forget the past

There’s an audible sigh of relief that leaves Lincoln when he finally sees her smile, and he’s instantly grateful for that small kindness, knowing that he has a tendency to be inarticulate in situations like these. A smile spreads across his face in return, hopeful that he might’ve found a new friend, but still, he simply tugs at his shirt once again and tries to stay as composed as possible.

“Maybe. I think I could use some champagne,” he laughs, a hint more relaxed than he’d been earlier, before gesturing towards a smaller champagne tower closer to the corner of the room. And though he has to tip-toe a little, he manages to reach two at the very top as to not topple the rest of it over, and he hands one over to Josephine, satisfied smile sitting at his lips as he takes his first sip.

Still, he doesn’t expect Josephine to turn the question to him and a part of him is still thankful that there’s someone that seems to care about how he feels, but a larger part of him is confused, if not uncomfortable, at having to face his own truth, knowing that if his face is out there, his family will see it, Nico will see it - and then, there won’t be any going back to the life he used to have, the one he still dreams about. But he shrugs it off, even as his smile slowly fades at her question.

“I just - I’m not very used to turning into…you know - in front of other people. Before this, I’ve always had to hide it a little, so.” It feels strange to admit it out loud, to actually share a piece of his past with someone else. He doesn’t know about Josephine yet to come to any conclusions but there’s a small hope in him that she might be one of the few people at the circus who might actually understand where he’s coming from.

“…what about you? You don’t like your cryptid either? It’s weird, I mean - this is the first time we’ve ever been…art. This should feel better than it does, right?”

It’s amazing to find comfort in small actions, even more so when the people surrounding them are making them feel so alien. Josephine herself isn’t quite sure why he’s so nervous, but then, with her own circumstances she should know how that some emotions come in throes. When he sighs, she’s almost surprised, not ever thinking that she could bring the same ease he had presented. The same ease that champagne can present.

Her eyes tentatively follow his actions as he reaches for their drinks, and her smile grows wider at his own satisfied grin. It’s such a mundane thing, so distanced from the context of the event. With just a small action, Josephine no longer thinks he belongs; thinks he deserves a setting that does him justice. All of them do, don’t they? 

The question in her mind goes unanswered, and she takes a sip. It’s odd to say, but the expensive taste reminds her of home. So she focuses on anything else.

The way the corners of his lips lower doesn’t go unnoticed; it’s a very action she tries to avoid on her own features. She almost expects him to tug at his shirt once more, trying to gauge if her words did more damage than intended. Josephine hopes not, she’s quite awkward when it comes to comforting others; isn’t the most motherly and nurturing. Even then, she feels as if this time, she’d make an attempt — the thought so unlike her.

Surprise comes again when he answers her question, and does so quite genuinely. It’s the most unlike her that a person can be, so she welcomes it; is even warmed by the fact that he can share something with her. Some part of her even envies him, so much of what keeps her sane is this reticence she’s weaved around herself. And with that she’s stripped away one of the most basic necessities of a person; she’s restricted herself from grieving several parts of herself. Because when you speak, your heart becomes lighter, or so experience has told her. Even with the most minute expression of her emotions, her fears, the thoughts of herself. 

It’s not even a question she can answer; does she like her cryptid? Josephine isn’t sure she’s ever been asked. It may be the very reason why she stumbles with her words. “I...” Then there are no words to fill the space, as it’s a part of the script she’s yet to write. What answer could she give, because the only ones she could think of were Wilhelmine’s.

DATE / TIME: 02/120, 7:30 AM LOCATION: Josephine’s Room STATUS: @josiephines

He finds her in her room, looking about as prepared and put together for this Louvre display as he feels. It’s been a while since he’s seen so many cameras flashing in a single space, reporters clamoring for a moment of attention, a single word from a passing celebrity—the thought almost makes him laugh; they are famous, to be sure, but hardly in a way to be envied.

This at least is territory he knows how to navigate. Does she still remember as well? I wonder. Black eyes narrow in concern as he comes up behind her chair.

