Carmen stared at the canvas ceiling of her tent. There was no sun outside to tell her it was morning, just the same ambient, sourceless gray light that always filtered through the fabric.

She threw the blankets off and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress. She stretched her arms high over her head until her shoulders popped, then bent forward, pressing her palms flat against the floor between her feet without bending her knees. The muscles in her lower back pulled, loosened, and settled.

On the small wooden table beside her vanity sat a plate that hadn't been there when she went to sleep. Today, it was a stack of thick pancakes drowning in syrup, a bowl of strawberries, and a tall glass of milk.

"Fuckin' A," she muttered, her voice raspy from sleep. "Breakfast of champions."

She pulled the plate over to the vanity bench and ate with her hands, tearing off pieces of pancake and shoving them into her mouth while she stared at her reflection. Her mint-green hair stuck out at odd angles. Once the plate was mostly clean, she wiped her sticky fingers on her sleep chemise, downed the milk in three long gulps, and got to work.

First came the hair, brushed out and tied up high on either side of her head. Then the pale base, patted into her skin with a sponge that never ran out of makeup, drawn from pots that never hit the bottom. She leaned in close to the glass to draw the red triangles above and below her eyes, her hand steady from thousands of repetitions. She didn't even really need to look anymore.

She stripped off the chemise and got dressed. Stockings, shorts, bodice, cincher—she tugged the laces tight with a practiced yank, grunting softly as her ribs compressed—and finally the tailcoat and boots. The little bells on her clothes jingled as she moved, the only sound in the quiet tent.

She set the striped top hat on her head at a tilt, grabbed her cane from where it leaned against the table, and spun it once in her hand before catching it by the gold-accented handle.

"Alright," she said to the empty room. She pursed her lips and blew, trying to whistle a jaunty tune. All that came out was a wet, airy hiss. She clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Still bullshit."

With her cane tucked under her arm, she pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out into the endless grass, heading toward the Big Top. It was almost showtime.

Sunlight cut through the gap in the trailer's curtains, landing right across Carmen's face. She groaned, rolling over and burying her head under the pillow, though her foot ended up hanging off the edge of the mattress. Outside, the heavy thud-thud of someone driving a stake into the dirt echoed over the low rumble of the generator.

"Fuck's sake," she muttered into the cotton, voice thick with sleep. Tell me that isn't Marco redoing the west guy-lines again. They were fine yesterday.

She kicked the blankets off, the cool morning air hitting her bare legs underneath the hem of her cotton chemise. Sitting up, she reached both arms overhead and twisted her torso until her spine gave a rapid series of loud pops, pulling her left leg up to hook her heel casually behind her own neck just to stretch the hamstring out. She held it there for a second, yawning wide, before dropping her foot back to the linoleum floor.

Her stomach growled loudly. Bacon. Or pancakes. Fuck it, both if Rosie's already got the griddle hot.

Padding over to the cramped little vanity built into the wall of the wagon, she squinted at herself in the mirror. Her hair was sticking up in every direction, the dark roots starting to show through the mint dye. She grabbed a brush, wincing as she yanked it through a tangle, and quickly parted it down the middle to tie it up into its usual twin tails.

Matinee wasn't until two, which meant she didn't need the face paint or the corset yet, thank God. She pulled the chemise over her head, tossing it toward the laundry hamper and missing entirely, then dug through a pile of clothes on the armchair. She settled on a pair of faded denim shorts, a loose tank top with a bleach stain near the hem, and her worn-in boots, not bothering to lace them all the way up.

Just before pushing the trailer door open, her hand went automatically to the brass stand by the doorframe, wrapping around the gold-accented handle of her cane. She gave it a quick, practiced spin in her palm, the ferrule tapping cheerfully against the floorboards, before kicking the door open and stepping out into the smell of damp grass, sawdust, and frying grease.

She pursed her lips, trying to whistle a morning tune as she hopped down the metal steps, producing nothing more than a pathetic, airy pffft sound.

"Damn it," she grumbled, grinning anyway as she headed toward the mess tent.

The heavy red velvet of the backstage curtain smelled like dust, roasted peanuts, and sweat. It was the best fucking smell in the world.

Carmen rolled her shoulders back, her joints popping in a quick, rhythmic succession that made the nearest stagehand, a kid named Toby, wince. She grinned at him, tapping the brass tip of her cane against the dirt floor. Outside, the muffled roar of the crowd was already building, a low rumble of chatter and laughing kids waiting for the lights to drop.

"Alright, you magnificent bastards," Carmen said, keeping her voice down just enough so it wouldn't carry through the canvas. She looked over the small cluster of acrobats and clowns gathered near the entrance chute. "I just peeked through the gap. The bleachers are packed, and I saw a guy in the front row eating a hot dog sideways. Like, right through the middle of the bun. If we can't entertain people making life choices like that, we might as well pack up the tent."

A couple of the guys snorted, loosening up. That was good. The first show in a new town always had a bit of an edge to it until they got out there and felt the room.

She adjusted her top hat, tilting it just right over her brow, and gave her cane a quick spin between her fingers before catching it firmly by the handle. The brass band in the pit hit their final warm-up note, holding it until the big top's main lights flickered and died, plunging the tent into a sudden, hushed darkness.

Showtime. Watch the language.

The snare drum started its roll, sharp and fast.

Carmen didn't wait for Toby to pull the curtain. She hooked the fabric with the crook of her cane, yanked it wide, and stepped right into the blinding heat of the spotlight as it snapped on. The bells on her outfit jingled with the sudden movement, drowned out instantly by the eruption of cheers from the dark tiers of seats surrounding the ring.

She threw her arms wide, cane held high, and beamed until her cheeks hurt, letting her voice boom out from the center of her chest so even the folks in the nosebleeds could hear her.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls, and everyone in between!" She took three quick, bounding steps toward the center of the sawdust ring, spinning on her heel to face the opposite side of the tent. "Welcome, one and all, to Carmen's Big Top! Now, I hope you all went to the bathroom before you sat down, because for the next two hours, we are going to knock your socks right off your feet!"