Menagerie. Rachel Vincent

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      Despair swallowed Charity like the whale swallowed Jonah, but she held no hope of being spit back out. Her arms felt like they were made of iron as she lifted her tea.

      She closed her eyes while the top of her skull burned in the blazing sunlight. “Lord,” she whispered, condensation dripping over her fingers from the outside of her cold glass, “won’t you take this angry child and give me a quieter, happier one in her place?”

      As soon as she’d said the words, she regretted them. Words spoken in pain and exhaustion are rarely meant, and Charity Marlow’s were no exception.

      But there was no taking them back.

      The moment the last word fell from her lips, the baby stopped crying.

      Setting her glass down, she listened harder but heard only silence.

      She stood and rounded the bench, headed for the kitchen door. By the time she got to the house, she was running. The screen door slammed behind her and her sandals slapped the floor, competing with the thunder of her own heartbeat in her ears as she raced down the hall.

      She stopped in the nursery threshold, one hand clenched around the glossy white door frame, breathing too fast. Too hard. Her chest felt like it was constricting around her heart, as if her ribs were laced up too tight.

      “I didn’t mean it. Please, I didn’t mean it.”

      The baby was dead. Charity was sure of it. She’d committed the worst sin a mother could commit, and now she was being punished.

      But there was no answer from above, so she had to take that next step forward. And the one after that.

      By her third step into the nursery, she could see a chubby little fist propped against the pastel crib bumper. Anguish swelled up from her heart and caught in her throat, a lump she couldn’t breathe through, yet couldn’t swallow.

      One more step, and she could see the whole crib and the baby lying in it, eyes peacefully closed.

      Charity sobbed and sagged against the crib rail, one hand on her daughter’s round little stomach.

      The child’s eyes fluttered open, and Charity’s shocked gasp was like a crack of thunder in the silent house. Her eyes filled with tears of joy and relief and she reached to pick up the child, already scolding herself for being such a superstitious fool.

      Then the child smiled at her and Charity froze, her fingers inches from her daughter’s pale pink jumper. Chills raced up her spine and goose bumps erupted all over her body.

      The child laughed—surely no purer sound of joy was ever heard—and she stepped back from the crib, fear crawling beneath her skin.

      The baby laughed again, and she took another step back, then another, and another, until her back hit the pale yellow wall. In that moment, as confusion, guilt and fear met within her, calling into question everything she’d thought she understood about the world and her place in it, Charity Marlow knew only one thing for sure.

      That was not her baby.

      Fourteen years ago...

      The whistling tones of a calliope organ rang out from a speaker mounted over the carnival gate, the playful notes tripping up and down the musical register with a spirited energy. The kids from Franklin Elementary buzzed with anticipation, whispering excitedly to one another as they fidgeted in two semistraight lines. The music seemed to feed their enthusiasm and fray their patience.

      As she approached the gate, ten-year-old Delilah Marlow clutched her brown-bag lunch and stared at the graceful form in front of her. The woman handing out tickets wore a red sequined leotard with a black feathered hat, black stockings, and shiny black slippers. Her lips were painted bright red. Her blue eyes practically glowed beneath dramatic sparkly lashes and thin dark eyebrows that ended in a jewel-studded curlicue at each of her temples.

      She was the most glamorous thing Delilah had ever seen.

      “Here you go, sweetheart.” The costumed woman handed her a shiny slip of red paper. Delilah’s gaze lingered on the sequins and feathers as the woman handed tickets to each of the other five fifth graders in the group, and to Mrs. Essig, their young homeroom teacher. “You all enjoy your visit, and remember to look but not touch. Especially you!” She patted the brown spikes sticking up all over Matt Fuqua’s head. “With that hair, you might just be mistaken for a werewolf pup!”

      The other three boys laughed and elbowed Matt, but fell into a sudden awed silence as another woman in red sequins passed by—walking on her black-gloved hands. Her tiny waist was bent backward at a severe angle, so that both of her bare feet dangled over her head, her toes nearly touching the top of her skull.

      Delilah couldn’t stop staring.

      Shelley Wells linked her arm with Delilah’s as they stepped through the gate and into the carnival. “How does she do that?”

      “She’s a circus freak.” Matt marched past the girls as if he owned the whole midway. “My dad says some of them are just as weird as the monsters they got in cages.”

      Mrs. Essig hurried to catch up with him, shooting an apologetic glance at the red-sequined woman. “They’re human,” she whispered fiercely as she grabbed the back of Matt’s shirt to keep him from wandering down an offshoot of the main path on his own. “That’s all that matters.”

      Matt pulled free of his teacher’s grip. “Are we sure they’re human? My dad says sometimes you can’t tell just from lookin’. Remember the reaping?”

      Mrs. Essig nodded stiffly, but Delilah knew their teacher didn’t actually remember the reaping, and neither did Matt Fuqua. Only old people actually remembered the reaping, and most of them didn’t like to talk about it, because they’d all known someone who’d died. Or killed. Or been taken.

      Remember the reaping? wasn’t just a question. It was something parents said in hushed voices. Something priests advised while they made the sign of the cross. Something politicians shouted from behind podiums. Remember the reaping was a warning not to let history repeat itself. A reminder for humanity not to let its guard down.

      Remember the reaping was an American way of life.

      The teacher rubbed her forehead and pinched the bridge of her nose. Delilah recognized both gestures. Mrs. Essig was getting another headache.

      Matt shrugged, oblivious to his teacher’s discomfort. “My dad says you have to be careful who you trust, because the reaping could happen again.”

      According to Delilah’s father, Matt Fuqua was just smart enough to be dangerous. Others who’d warranted the same description included congressmen from the wrong side of the aisle and that eight-year-old from Memphis who’d figured out how to put his mother’s car into Neutral before he realized he couldn’t reach the brake.

      Just smart enough to be dangerous, it turned out, wasn’t really very smart at all.

      For the next hour, Delilah and her classmates wandered along the crowded sawdust-strewn midway, clutching their lunches and staring in awe at every vibrant spectacle they passed. They didn’t have access to the СКАЧАТЬ