An uncontrollably sobbing Cat was led back to the throne and once again placed on Mr. Dowling’s lap. He cradled her this time and hummed to her as she wept, while Kinslow rounded up a small group of mutant violinists to play sad tunes.
The circus acts continued while Cat was crying. An undead knife thrower threw knives at a nervous mutant, who ducked and shimmied out of the way of the blades until one caught him in the thigh and put him down—he hopped out of the ring to a chorus of catcalls. A zombie plate spinner proved surprisingly nimble and managed to keep most of her plates aloft, even when three of them were topped with heads from some of the trapezists whose bodies had been smashed earlier. Two zombies parading around on stilts drew a warm round of applause, but a third member of the troupe kept falling over—the crowd booed until the stilts were set afire and the flames engulfed the clumsy zombie.
The grieving Cat didn’t even notice when an undead sword swallower came forward, and Mr. Dowling plucked all of Cat’s knives from her, to be used in the act. In her stunned state she could only obsess about Jules, Paul and George, replaying the moments when they had been shot from the cannon over and over inside her head.
Finally there was a lull and a silence fell over the crowd. The lack of noise eventually registered with Cat and she looked around in a daze, wondering if all of the mutants and babies had slipped out and left her.
No such luck. They were still here, but now they were leaning forward and staring mutely at her, as if waiting for her to do something.
“Here,” Kinslow grunted, handing her a handkerchief. “Wipe your cheeks. You look a mess.”
“I don’t care,” Cat whispered, letting the handkerchief drop.
Kinslow scowled, picked up the hankie, spat on it, then wiped Cat’s cheeks clean. “That’s better,” he said. “Though a touch of lipstick and mascara wouldn’t be a bad idea. Do you have a handbag?”
He laughed at his little joke. Cat just stared at him numbly.
Mr. Dowling whined and Kinslow stopped laughing. “He says this isn’t a time for laughter,” Kinslow muttered. “Rather, it’s time for the main performance. It’s a serious act, deserving of our respect.”
“I don’t care,” Cat said again, staring at the hole in the roof, wishing she had climbed up into the cannon and been fired off into oblivion.
“You should care,” Kinslow said with a smirk, “because you’re the star of this particular act.”
And with that he took her hand, helped her to her feet, then led her forward into the spotlights, where both her future and her past were waiting.