Page 34 of Cracked Doll

"Do you know much about him?"

She shrugs, thoughtful. "Not loads. There's rumors, though — that he and that whole carnival do something for women who need saving. Never been totally clear on what, exactly."

I try to fold that alongside what my father said. "How, though?"

"No idea on the how. But everyone says the first step is the coven. The Six Who Speak As One." She tilts her head at me, curious now. "Why — you thinking of getting yourself saved by the carnival, love?"

"No," I say quickly. "Just curious."

"We could go tonight, if you like." She's already reaching for her jacket. "I'll swing by and collect you."

I nod, and something in my chest tightens at how easily she's offered it — like she has no idea what she's actually walking me toward.

I spend the rest of the day at the shop's workbench, hands busy with wire and pigment, building a small tin fox with a hinged tail and a painted, knowing little smirk — something to keep my mind occupied while my thoughts circle endlessly back to what waits for me tonight. I take most of the day's earnings up to my hiding spot beneath the wardrobe, same as before, leaving my father just enough coins to notice and grumble over. He does, predictably, growling something about a proper man being able to trust his own daughter, and I say nothing back.

I bathe and change into black for the evening — full Victorian gothic, low-necked, the fabric heavy enough to feel like protection — and I'm waiting downstairs by candlelight when Amara arrives.

"Why on earth are you using candles?" she asks, stepping in.

"No power at the moment," I say, which is at least true.

She's dressed in her usual full black, hair styled into elaborate victory rolls that somehow suit the whole gothic effect perfectly. "Right," she says. "Let's get going, then."

I lock the shop door behind us, and there he is — standing exactly where I expect him, watching. I don't look at him. I simply walk.

Amara chats the whole way, easy and unbothered, telling me about deciding not to go to uni after sixth form, about her mum wanting her to be a solicitor and her wanting absolutely none of that — talking about herself in a way that feels, somehow, deliberately generous, like she's leaving space for me to fill in if I want to. I mostly listen, asking a question here and there where I don't follow, grateful she doesn't push for more than I offer.

I feel him behind us the whole way. Amara stops suddenly, turning. "Is that bloke following us?"

I glance back. It's him, unmistakable, keeping pace in the dark. "Let's just keep walking," I say.

"He'd better not try anything," Amara mutters, "or I swear to God I'll have my whole family down on him — my uncle's a boxer, he'll flatten him."

I chuckle at that. For a moment.

The gate rises up ahead, glowing amber against the dark. Behind us, he's still there.

The neon lights of The Midnight Menagerie blur into a psychedelic smear as we walk, but I can feel him. Even without looking, I know Rhys is there, a predatory shadow pacing just a few steps behind us. Every time I steal a glance over my shoulder, he’s there—silent, steady, his presence like a heavy weight pressing against my spine.

We get our tickets, the paper crisp and cold in my hand, and navigate through the cacophony of the carnival until we reach it: a towering, oppressive black tent. Above the entrance, written in a script that seems to bleed into the fabric, are the words: THE SIX WHO SPEAK AS ONE

A small, weathered sign hangs by the flap: Enter one at a time.‎

‎Amara gives me a supportive nudge, her voice a soft anchor in the chaos. "You go first, Ophelia. I'll follow right after.”

‎I nod, my throat tight. Before I step forward, I look back one last time. Rhys is standing in the crowd, motionless. I can’t bring myself to look him directly in the eyes—I can't bear the intensity of that gaze—so I focus on the line of his jaw, the cold set of his shoulders. He’s just watching. Waiting. I can't make out his expression without meeting his eyes properly.

‎I push through the heavy velvet curtains and step inside.

The darkness hits me first, thick and suffocating, smelling of old incense, dried blood, and something metallic. Inside, the dark is absolute at first, until my eyes adjust to a single dim lamp burning low near the center.

As my eyes adjust, I realize the walls aren't black, but a deep, bruised crimson, like the interior of a throat. In the center of the room stands a heavy wooden table, its surface scarred and dark, topped with six thick red candles that remain unlit.

My eyes wander to the walls, and a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature races down my arms. Hanging from the crimson fabric are things that belong in a nightmare: bundles of dried herbs tied with human hair, jars containing cloudy liquids and floating organic shapes that look far too much like organs, rusted surgical tools, and bleached animal skulls etched with symbols I don't recognize. It’s a coven’s sanctuary, a place where the veil between this world and something far darker is thin.

Hung with things I can only half make sense of — dried herbs bound in black thread, small glass jars holding things I don't examine too closely, a raven's skull mounted above a shelf of unlabeled bottles.

The single dim lamp flickers nearby, casting long, dancing shadows that make the room feel like it's breathing. Surrounding the table are six women. They are draped in heavy black dresses, their faces completely obscured by translucent black veils.