I shrugged, because I didn’t have an answer. The silence stretched long enough for me to start counting my heartbeats before I heard the scrape of his chair against the floor.

“Stand still,” he muttered. “I need to redo your measurements.”

I obeyed, standing straight as the cool edge of the measuring tape brushed against my skin. It tickled across my shoulders, down my sides, around my hips. His sigh came low and sharp as the tape circled my waist.

“You’ve lost weight again.”

“I—uh—I just haven’t been hungry lately,” I lied, my fingers tightening against my thigh.

He exhaled through his nose, unconvinced but unwilling to argue. Instead, he worked in silence, the sound of the tape snapping and cloth whispering filling the air. I could hear the faint scrape of pins between his teeth and the low hum he always made when deep in thought.

When he finished, he pressed a soft pile of fabric into my hands and nudged me down onto a heap of discarded material. The air smelled faintly of thread oil and scorched cotton.

“Don’t move,” he said, retreating to his sewing table. The rhythmic click-click-click of his needle filled the tent, a comforting, hypnotic sound.

Ten, maybe twenty minutes later, he tossed something soft onto my lap. “Here. You can change here. Don’t worry, I’m not looking—you don’t have the parts I like.”

A small smile tugged at my lips. “Good to know.”

I stripped out of my performance clothes, the slick fabric whispering over my skin, and pulled on the new outfit. From the feel of it, he’d given me fitted pants that clung like a second skin and a light shirt that brushed the top of my ribs. When I tugged it down, the hem lifted again, baring my stomach.

“The shirt’s a little small,” I muttered, fingers trying in vain to cover the exposed skin.

“It’s supposed to be like that,” he replied, voice rich with satisfaction.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course it is. Thank you, though. For this.”

Gathering up my old clothes, I made my way toward the hidden entrance—but something made me stop. I could still hear him moving behind me, the soft clatter of his tools and the faint hum of his tune.

“Do you want to come with me?” I asked before I could talk myself out of it.

The sound stopped dead. His silence was heavy, thoughtful. “I don’t think the twins would appreciate that,” he said at last.

“They’ll live,” I replied. “The way they hinted, wherever we’re going, there’ll be other people around. It’s not like they’re dragging me off alone into the woods again. Come on, Stych—it might be nice to get out of this tent for once.”

The quiet stretched again. I could almost hear him thinking. Then, a soft, resigned sigh.

“Fine,” he said finally. “Let me find something to wear first.”

“Alright,” I said, sitting back down on the pile of fabric. “But don’t take too long. We’re supposed to meet them at the front of the freaks’ tent at sundown.”

That earned me a low grumble. I smiled faintly, listening as he began rifling through the clutter. The sound of shifting fabric and falling props filled the space, punctuated by his increasingly dramatic mutters.

“Nothing to wear,” he groused, throwing something that hit a crate with a dull thud.

I bit back a laugh. “You are aware that if you don’t like anything, you could just make something new, right?”

He paused. For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then, I heard the soft creak of his chair as he sat back down, followed by the familiar snick-snick-snick of his needle starting up again.

“Good point,” he said dryly.

I leaned back into the nest of fabrics, smiling faintly to myself. The air was thick with the smell of thread oil, cotton, and dust. Stych’s muttering faded into the background, a comforting hum. For a few quiet minutes, it was almost peaceful—the chaos of the circus muted beyond the tent walls.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the rare comfort of being near someone who didn’t expect anything from me—but for the first time in days, my shoulders relaxed. The tension that usually lived beneath my skin seemed to soften, like it was melting under the quiet hum of Stych’s sewing machine.

The twins had been kind lately—gentle in their own strange, careful ways—but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe it was because they actually liked me. No, they were partners in performance; that was all. If we weren’t tied together by the silks and the stage lights, I doubted either of them would spare me a second glance.

******

It took Stych an entire hour to finish something he actually approved of. I couldn’t see what he ended up wearing, but I could hear the faint rustle of fabric that sounded heavier than usual, the soft scrape of metal as he fastened something near his chest, and the satisfied exhale he let out when he was finally done. Whatever he’d created, I could tell from his tone that it made him feel proud—and maybe a little dramatic.

We had to rush after that, weaving through the familiar paths between tents. The air outside was thick with the scent of sawdust, oil, and something sweet—maybe roasted almonds from one of the food carts. I followed the sound of Stych’s boots brushing through the dirt beside me until the noise of the crowd faded and I recognized the twin hums of energy ahead.

Even without sight, I could always sense the twins. Blaze’s presence burned warm and crackling, like standing too close to a bonfire—comforting one moment, dangerous the next. Phyx’s energy was cooler, steadier, like moonlight against metal. But both of them carried the kind of intensity that made the air vibrate.

When I brought Stych with me, I expected surprise. Hardly anyone ever visited him, and most of the performers whispered his name like a ghost story—the tailor made of corpses who stitched the dead to life. But what I didn’t expect was the sharp shift in the air. The moment we neared the twins, tension rippled between them like two predators scenting something unfamiliar.

“Who is this, Nix?” Blaze asked, his voice low and rough, the kind of tone that slid down my spine like a hand I didn’t want to admit I liked.

Stych’s amused chuckle broke the edge, but not by much. “Don’t worry, you’re more my type than she is. Name’s Stych.”

“Stych?” Phyx repeated, disbelief lacing his voice. “We thought you were just a myth.”

“No, he’s just a shut-in,” I said, nudging Stych’s arm lightly. The scent of thread and faint decay clung to him, but it was oddly comforting—like old fabric that still remembered its shape.

He huffed out a laugh, and for a moment, the tension loosened. Still, under the surface, it pulsed—quiet, electric, dangerous.

“So, where are we going?” I asked, crossing my arms.

“That’s a surprise,” Blaze said, and I could practically hear his smirk. “For both of you, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you there, Stych.”

“No, I’ve never been,” Stych replied. “As Nix said, I’m more of a shut-in.”

We started walking, our boots crunching over gravel and sawdust. The smells of the circus faded—the sweet rot of popcorn oil, the iron tang of blood from the knife-throwers’ practice, the musky scent of the animal pens—and something quieter took its place. The twins talked easily with Stych, voices a mix of low laughter and teasing remarks, their tones bouncing off each other like siblings who’d forgotten to guard their walls.

I stayed silent, listening, with a small ache blooming in my chest. They had never talked like that around me. Sure, they’d been kind recently—gentler, even—but casual? No. Never. They reserved that kind of warmth for each other, not the blind girl who made the silks dance.

I dismissed the thought and focused on where we were going. “Wait… are we walking toward the carts? The Ringmaster doesn’t let anyone near them until we’re packing up to move.”

“Oh, shush,” Stych huffed, swatting the back of my head with the precision of someone who somehow knew exactly where I was. “No one cares.”

I glared in his general direction, though it lacked any real venom. The warning in my gut still twisted tight. If the Ringmaster caught us near the carts, it wouldn’t be Stych, the twins, or even me who paid for it—it would be Hearth. The ringmaster always made sure of that.

Phyx must have sensed my unease because his voice came calm and smooth, that deep steadiness he carried when he wanted to settle me. “Don’t worry, Nix. We’ve done this plenty of times and never been caught.”