Free The Selkie by Melanie Jackson

when they finally emerged from the black of the cave was a torchlight procession of colorful strangers. The huge, garish wagons were easy to recognize even in the twilight, as were the parading plumed horses. But even if they had not been visible from the cliff trail, Hexy and Rory would have known that the circus was in town. There was no escaping the calliope’s shrill, steam-driven notes once they were outside the hidden tunnel, where they’d heard nothing except the sea’s tidal roar.
    They stood quietly and watched with interest—Rory’s more critical and focused—as firstthe bright clowns and then the jugglers came marching by. There were tumblers, too, but they had abandoned their acrobatics once the procession started up the hill and their followers from the village forsook their escort.
    Aware that Rory was sniffing the air and suddenly frowning, Hexy turned to examine his face. He glanced down at her, his expression abstracted in the torchlight, and then urged her toward the parade.
    “I need tae see something here, lass,” he told her again. “Ye’ll speak wi’ the men there beside the wagon and keep them occupied for a bittock whilst I look about.”
    The tone was something more than a request and Hexy felt obliged to protest. “I—”
    “Please, lass. ’Tis important.” He touched her behind the ear again, causing her a moment of vertigo. She tried to look into his eyes, to see the thoughts and plots that lingered there, but he dropped his long lashes over them like a widow’s veil. “Lass? Will ye nae help with this small thing?”
    “Very well,” she agreed, feeling disoriented and more baffled than ever, but willing to help Rory if it was important.
    “ Tapadh leat ,” he murmured.
    “Speak English,” she said absently, the only tone her voice seemed to have that evening.
    “This is the one,” Rory whispered, placing a hand to the small of her back.
    At his urging, they fell into step beside two slightly muddied tumblers who were bringing up the rear of the procession, save for two wagons, one of which was a droll booth, presently without puppets in its curtained window. At Rory’s nod, Hexy engaged the two men in polite conversation. She hoped that in the dim light her damp skirt, wet to the waist in the back, and her sagging hose, peppered with sand and sea wrack, were not apparent, because there was no respectable explanation for their condition.
    “What is the name of your circus?” she asked, her eyes wide and her voice loud enough to compete with the music. It took some effort to pretend that she didn’t see the very large sign on the side of the yellow wagon that proclaimed HECTOR’S GRAND CARAVAN CIRCUS SINCE 1894.
    “We be the Grand Caravan Circus, missus, up from Lunnon way, and making our long-awaited reappearance here in the wilds of Cal-e-don-ia,” the elder of the two tumblers announced proudly.
    “From London!” Hexy shouted admiringly, glancing back once at Rory as he stepped closer to the yellow wagon. She added the next thing that came into her head: “That’s a long way. Itmust cost a great deal to travel here to Scotland with all these people and wagons.”
    “Aye, it do. It do. But we aren’t worrit about making the nut here, mistress. Folks in the north is real friendly—”
    “And bored. People get a little weird up here after a long winter with just theirselves for company,” added another man, an impertinent youth, also dressed as a tumbler but rather taller and more mud-spattered than his companion. His comment seemed a bit disrespectful as he was staring at her squeaking shoes as he made it, but she supposed she couldn’t blame him for being interested in her odd appearance.
    “—so we always makes good money on the Scotch run in the spring. Manny!” The older man reached out and cuffed the teenager, who’d started to turn and look at Rory, who had fallen back to the rear of the yellow wagon.
    “Ow!” The youth grabbed his ear and