Fingers work through the tangled waves with a practiced fluidity, this a long familiar routine between the two of them. It’s soothing, the quiet they can sit in as the seconds drag into minutes, and the calming repetition of weaving her heavy hair into the desired style for whatever show they have to put on today.

“What will it be?” he hums, smiling over her head at their joint reflections, so much more flawless than either will ever be. “What’s the painting you’re representing again?”

It may be the thirteenth time she glances at the clock on the wall when her door opens, the sound a welcome distraction to the rapid movement of time. The last thing she wants to do is dress up for these cameras, and she feels like a child again, whining over some reason or another as to why her mother should allow her a night at home. It’s laughable how blatant the similarities seem. 

When she finally allows herself to raise her eyes and look into the mirror, the sight of a familiar face fills her vision; again the similarities are palpable. But even so, there are things in this new reality that are enviable; say the calm she finds in Noah’s presence.

She doesn’t shift in her chair, keeps one leg folded and close, her chin on her knee; but Josephine doesn’t slouch further into her chair or make any attempt at airs. There’s no pretense here. 

Her eyes don’t move from his reflection, she’s long committed the routine to memory, but she now knows to appreciate all that she cherishes, no matter how many times it’s repeated. She doesn’t hold him so close because of his appearance in both her past and present lives — if that was the very determinant, she would have pushed him as far as she could, as soon as she could. But he cares for her, and she cares for him, and it’s what she needs.

Lenore doesn’t miss the way Josephine’s smile seems forced once the vote is brought up. When it comes to trying to keep a smile from wavering, despite the subject at hand, she knows plenty. Her head tilts a little, gaze leaving Josie momentarily to scan the room. “Let’s go out in the hallway,” She tells her, jerking her chin over to the door. 

Once out of earshot from others, she gently rests her hand on her friend’s elbow, concerned, questioning, “What do you think of him?” Lenore doesn’t need to say ‘Volkov’ to be specific; he’s been the topic of conversation. 

“Metzger always talked about him like he was some… ghost. More of a fairytale than a living person.” More dark fairytale, more nightmare, perhaps. The man who presided over the Starlight Carnival; a crumbling dream. “I saw you didn’t raise your hand, I guess I thought—I don’t know. I guess I want to know what you’re thinking.” 

Let’s say Lenore is almost always curious about what Josephine is thinking. (It’s why she asks the girl so many questions.) 

It’s somehow comical to hide now, if the very essence of this meeting was the ability to choose something else, something disguised as better, the only thing to hide was Josephine’s doubt. Even though he decision had been made obvious, as there was no anonymity in the vote, she imagines it’s far better to veil the reasons. 

The question echoes the whispers of many others, and Josie herself falters when thinking of the answer. She doesn’t know what to think, and if there are any spaces to fill in his history, she’s not inclined to fill them. What can a reticent girl know of others, if she hardly knows of herself. Whoever Volkov is, none of them know, and the decision of the majority has been made with too much haste.

She’s not inclined to believe much of what Metzger says either; of course, everyone seems to believe that Volkov is the lesser of the two evils, but she sees an equally somber enchantment in a liar and a shadow. Perhaps because she is at times both. And she doesn’t want to be a liar at this very moment, not to Lenore; so she picks pieces of this truth to tell her, hoping to satiate her questions. “I don’t think anyone knows enough about him to make such a decision. Call me vapid, but it seems silly to trust some fogged up idea, as opposed to the tangible truth of our daily lives.” However gruesome that may be. 

It’s funny almost, how much a simple argument could reveal about herself. If anyone knew an ounce about her truth, it’d be more dangerous than comical; but Josephine is an enigma. The only problem with this being that silence demands sound. 

At times a memory cannot be distinguished from reality; a mind will wander elsewhere, to some time years in the past. If Josephine is lucky ― and if she’s feeling brave ― she can flip through memories as if they were in a scrap book. Simple memories. The less painful ones. 

