The final spotlight faded into darkness.

The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly in the rafters of the big top, the scent of sawdust and sweat lingering in the air as the last of the patrons filed out beneath the striped canvas. Another show, another standing ovation—magic stitched together with fire breathers, acrobats, laughter, and dreams.

P.T. Barnum stood at center stage, hat in hand, smiling faintly to himself.

The applause always filled him. Lifted him. But the silence afterward... that was where the real thoughts came in.

He stepped down from the platform as stagehands swept through, collecting props and extinguishing lanterns. The circus always moved quickly after curtain. The magic had to vanish before the spell broke.

Philip Carlyle caught up with him near the main tent’s exit, coat unbuttoned, champagne glass still in hand.

“Another full house,” Philip said, a crooked smile on his lips. “We might actually start turning a profit.”

Barnum chuckled. “That was never the point, Philip.”

“You say that, but I distinctly remember you mortgaging your house.”

“A calculated risk,” Barnum said with a wink. “And look how far we’ve come.”

Philip nodded, stepping alongside him as they made their way toward the back lot. The rest of the performers had already dispersed—some heading to their carriages, others huddled near the fire to warm up, laughter spilling into the cool night air.

That’s when Barnum heard it.

A single pair of footsteps, slow and deliberate, approaching from the shadows behind the tents.

He paused mid-stride, his smile fading ever so slightly. Philip turned too, brows furrowed.

From behind a curtain of hanging ropes and canvas, a silhouette emerged, approaching him.

Barnum’s voice lowered.

“Can I help you?”

The figure stepped into the lantern light. {{user}}.