Noir by Jacqueline Garlick

‘respected.’” His tongue catches on his teeth in that lyrical way immigrants from the East speak, bringing to mind the faraway pleasures of incense and spice.
    “Well, that’s irony, isn’t it?”
    He smiles, and I notice he hasn’t let go of my hand yet. He closes his eyes and mutters something, as if performing some form of prayer. He tips back his head instead of bowing. I worry he may be a Cantationer—the real sort, the kind that should be dipped in wax. Perhaps he should be in this cage.
    I’m about to pull away when his eyes pop back open.
    Cantation ended.
    He nods as he steps back with a slight fluttery wave of his hands, as if to say, Don’t worry, all is well .
    I can’t help but recognize what the commoners of Brethren used to think about me. Judging me over something they didn’t understand. How rapidly my heart has just beaten. How quickly my mind jumped to evil things . . . over nothing, really: a man with his eyes shut.
    I swallow down my prejudice and move on to the last cage, my mind occupied with concern for C.L. The sign below the bars reads Wanda the Werewolf Woman . My skin ripples at the thought. “Hello,” I say, looking deep into the cage. My heart thumps in my throat. Something stirs in the corner, and I extend a hand, praying I get it back, feeling immensely afraid. When she doesn’t respond, I say it again. “Hello?”
    “She doesn’t speak,” Sadar says.
    “She has a tongue, doesn’t she?” I whirl around, feeling slightly panicked.
    “Yes. She just prefers not to use it. Ever since the fire.”
    “The fire?” My head jerks forward.
    “Yes. We had a stunner a few years back. We were all performing at the time. Wanda was alone in the train. She got the fool notion to try to burn the excess hair from her skin with a candle. Only it didn’t go as planned.”
    I cringe at the thought of it. “You mean she—”
    “Went up in smoke, yes. The whole train did. Cost the freakmaster a bundle. And he was none too pleased about it, either. After the whipping, she never spoke again.”
    “He beat her?”
    “He beat us all, miss.”
    My mouth falls open.
    “Come on out, Wanda. It’s all right.” Sadar adds, “She’s a friend.”
    A woman covered from head to toe in hair appears. Big brown eyes shine from under long, lanky black lashes. She strides only halfway up to the bars and raises an arm, trying to shield her hairy face from my sight as if she’s ashamed for me to look on her. Every inch of her is covered in hair but her gaze.
    My mind jumps to thoughts of the Illuminator. If we were to recover the small one, the one my father first made, perhaps it could be used to help her. In one of my father’s early tests he rendered a kiwifruit completely bald, I remember, leaving it only minimally scarred. Perhaps it would work the same way on Wanda’s skin? I sigh, my thoughts slipping from there to the dangers of the machine. My eyes grow warm with tears. I don’t dare try to help her; I could kill her.
    Wanda glances up at me briefly, then just as quickly away, and I feel the pang of her heavy heart in my chest. She saw my tears and thinks I’m pitying her. I’ll have to make it up to her later. Right now, I turn back to C.L., still knocked out on the ground, the dead ringmaster beside him. I’ve got to get on with things. “Well, now that we’ve all become acquainted,” I smile and say, “I could use a little help.”
    Martin sticks his head out between the bars and smiles. “Slip the keys in the locks, love, and we’re at your service.”

    I creep along the line, releasing each from their cages, shaky fingers manipulating locks. Each exits their cage—all but Wanda.
    “Here, let me.” Sadar waddles down the row of cars, stopping outside the caboose, sliding the gold key into the lock. He twists it, and I’m relieved at the sound of turbines clunking. He unhinges the lock and throws back the door, and I’m overcome by the stench of mould. Moss grows on