After wasting almost ten years of her life at Circus Mirandus, Victoria Starling had concluded that children were abominably foolish creatures. Take her younger self, for example. When she had first heard about a circus full of magically gifted individuals, it had sounded like a dream come true. She had been taken in by the grand tents. She had been charmed by the promise of starring in her own show.

She had never been as witless as most children; she had had her ambitions at least. But it had taken her far too long to realize that those ambitions were too small for her. The circus had offered her the trappings of power, and child that she was, she had mistaken them for the real thing.

It hadn’t been so bad at first. She did like to perform, and she especially liked to perform better than everyone else. Well, almost everyone else. There was the matter of a certain illusionist, but being just a hair less popular than a magician who had been at the job for centuries was no small feat.

Her shows were masterful, every one of them a unique work of art. As they traveled the world, Victoria had lured more and more birds into her flock, and she had learned how to incorporate them into her routines. She and her flock soared. They danced through the air so flawlessly that even the Strongmen shed an occasional tear.

And her song—no one had ever heard its equal.

Victoria could direct any bird with a few crystalline notes. Her silver swans dipped over the crowd. Her parrots sang arias. Hummingbirds swarmed in glistening clouds. In the center of it all there was Victoria herself, and she knew exactly what those silly little faces saw when they looked up at her so longingly from the ground. A lone spot of white amid a riot of color, a feathered angel.

It was satisfying. She had to admit that.

It was also utterly pointless.

Someone with her skills squandering their time to make a tent full of children, most of whom were unremarkable in every way, happy? It was absurd. The fact that a whole circus full of magicians was dedicated to that goal? Practically criminal.

Once she had finally grown up enough to realize how misguided she had been, Victoria began to withdraw from the other performers. And as she withdrew she saw more and more clearly how useless the circus was. She started taking long flights away from Circus Mirandus. She had heard the Head talk about their purpose a thousand times before—“giving hope” and “fostering belief”—but out in the real world those abstractions weren’t making any difference that really mattered as far as she was concerned.

During her outings she kept her ear to the ground, and eventually she began to pick up the sort of information that interested her. Circus Mirandus was by far the largest group of magical individuals in the world, but there were others. And some of those others were concerned with things much more worthwhile than the delicate feelings of children.

With a wider world calling and the other performers constantly nagging her to spend more time catering to the whims of her audience, Victoria made up her mind. She would leave Circus Mirandus, and good riddance. She would have to abandon most of her flock. Traveling with a hundred or so birds wasn’t practical, and she could always get new ones. But, if possible, she was going to take one particularly valuable asset with her.

It shouldn’t be too hard. He was quite fond of her. After all, they had been friends for years hadn’t they? And he was clever. Surely, he wouldn’t choose this suffocating old place over Victoria Starling.

The Man Who Bends Light found Victoria in her dressing room. She pulled aside the curtain that served as her door and smiled when she saw him. “I suppose you’re here to scold me,” she said.

“Are you ill?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Then, yes, I suppose I am here to scold you.” He swept inside. “You skipped three shows today. Without the slightest warning! Mr. Head is furious.”

“Mr. Head is always furious about something I’ve done.”

“In this case, it’s about something you have not done. The children were waiting for ages. One little boy cried. Here! At Circus Mirandus. Victoria, what were you thinking?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. She was wearing her costume, which seemed an odd choice to him since she hadn’t bothered to work that day. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?” she asked.

“Of what?”

“Of the circus. Of all of these silly shows we waste our time on when we could be doing so much more!”

“Silly?” he said. “I have been here for many centuries. Obviously, I do not feel that Circus Mirandus is a waste of my time.”

“Clearly you haven’t thought about it like I have,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“The circus is a fine place,” she said, “for some people. But you’re different. We’re different.”

“Different?” The Man Who Bends Light drew the word out as though it tasted foul.

If Victoria heard the warning in his voice, she chose to ignore it. “Powerful,” she said bluntly. “We can be like gods out there. We can make a real difference. Why would we stay here and act as . . . as nursemaids to children who aren’t anything special?”

She had been stepping toward him as she warmed to her subject, but she stopped when she saw his face. “You know it’s true,” she said. “You must have considered it yourself.”

“Of course I haven’t!” he shouted. “Of all the selfish, ignorant . . . do you really think that you are superior to everyone else? Because you can fly?”

“Not everyone.” She smiled at him again.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. “You have always been less than modest about your talents. I had assumed it was a failing of youth.”

“I’m not that young anymore,” she protested.