And Paris had always been something fun. 

Traveling back and forth between here and Berlin was a common occurrence; with the money her father made, countless weekends could be spent playing tourist. She didn’t have a care in the world, and she carried herself as such.

Of course the distance from her mother was welcome; her grandmother believed the rites of passage specific to her cryptid form had to be experienced away from a mother with very oppressive attitudes towards the one trait. The city of love had this rare anonymity, and there were so many other tourists that no one really stopped to question; if they stopped, it might’ve simply been to glimpse the Eiffel tower.

Walking these streets without so much as a care, didn’t seem plausible for Josephine. She was no longer normal, and didn’t feel as if she could successfully carry herself without feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders.

The type of metaphysical aging that people like herself experienced, set her apart from others. Allowed her to move in an all too different way.

But she wanted to feel like a woman of her age; needed to walk the streets with laughter straining her lungs and some long forgotten joy coursing through her veins. And maybe this brief visit in Paris could do. 

The sun had just risen, taking its position somewhere high in the sky. She feels like she’s moving in warm water as she turns to face Ata, her eyes looking for something, but not knowing exactly what that something is. 

call it luck, or perhaps excellent timing on her behalf - out of the corner of the mirror above the sink she could see the other girl and the reporter, quick with her claims and steadily firm in her beliefs - wilhelmine heinrich? - she could almost see the poor girl about to run.

she takes her time in front of the mirror, touching up rubied lips and tilting faces this way and that, knowing all angles were nothing short of flawless, smiles small as she hears the reporter’s voice grow louder.

foolish thing. as if hiding made a difference. it is laughable, truly, but she can appreciate the attempt, no matter how futile. it is almost adorable, how pitiful it is.

she sighs softly, as if fed up with the noise the two were making in the corner, straightening her back and tilting chins up as she walks towards the pair, light fingers tracing josephine’s shoulders before resting on arms, pulling her close. she holds their silence for a moment into discomfort, lined eyes sharp as she looks down at the reporter, smile all jagged glass when she does.

“dearest josephine, is this woman bothering you?” voices are quiet, silk nooses. eyes don’t leave the other woman as she speaks despite words meant to address the girl next to her. “i do apologize - the press can be so tactless sometimes, though you would expect more coming from a place of class such as this.” she tuts softly, grip on josephine’s shoulder more protective now. “i suppose it’s hard to find quality content nowadays if all one can write about is on age-old rumours, wouldn’t you say?”

smiles are blood-laced when corners of lips rise slowly at the woman before them, ever poised, not bothering to lower heads to their level as she speaks to her at last, something like cruel mirth reflecting in all-black eyes.

“can i help you, miss?”

Josephine finds herself drooping her shoulders slightly, trying to appear as anything but an heiress; if she finds herself struggling with something each day, it’s burying the grace and poise that she had been molded with. Walking as if on clouds had always come so naturally, the perfect posture and ever so slight tilt of her chin always drawing attention. Her mother had, after all, crafted a charming doll. 

And learning to stumble has proven itself much harder than learning to walk. To cover her very essence in layers and layers of simplicity and rustic idiosyncrasies takes every thing in her. If she finds calm and lets her guard down, she’ll sit again as if she’s on a throne, something so unnatural to german girls from small rural towns. 

Where she does stumble is where it counts; when defending herself; when dancing a barely-practiced routine in front of the most judging audience. Right now, she wants to appear as opposite of Sol, wants to embody the pauper to contrast the princess that has snaked her way around her shoulders. 

She wraps her hands around her frame and tries to appear as small as her tall frame will allow. It’s obvious that life has become something of a play. 

Her eyes don’t linger on the reporter long, and she quickly turns her attention to Sol, “She is actually; seems to be confusing me with someone else.” If the older woman can follow some kind of story, Josephine will be able to breathe easy; and instead she’ll have to worry about someone at the circus knowing more than she wishes to let on. 

One hurdle at a time, Josie. 

