap a finger against my chin, feigning contemplation. The crowd erupts, murmurs of recognition rippling through the onlookers like a wave.

"How did she know her name?" someone calls out from the crowd, their voice thick with disbelief.

"She really is a Fortune Teller!" another shouts, and the energy in the tent surges with excitement.

"No, she's not," Myrna tries. She hollers, "She's my neighbor!" but it's lost in a sea of shouts and murmurs dancing through the breezy tent.

I block everything out, my focus solely on Myrna, who's staring back at me with a mix of irritation and suspicion. "You're not a very generous person, are you?" I say, steady and cool.

Myrna scoffs, but the crowd gasps as if I've just revealed a shocking truth.

"How'd she know?" echoes through the humid air, the disbelief in the audience fueling Myrna's growing discomfort.

"It's not my job to feed every stray that wanders into the Autumnal Woods," Myrna snaps, her tone dripping with disdain.

"No," I reply calmly, "but a neighbor is different from a stray, don't you think?"

I rock back on my heels, feeling the tension in the air sharpen like a blade. There's so much I want to say, so much anger bubbling up beneath the surface. But I have to be careful. I'm performing now, walking a delicate line. If I don't sell this—if I falter even for a second—I could end up like the last Fortune Teller. Dead.

Myrna's lips curl into a gloating smirk, but I can't fathom why. "Is it?" she sneers.

"Your manor," I begin, licking my lips nervously as I gather my thoughts. "It's a lonely place, isn't it?"

I can feel Cyrus drawing closer to me, his eyes never leaving my face, his presence a constant reminder of what's at stake.

Myrna's smirk widens, her confidence only growing stronger. "Depends on who you ask."

The tent grows thick with anticipation, the dirt beneath my feet trembling as though the earth itself is waiting for my next move. The cool autumn breeze brushes against my skin, but it does little to calm the sweat pouring down my neck. I need to focus. I need to convince Cyrus that I'm worth more to him alive than buried beneath the cold, unforgiving ground.

"You never had any children," I state, cutting through the tension like a knife.

"And?" Myrna replies, her eyes narrowing.

"Your husband doesn't love you," I say, shaking my head slightly. "Not anymore, anyway."

Her eyes flash with anger, the words clearly hitting their mark. "What do you know of love?" she spits venomously.

I feel a strange sense of calm wash over me, a confidence that isn't entirely my own. Cyrus's magic is coursing through me, filling me with a courage I've never felt before. This performance—this confrontation—feels foreign, like I'm watching myself from the outside. But maybe this is who I was meant to be all along. Maybe this is who I would have been if I hadn't spent most of my life trapped in that tiny shack on the edge of the Lanlow.