Morgan ducked his head. In many ways this was the most difficult, this farewell. Caitlin was not naive, in spite of her small size and pixie’s face. Ulysses was too pragmatic to believe that Morgan would stay. But Harry… Harry French was still a child, unaffected by the punishing hand of experience.
“It’s all thanks to you, of course,” Harry continued. “We have already found a lovely spot for winter quarters, in Texas. Far better than the old one in Ohio. We will all have plenty of rest and time to improve our acts.” He chuckled. “No point in confining ourselves to the smallest towns. All we need do is take care to avoid direct competition with the big outfits. We may not be large, but we have the finest attractions in the west!”
“Harry—”
“Yes? Did you say something, my boy?”
Morgan steeled himself. “I am leaving, Harry.”
Harry grew very quiet. He set down his glass. “Well, well. We knew this day would come, didn’t we? Though I had hoped—”
“I am… grateful for what you did,” Morgan said. His voice sounded rough and harsh, and he made an effort to soften it. “You know that gratitude does not… come easy to me.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, I know.” He gave a small laugh that blew out his whiskers. “That makes it so much more important when you give it.”
“Don’t, Harry. I am not worth… this—”
“Feeling?” Harry didn’t raise his eyes. “Feelings are difficult for you. I know that, too. You are a man of few words, and yet…” He looked up, tears in his eyes. “I do not believe you are a man of no sentiment. Otherwise you would not have come to make your farewells.”
“You see what you wish to see.”
“My eyes are old and weak, but some things one sees with the heart. In some ways, for all your abilities, you are blind, my son.”
“Do not call me that.”
Harry flinched from his snarl but remained where he was. “Forgive an old fool, Morgan. I have made it a policy never to seek into the pasts of my people, and I have broken that rule with you. I only wish… that I might convince you that you are a better man than you think.”
Morgan’s temples had begun to throb. The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the premonition of disaster. “I came to say good-bye, and to… thank you.” He backed toward the tent’s entrance and stood awkwardly for a final second, despising his hesitation, and strode from the tent.
He got no farther than the foot of the hills. He had not Changed. His heart weighed him down, cold and smothering like a heavy snowfall. He would have welcomed a strong snow now. It would disperse the scents of those he left behind, and draw a veil between the world and the wordless silence of the wild.
The solitude. The loneliness. A howl built in the back of his throat, the only sound of grief he could make.
But the snow did not answer his summons. The sense of wrongness he had felt in Harry’s tent had grown. An evil scent wafted up from the prairie, the acrid smell of smoke.
He turned to face the east. A roiling cloud rose from the circus lot far below. Something very large was burning.
He ran more swiftly than any human, bare feet finding purchase on loose pebbles and sharp rock. The smoke curled inside his lungs and stung his skin. Soon the light of a towering fire obscured the moon and stars. By the time he reached the lot he had to force his way through the crowd of onlookers drawn by the spectacle of a large and destructive blaze.
Flames devoured what was left of the big top, and several other tents and wagons were burning as well. Troupers stood about in forlorn knots, helpless, as the local volunteer fire department struggled to extinguish the conflagration.
But the damage had been done. The prop wagons had been among those destroyed, along with a number of tents and most of Harry’s office wagon—the one that held the troupe’s wages and savings.