She says something about how Sol must have had many encounters with unruly reporters, going on a small ramble about how she wasn’t used to the cameras, there’s nothing very interesting to photograph in Kassel. 

When she turns to the reporter again, it’s with baited breath as the words slip from Sol’s lips. And Josephine hopes that someone to reassure her story is just what the reporter needs to believe a lie she’s so desperately crafted.

February 20th. The Louvre. @josiephines

When they are displayed in front of the crowds, it’s not difficult to see which of the cryptids thrive under the spotlights and which of them shy away from it, him being one of the latter. Naturally, he takes notice of those who scurry to the back and though he should know by now that he probably should stay in his own lane, he can’t help but want to make sure if Josephine is all right.

So when the rest of the cryptids and the guests are distracted by the ongoings of the exhibition, he doesn’t hesitate to take a few careful steps towards the other, hands playing with the end of his dress shirt, leaving gold streaks behind.

“Hi,” he manages a small squeak and immediately clears his throat, straightens his back to pretend he’s got his head together, even if the lights and the cameras are making him feel a little too exposed already. 

“I just - I just thought you could use a….drink, maybe? I think I saw them bringing out champagne a little bit ago. No offense, you seem a little…” Lincoln narrows his eyes, pulling at his tie this time, “…nervous. Camera shy? I don’t really know the right word for it. Are you okay?” 

The night has manifested as something of a dance, a young woman orbiting around the room, visage obscured from the flash of cameras and movements deliberately avoiding any reporter. When she’s found a still section of the museum, her steps slow to a halt and Josephine tries to blend into the art that surrounded her. 

Which is why it comes as a surprise when she’s approached by the lion tamer; and even more so when he addresses her. Not so much because he found his way towards her ― as her attempts at camouflage are mediocre at best ― but because he himself seemed to be struggling with the situation. Almost as much as she was?

And it worsens when he speaks; Josephine can’t keep her eyebrows from rising as he stumbles over the speech. Nevertheless, his attempts are endearing and she smiles; it’s not something forced, more of a silent thanks for his concern. It’s akin to whatever genuine concern was showed to Josephine long long ago. It feels odd almost, but again, it’s something endearing. 

☒ ― The hardest thing about roleplaying your muse?

the hardest thing for me is not wanting to be redundant, or saying the same thing with each thread. like, i’m scared that i corralled myself into one thing, which is not the case i know, but i just really don’t wanna be repetitive and sound like a broken record.

❤ ― A trait you admire in your closest friends?

so, my friend can do what i can’t, in a sense that she doesn’t take things as heavily as i might, and this saves her soooooo much stress, and you know, she tells me to take certain things with calm so that i’m not running around like a headless chicken, and she’s not wrong.

♚ ― What’s a personality trait you have that you’re proud of?

There’s a breathless way to her laughter, a breathless way she holds her body, like an emptiness that leaves you full, an emptiness from escape. And her cheeks are still pink from it all, from the cameras in their faces, for her’s is born of shyness,  of a heart in her throat and cameras always pointed somewhere else if Metzger invited them to the Menagerie. 

Because a child oracle isn’t the kind of horror someone wishes to see, but she’s grown now, despite always feeling too old for her body, for her mind, (how many lives has she lived?) there’s a childish wonder in the way she moves, the way she smiles now. 

Smiles with their hands at Josephine’s chest, something soft in it, something fond for person met so much by chance, we call it fate. Call it fate for fires to end up here, for homes lost, one way or another - nothing to return to. Call it fate to find her in crowds, to run. “Maybe, or maybe it’s not,” but a shift in her tone, a shift in what she’s speaking of at all. “I don’t think we’ve run enough, and if it’s still a good hiding spot, then all the better, just hidden long enough that we can be forgotten just for a good minute.

