Desperate, I find Xander in the front. He shakes his head slightly. He wants me to give it up. I set my jaw and stare at his lips, the angle of his jaw, the way his muscles flex in a casual way when he crosses his arms. But it doesn’t work. He’s beautiful, but what I really want is to just laugh with him, to be with him and all the rest of the troupe together, to sit on the beach again while we watch the twins play in the waves. I automatically look for Roman. He’s on the edges of the audience, a smudge of monotone clothes against a crowd that prefers over-the-top vibrancy. He catches me watching him, but for once, I don’t pretend that I’m not. I let myself take in all his sharp edges. His expression stays impassive, but when I meet his eyes again, there’s a fire in them. That’s what I’m looking for. My face heats. I latch on to it and let it spread instead of trying to shut it down. I remember the hunger in our kiss, and not just his hunger—mine too. I sink into the feeling until my fingers sing a new song of liquid, burning metal.

The knives light.

My song turns cold and hard again the moment they do, but it’s enough.

My trick keeps them flaming. I give them power mixed with illusion, but they see only power. I deceive them—the only true illusionist in the room. I’m the best of my mom and dad. I let myself smirk as I steal their applause, and then I change my throws so the knives fall and stab the ground at my feet in a perfect semicircle.

I receive applause. I try not to judge whether it is more or less than the others. I’m not done yet.

The box my troupe spent hours making sits behind me, its door open and beckoning. I walk back to it and wave at its emptiness before I step inside.

Willow moves forward and shuts the door. Only my head remains visible at the top.

Around the box are more than fifty well-placed slits, waiting to accept the swords and knives piled on the tables.

This will be my true performance. I kick down two wooden flaps built into the inside of the box and pull my legs up on them, putting myself in a crouching position. My knees should just hit the front of the box. I lean my hands back and feel for the tiny nicks in the wood, telling me where to brace them—the exact location to keep my body away from fatal wounds. Only the fatal ones. After Ethan’s performance, I need to bleed for these people, but I’m going to do it on my own terms.