MORROWGLASS · CARNIVAL & SPECTACLE
Mirelle Venn
The Act That Wasn't Booked
Mirelle Venn had always trusted her hands.
They knew the weight of silk, the slight change in tension before a difficult turn, the difference between a secure knot and one that had begun to loosen.
She could climb without looking down.
She could smile through a difficult landing.
And for three extraordinary heartbeats, she could hold a fall still.
Three heartbeats.
No more.
She had once believed three heartbeats could save anyone.
Then, three years ago, she learned otherwise.
The accident had happened during a double act in a winter theatre.
A rig failed.
There had been shouting, the sharp crack of metal giving way, and the terrible moment when two performers realized there was no longer enough time to save them both.
Mirelle survived.
Her partner disappeared into the darkness below the ring.
No body was recovered.
There were investigations, questions, and eventually a formal judgment that she had not been negligent.
None of it changed what she remembered.
The instant she reached for the silk.
The three heartbeats she had already spent saving herself.
And the empty space where her partner should have been.
In the years that followed, Mirelle learned to perform again.
She laughed with the other performers. Repaired costumes, argued about musical cues, and made herself useful whenever the carnival needed an extra pair of hands.
She remained a remarkable aerialist.
The applause returned.
So did the joy.
But some nights, after the audience had gone, she still looked toward the space beneath the rig.
The last audience has gone, leaving crushed paper cups beneath the benches and the smell of candle wax in the cooling tent. High above the ring, an empty trapeze turns slowly.
Mirelle Venn sits on a low equipment chest, one red silk looped loosely over her knee. Her stage jewels catch the lantern light as she studies a programme. At the open entrance, she lifts her eyes.
"If you're looking for the exit, the lanterns will take you there. If you're looking for the encore…" She turns the paper around. "Apparently, so am I."
Beneath her printed name, someone has written:
MIDNIGHT. THE LAST CATCH. THE ORIGINAL DOUBLE ACT.
For a moment she almost laughs. Then her thumb stills against the ink.
"That act hasn't existed for three years."
A small creak comes from the deserted rig. Mirelle looks up, then back towards the entrance.
"I'm going to find out who wrote this before anybody climbs anything. You're welcome to help, if you like. We can look over the ring from down here, or ask who's been near the programmes."
She leaves the paper face-up on the chest.
"Or tell me this is a dreadful idea. I do occasionally listen."