Moves her hands away from her, but doesn’t shift away, just is something all eyes, searching for doorways, until she thinks she understands one, reminds her of all the other doors leading to roofs, if they have a look, or she’s just hopeful enough to find one at all. And she doesn’t take the hand this time, but leads anyway, in walking backwards so she can still face her, in eyebrows raised, and then, a running, up stairways until there’s only open air. And below, there’s all distant lights and voices, but not around them, see them and a city, but mostly finally a city. “Have you been here before,” and then quiet, “Not as Josie?”

They have slipped from their gilded cage, peeled back the rotting bars and found purchase away from the spectacle that had become their daily life. Although the costumes they wear act as a tag, some identifier of where they came from and where they would have to return, the people in these paintings see them as one of their own; art without freedom to be anything but what is interpreted by others. It’s a small oddity, but she feels more at ease with the frozen images, finding amusement in what feels like a hall of mirros. 

She allows Emme to lead, shedding the responsibility of awareness; awareness of her surroundings, awareness of her composure. She is away from all of the cameras, and the onlookers. For a moment she’s free from pretending. For a moment she is neither Josephine nor Wilhelmine but just a body, following some beacon of light that promises air, quiet, maybe calm. She’d been to the Louvre several times before, but never before had she been so bold as to push through one of these doors...but she follows the girl who does, follows her until they break the surface, air filling their lungs and beauty filling her sight. For a moment, she is neither woman nor rusalka, just another one of nature’s fauna. Not at all worried about any arbitrary things.

When she is made aware of herself once more, it is not with the bitter aftertaste that she sometimes feels. It’s not present, but it threatens to creep under her skin when Emme poses the question.

First instinct, as it had become, is to push her truth deeper; drowning it in the murky waters of time. And yet, any words of deception are caught in her throat, and she can’t seem to lie to the one person who’s seen her soul. She’s terrified of vocalizing, all too aware of how tangible this would make it all. Wilhelmine had become a ghost, something only seen in ripples in the water, but nothing more than a figment. Speaking of her would turn the reflection into flesh, demanding that her pain was acknowledged and tended to; demanding things from Josephine that she could not bring herself to give. Would she be forced to mourn? To finally marry then and now into some patchwork reality...

☑ ― The easiest thing about roleplaying your muse?

➳ ― A personal goal for this year.

since I’m focusing on a lot of academic stuff, my goal is to pick up all of my artsy stuff that I miss. maybe one piece a day…or I was thinking earlier today about taking my sketchbook places and sketching people again. I just wanna be artsy, I guess. ALSO, I wanna balance all this Plato with some reading for fun!

☮ ― What’s your life motto? 

um, I think the most fluid thing for me is mottos (because I don’t have one), but recently, I’ve been very much about being kind to myself; if I feel like I’m about to burnout with classes, I take a break, if I find that I’m holding on to a toxic friendship/relationship, I let go (lmao if it doesn’t make sense it’s because I can never formulate what I mean because this one motto is a frankenstein of a few). 

♋ ― What made you choose this muse?

Before his fall from grace, not at all unlike Icarus who flew too close to the sun, her father thought of his physique like art, sculpted in rough outlines by genes, and perfected by a rigorous regimen that other models followed. His figure was that which designers loved to cover in garments and cloth; you could drape some silk over the man and all of Germany would fawn over him. 

His daughter was blessed with the same beauty; eyes, nose, and lips that could rival his own, and a charming personality to match. She grew tall, and even more beautiful but he would not push her into the same profession if she didn’t wish it. And her cryptid nature was all the more reason to keep her from a regular place in the spotlight. It wasn’t like the young girl’s mother, who wanted to protect her own way of life; he instead wanted to shelter his daughter and protect Josie from any potential danger. 

And so she had never modeled much ― and Josephine had never modeled at all ― which made the awkward air around her all the more genuine. 

It felt odd being fawned over after so long; the parts of her that had become more Josephine and less Wilhelmine were no longer used to the expensive fabrics or precious gems. She felt as if she had no tongue, fighting the need to command the space, and feeling as if there were nothing she could say that wouldn’t give her away as this wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

It was in a sense similar to all of those events in which her mother would request that she attended, wherein she would have clothes that were tailored to her physique but felt small next to her mother, almost as if she had been caught playing dress up.

