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wanted from us. And I wondered if one of them had left me that odd flower.

four
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    After a long day of replacement shopping, I found our practice space easily that night. Not only was the building numbered—lucky thirteen, which someone must have thought was funny—but the entrance was marked with a sign that said The Amazing Maronis. I unlocked the heavy padlock with a key from Thurston, who’d sheepishly admitted to Dad that he’d been so certain we would eventually sign on that he’d had the space designed especially for us.
    I fumbled my way in and threw on the lights. They illuminated an interior triple the size of the barn back home—and, I noted with gratification, a little bigger than the warehouse where I’d caught Remy practicing. Actual spotlights lit the wires far above. Yes, wires. There were two. One a little lower, one higher. Thurston had set it up so we each had our own wires. Not that Dad needed to rehearse. He’d show up tomorrow and nail it.
    There were nets beneath the wires, which Dad would order removed, but otherwise it was perfect. Jogging across the mats, I was more determined to stay with the Cirque than ever. When I stopped, my eyes drifted up again. The nets made a pattern like a see-through honeycomb, and far above them the thick cables of our wires stretched taut and perfectly level, waiting for someone to claim them.
    “Now that’s magic,” I murmured, and touched the rose from the night before. I’d pinned it onto my practice top, letting the short stem dangle. A makeshift corsage. The bloom was as fresh as the night before. The cord must have kept it from wilting.
    If someone thought to scare me with it, I figured wearing it would show I wasn’t bothered. And if it was flattery, then the admirer—possibly an unknown ally?—would see I’d kept it.
    I coated my palms in gym chalk so they wouldn’t slip on the rungs, and started up the ladder to the lower wire. Climbing, I was all nerves and determination, determination and nerves. It was the same emotional seesaw I’d been on all day long. One minute I felt sure I’d mastered my act, the next I felt 100 percent certain I was a hack who’d get booed as soon as I put my stupid feet on the wire. My mental state was worse because of our reception, but the up and down was normal enough. I would never trust anyone who didn’t get at least a little nervous on the cusp of doing something important to them in front of other people.
    I climbed onto the platform with my parasol and took a breath. Arranging my arms into the balletic carriage I’d been working on—difficult because it wasn’t a traditional balancing strategy and I had to account for the gauzy umbrella—I traipsed onto the wire. I canted my upper body to the left and to the right, gracefully I hoped, and took another three steps until I was about a quarter of the way across.
    A few more high steps brought me to the center of the wire.
    The pirouettes were a little crazy. No one did this kind of thing anymore on wires this high, not without a safety wire or harness. They were my best chance to wow the audience, though, so I wanted to nail them. And I was still toying with the idea of trying to do something even more spectacular than this.
    I started the series of three twirls that would take me to the end of the wire. Spin , I told myself. I did, and the wire felt as solid under the ball of my toe as ground would beneath my feet. I breathed easier when I completed the first and then second rotations without a wobble.
    When I went into the third spin, I saw Bird as clear as if she were right in front of me. It was like she stood on the wire, and I was traveling toward her. Except it wasn’t this wire. I saw her between those buildings, leaning forward, her skirt ruffled in the wind. Most of all, I saw her crooked. Off-kilter, unbalanced like her portrait on my wall.
    Everything around me spun into motion, my third pirouette incomplete. Interrupted. Air raked across