While I spent the rest of the night watching the show like an alerted deer does a field, the mystic had wandered off into the fairgrounds. She has since filled me in on the events that transpired while I was away, thus filling in this part of our little narrative. The stars had emerged, and her figure shone against the abandoned booths, the sky’s light illuminating her like a strange aura. She told me of how she knew he would be coming. She had to end our meeting so that she could address him.

     She knew she had some time, for he would first look to finish what he had started with the juggler. She used it to gain her composure. To try and run through her plan. Her solution to the problem she had created. The man she had let grow into a monster. Even as she thought of him, her heart began to break. Not always the ringmaster, but once the poor boy she had known for such a long time. The boy who had stolen the old woman’s heart. She had given him what he had never known: love. But even having it from her, he could not recognize it, and thus felt it for no other. Except, perhaps for her. Which made this all the harder.

     As she slipped past one of the wooden booths, cool gray eyes shining like dark stars stopped her pacing. A slim frame, whose silhouette became recognizable by the outline of a top hat and coattails, slunk ever closer. The mystic did not race out and attack the shadow as I might have, nor did she wrap him into her arms as I would fear the old bat would. Instead, she kept a distant, cold composure as she addressed her ringmaster. When she opened her mouth, the tone was almost that of a mother to her child, but if the child had done something to earn her disapproval.

     “Boy, I know you're there. You cannot hide from me, nor do I expect that is your intention,” the lady said calmly. The figure bowed down, as if in submission, and came crawling into her sight.

     “D-did the man hurt you?” the ringmaster inquired in a soft, worried voice. An odd tone coming from the lips of a cunning serpent. I had heard his splitting rage as he lashed out at his employees and his jovial announcement during the show, but I assume he addressed the old lady in a much different way. It held within it a sort of humbleness. A sort of respect. Love.

     Despite what I have thus learned of the two and their odd bond, it pains me to recollect this piece of the story which I had not directly witnessed. However, having learned of the dialogue that had taken place, and seen a vision of it myself through the mystic’s crystal ball, I realized it helped fill a missing piece in this story I had found myself a part of. There was the monster, the ringmaster himself, cloaking himself in shadow and bowing his head. Lowering his voice to his own master, the only person he has probably ever cared for, and who has ever cared for him.

     The elderly woman ignored the adoration in his voice and responded cold and mutely, “No. The man meant me no harm. And it is hardly your business.” The shadowy figure appeared relieved, but something set in his silver eyes.

     “But it is my business. He has seen too much and has become a danger. I shall…deal with him,” the ringmaster promised. He almost sang the last words, as if imagining the gruesome things he had in store. The mystic finally turned to look him in the face, despite it being half-hidden from her view.

     “Do not concern yourself with some harmless circusgoer. He cannot hold any claim against us at the moment, other than one of suspicion and of witness. We can clean ourselves if we keep from dirtying this circus any further. The juggler… please tell me-” To that, the ringmaster stepped away from the shadows, just enough so the mystic could see his haughty smirk.

     “Afraid it is too late. Rest assured, I have already dealt with that mess… though perhaps not in the manner you would have proposed.” A look of horror passed over the old woman’s face.

     “W-what have you done with him?” she stuttered. The ringmaster replied boastfully, his whistling tone made grim by the weight of his words.

     “Oh, he has been dismissed. In fact, he went to join the animal tamer…at the bottom of the river.” He let out a wicked laugh that would give anyone a chill, even the mystic. “Do not fret. He will be back in business by tomorrow. Improved, even. I’ll make sure the whip comes down harder this time around…”

     “You know as well as I do this is no small matter. You have murdered a man and plan to enslave another!”

     “Please,” replied the ringmaster, “I have simply replaced a broken instrument. He was hardly a man to begin with. Now the one filling his place is very well still him! I would not consider it murder when he wouldn’t have had a life to begin with. And how can you enslave someone who lives for the sole purpose they are enslaved for?” He replied with crafty words that I would not have made sense of, had I heard them before being recounted for my narrative. The old woman was quickly growing intolerant of the showrunner.

     “Every one of them is living and breathing as you. They each have a life, even if it is born through yours. By bringing them into reality, you are given a great responsibility. You should understand them better than anyone. Yet you treat them like your cattle. Your consequence-less copies! Can’t you see you are harming innocent people? You are killing your own flesh and blood!” She reproached him, her gritty voice rising in passion. The ringmaster suddenly grew defensive, brash.

     “That worthless performer was never me! Nor would he have been. None of them truly exist! Why should I treat them like fellow men when true men only treat each other as slaves!” With that, he turned on his heel and was gone. The shadows swallowed him up like an intake of breath before a scream. The elderly lady’s knees gave way beneath her. She leant back on the booth for support. Her heart felt like it was being tugged away with the prowling man.

     While in the shadows, like a vicious beast he stalked, in her eyes still was the outline of a young boy, whom despite the blood on his hands, she could not ignore the blood from his wounds. The pain he had endured. And now the pain he was inflicting upon them all. She loved him like her own child, despite the man he had become. His own torturous childhood had changed his view of humanity. Her giving of him power led only to his corruption. She buried her face into her wrinkled hands. How she had destroyed her pitiable boy by giving him his gift. And how she would fail the circus if she did not take it back.