Sure she had an audience to act for then, much like she had one to act for now, but all those years ago, her movements were akin to breathing, and she didn’t have to think about each step before it was taken. Josephine felt like something of a child, unable to speak up, unable to act. 

She was an adult, and the very fact annoyed her. The coral sash that they had been holding against her frame was flattering, but she felt like it would make her stand out and this was the last thing she wanted.

“Maybe too here if we decide we make the rules for time. We always made the rules for it anyway.” His smile, worn as something deliberate, but he’s perfected it somehow to never appear as mechanical as it may be, but there is a realness here, in reaction to her. Move limbs like he plucked them from trees as fruit, chosen just for her. Call it flirtation, if you want. Call it charm, if you want. Call it a control over anything seen of him, wherever he can take it. (Her old family doesn’t exist in this new universe, but his does. Decide which is worse to live with. Decide if it matters. It’s a new universe for him too, a new life, consider himself first living when his son was born, when he grew fangs, and when Malachi ended up here, new lives. But Elias may be somewhere or not, in this universe, unhidden with a new name. Decide if they can feel the feeling in the other. Something alive or dead. Unable to know for sure.)

He doesn’t ask, doesn’t care to investigate all she creates to make this body, make this voice, make this life, because all do, all hold a mask. He doesn’t care to know what she forms, be who you are and put on that skin, wear it like it was made for you. Wear it well. What’s in between isn’t any of his concern. Is it secrets, or lying, if they don’t ask and don’t care to tell all they hide? But he makes sure she knows anyway in his own ways, still filled with charm, filled with leaning in before breaking back, gradual, “Don’t think I’m here to ask if you are hiding, there’s more for us to know, and more for us to see,” turning from her, “First, if you know this is a kitchen too, maybe - of if it’s just the old bottles. Maybe they’ll do too for something, if they’re still here, I doubt there to be missed.” Sometimes, he just wishes to cook.

If she says nothing, its because she doesn’t feel the need. Instead she watches as his words paint the air; she feels as if yet again, they are falling to that comfortable silence that is found whenever in his presence. If she says nothing, it is only to elongate the time spent in such comfort. And she would continue to revel in the silence if the very act didn’t make her feel impolite; so she finds her words, genuine and airy. “Geteilte freude ist doppelte freude, geteilter schmerz ist halber schmerz; so the hour doesn’t matter then, in company it’s easier to make the rules for it. And while I do agree that we do always make the rules, they don’t bend as easily when you’re left alone with nothing but time.” It’s always the hardest to live in solitude, even surrounded by others; there comes a particular form of seclusion, when parts of you still live in a world so detached from the one in which you are physically present. Her solitude had come with her new identity, never allowing herself to find relief around others, always reading an imaginary script. She can only imagine how he feels without a new reality to lose himself in. If she is still pained even with her demons hidden away, she can’t conceive the emotions that come with those that lay with him to sleep. 

DATE & TIME: February 20TH, 11:45PM LOCATION: Bar after the meeting TAG: @josiephines

So, we call this place chaos – in more ways than simple noise, in more ways than the effect of flashing lights. We call this place chaos – if you have something to hide. More importantly, for the moment, your own face, your own body, a history and past, all laid out bare, feeling like peeled skin on his chest, laid out in his hands – not pretty. Crumbled. Stained. (Call it something begging. Call it him not feeling the pain at all, but knowing it’s there.) And it’s more than any can separate (reliving not the blood, but the giving away; the will to run away; the questions if he should call himself a father at all; is his mother still alive?; call it wondering if he still cares, if he can call his thoughts care; if he wants to. Call it a hungry rib bone digging away at flesh. Something important being carved out. He says he likes the openness of the cavern in his chest.) He almost thinks she knows what it would mean, a silent knowing, a silent recognition, what’s it felt like is more of a tug, to be near those left as a reflection. (Silent looks during the television crews passed by. Silent looks during a meeting, eyebrows raised at each other both instances – if they were hearing these words too.)

