Wild Boy by Rob Lloyd Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

bitter, broken woman. One night she walked drunk on the tightrope, fell, and broke her leg. She never performed again. Instead she became the ringmaster. And she had developed a hatred of freaks that bordered on obsession.
    Wild Boy dreaded to think how she’d react if she caught him sneaking around her show. But if he wanted to deliver this letter, that was where he had to go.
    He peeked around the side of one of the circus’s dressing vans. Close by, the big top strained in the wind against its thick tethers. From inside, he heard Mary Everett cry
Laaaadies and geeentlemen.
The last show of the day was underway.
    He breathed in, steeling himself. Then he dashed for the side of the big top. He heard someone cry out, and he threw himself to the ground, sliding through the mud and under the canvas wall.
    The crowd roared, and for a dreadful moment, Wild Boy feared he’d burst right into the ring. He rolled over, wiping muddy hair from his eyes. Then he saw a jumble of wooden beams above his head and knew he’d ended up in the right place — beneath the scaffold that supported the audience’s seats.
    “So far so good,” he muttered.
    He reached up and began to climb the beams. Between the audience’s backs, he could just see down into the sawdust ring, where Mary Everett stood in the spluttering glare of a gas chandelier. The ringmaster leaned on a wooden crutch, bellowing at the crowd like a mad pirate. “Here’s another act! Pay attention, will you!”
    Before her husband ran off, Mary Everett had apparently been a beautiful woman. Wild Boy couldn’t imagine it now. She had the same fiery red hair as Clarissa, except it was greasy and straggly, hanging like wet straw beneath the brim of her battered top hat. Whether she also had Clarissa’s pale skin or freckles was impossible to say, for her face was covered with a thick layer of white makeup that fairground rumors said she hadn’t rubbed off since the day her husband disappeared.
    Wild Boy perched on a beam, waiting for one particular act. He’d never actually seen the circus show before, and he couldn’t believe how bad it was. Each time Mary Everett banged her crutch against a gong, another act stumbled into the ring. Drunken clowns broke into fights, trick riders messed up their tricks, and knife-throwers missed their marks with rusty blades. The audience booed. Someone even burst into tears.
    The crowd settled down as, high above, Clarissa strode along a tightrope. Sequins glimmered on her costume as she jumped into a somersault and landed again on the wire with barely a wobble.
    For a moment Wild Boy forgot all about the letter, as he watched in amazement. Clarissa wasn’t just good — she was astounding. All of the anger had vanished from her face, and her eyes sparkled with delight. Wild Boy wondered if this was her escape. Did she feel the same way doing this as he did spying on crowds?
    “She ain’t half bad,” he muttered.
    He focused his thoughts back on the letter. Most of the acts were over, which meant the person he was waiting for was due on next. He brought the letter from his coat pocket and read it again.

    So who was it written for? Obviously someone who lived at the fair in disguise, but that hardly narrowed the list. There were several people here whom Wild Boy suspected lived under false identities. A more helpful question was,
who wrote it?
He’d never received a letter in his life, but he assumed they were sent between people with shared interests. And on that subject, the letter presented several clues.
    1) The writer was wealthy. That was obvious from the paper, which was thick and grainy and clearly of fine quality.
    2) The writer was a heavy drinker. A red spot on the page smelled like wine, while variations in the shade of the ink showed he’d refreshed his quill three times — unnecessary for such a short note, unless he’d paused to drink his wine.
    3) The letter had been written near an open window. The ink had dried