He finds her after, in the corners of the room, and by now, he knows drinks of choice, passes it across the table, and words are silent, “Didn’t have anything to say?” More just a greeting than a real question, because he didn’t say anything either. But he also means the interviews. Didn’t have anything to say? “This could have been a one-time thing, any part of this. Or maybe it’s best that I’m just here to find you when we’re ready to drink,” almost humor, if he wasn’t tired.

It washes over her like a perpetual shade of grey, some feeling disguised as apathy to add to the imbalance of the room. You can only find uncertainty in knowing. For someone like Josephine who knows how simple it is to create ― while the decision itself is difficult ― uncertainty comes in waves. More so, it brings to question just how wary others can be of her. From the inside looking out, it’s palpable. The attempts at a metamorphosis hold such fervor, but her skin never lets her forget the difference. Her heart wont let her forget the difference. And from the inside looking out she has yet to free herself of her chrysalis; so sure that if she reaches out to anyone, her hand will meet resistance before any human contact. From the outside looking in, she imagines it’s not much different than a terrarium, mystery encased in glass ― intriguing for all the wrong reasons. Even the most curious onlooker will miss what’s right under his nose; the muted colors, constant daze, and some else. Maybe melancholy? The one who looks without pretense, accepts the affectation and feigned pose ― he allows her to chase off the apathy with appreciation. He makes it easier for her vision to feel saturated. And appreciation becomes compassion; if you can only find uncertainty in knowing, she wonders how he found her. Perhaps in the same way she found him.

Perhaps in another reality, Carter and Josephine might have gotten along. Or achieved a semblance of understanding, at least. But see, the problem is this: she believes there are worse realities out there.

He believes they are already living them.

And so he blinks at her response, almost mirroring her own reaction. And he wonders how she’s so comfortable, so at home in a tank much too small for her, while he’s here. Struggling. Fighting against accepting all this, and refusing to shift until the telltale sign of electric batons in back-pockets.

“What’s so awful about your past life that it makes this,” he gestures to the iron bars around him, his taller than most to satisfy his beastly form, “feel like a sanctuary?” On another night, he’d bite his tongue; swiftly reel back his words, especially around someone he has yet to get to know.

But he - and perhaps others - consider her an unsolved puzzle. And the boy’s never been any good with the unknown. Especially, unknown reasons for being content with this circus they must call home.

So his gaze remains steady, sharp, brows bunching together even if it contrasts her nonchalance ( again, the boy’s no good with those he cannot read ).

The last thing she wants to do is think of her discomfort in the tank; the last thing she wants to do is think of how inadequate her sleeping quarters are, how they’re paraded treated. It simply makes no sense to dwell. In the end, she’d destroy whatever calm was left in her veins. As sad as it may be, the menagerie provided what Josie needed. There is sanity in this newfound mobility. 

As hard as it is to believe, it’s her truth; she was secure in her apathy, and felt that the feeling kept her safe. 

He’s clearly troubled with their current situation, as many are and have the right to be. Carter had the right to rebel even ― although the repercussions made a rebellion less than desirable ― but his feelings towards the menagerie had nothing to do with Josephine. They could coexist so long as he didn’t insist on figuring her out. 

Josephine takes a deep breath, and slowly exhales. She thinks the words are meant to be biting, and the use of ‘past’ does touch a nerve, so she focuses instead on the goosebumps rising on her arms. “I’m sure you’d like to know, but it’s not a very interesting story,” if Josephine learned anything from her mother, it was diplomacy even in the most tense circumstances. 

The circus feeds into her denial; not that of her family’s death, no ― that’s a painful truth she must live with ― but that of a life without them. She doesn’t leave herself much time to consider the possibilities outside of this circus. The money her father left her is still untouched, most of the things at the bottom of her suitcase are, and the circus keeps things that way.