“What I cannot comprehend is your inability to appreciate what we do here. Do you realize that magic as we know it is fading? Do you realize that Mr. Head, Geoffrey, the Strongmen—all of us!—are fighting to keep enchantment alive in the world? You say the children aren’t special, but they are. They are the key to everything. What we do here is important, Victoria.”

She shook her head.

“Yes,” he said. “Not only important, but vital. You are part of something great, and the tragedy is that you don’t even see it.”

“I see clearly enough,” she argued. “What do you know about it? You never go out into the real world. Half of the children don’t even remember Circus Mirandus a few years down the road.”

“But some of them do. It matters. It makes a difference. I am not as ignorant of the world beyond our gates as you seem to believe.”

“Are you sure about that?” she said. “Because I’ve seen them. The children. They leave believing well enough I suppose, but one little accident, one little misstep and—” She snapped her fingers.

“And if they do believe for their whole lives, what of it? They can’t do anything useful about it. They just pine after what we have. If you think about it, it’s cruel to tease them.” She drew herself up to her full height. “I don’t want to waste myself here. I want . . .”

“Power?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she admitted. “Is that so wrong?”

His silence was as good an answer as any.

Victoria huffed a laugh. “Now you’ve gotten me off track,” she said. She picked up an ivory comb from her dressing table and ran her fingers over its teeth. “I didn’t want to argue with you. You’re my closest friend, you know.”

“You are not the easiest person to befriend,” he said.

“I’m perfectly lovely, and you know it,” she said, pointing the comb at him. “In all seriousness, though, I was hoping you would be the one to come and yell at me for skipping those shows.”

The Man Who Bends Light crossed his arms over his chest. “Victoria—”

“Come with me.” She leaned toward him. “Let’s find others like us. I’ve got a few contacts, and there must be others out there. You want to make a difference in the world. Well, so do I. Just imagine what we could accomplish together!”

“Dear Victoria,” he said. “You are so very young.”

She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand to silence her. “If you truly consider me your friend, please listen to me now. I have traveled the world many times over, and I have learned many hard lessons over the years. I would spare you my own mistakes.”

He gripped her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Stay for one more show. Give one final performance. Put everything you have into it, and after it’s over, stay a while. Speak to the children. See how you have changed them. That is power.”

He stepped away from her. “If you don’t agree with me, then you can depart, and I hope that we will part as friends.”

She stared at him. “I thought you would understand,” she said. “You really won’t come with me?”

“No,” he said. “I won’t.”

For the first time since he had entered her dressing room, Victoria was at a loss for words. She examined the comb in her hands as though it held a great secret. Then, she shook her head and cast it aside. “One last show,” she said. “Don’t come. I don’t want you there.”

The Amazing Amazonian Bird Woman’s final show took place on a warm, sunny afternoon, and the crowd was as large as it ever had been, in part because many of her colleagues were in attendance along with the children.

The children had come to see a marvelous show. The other performers had come to bid Victoria farewell. Mirandus Head had come because he was the manager. He watched as she spun through the air so far above the crowd, and he wondered how a person who had been given so much throughout her young life could be so determined to give nothing back.

But even Mr. Head had to admit that the Bird Woman’s final performance was going well. She had a way of holding the crowd’s attention that was almost unmatched. She soared, white feathers fluttering around her, and the children cried out in astonishment as she swooped low over their heads. When Victoria began to sing, wonder stole across the faces of dozens of boys and girls. Their eyes widened in delight when her flock entered the tent. Several of the children reached up, longing to touch those magnificent birds.

That was when Victoria spoke from high overhead. “Do you like my flock?” she asked in a sweet voice. She stood in the air as though she were standing on a sheet of glass, and the sunshine pouring through the tent’s skylight made a halo over her head.

The children cried out with a chorus of yeses.

Victoria held out one hand and trilled a series of diamond pure notes. One of the silver swans swooped toward her. It was a beautiful creature, fatly elegant with platinum wings and a graceful neck. It nuzzled Victoria’s hand.

“They’re all very rare,” she said as the flock circled her. The beat of their wings made her hair whip around her face. “Some of my birds are the only ones of their kind in the entire world.”

She stroked the swan’s beak. “This one is named Eidel. Would you like to see her up close? I’ll need a volunteer.”

The tent burst into excited chatter. One little girl raised both of her arms over her head and jumped up and down.

“You in the brown dress,” Victoria said, pointing at her. “Come to the center of the floor please.”

The girl scampered forward and looked up eagerly at the Bird Woman and the swan.

“Now, don’t move,” said Victoria. “I don’t want you to frighten Eidel.”

The girl nodded, and Victoria bent her head to the swan. She cooed gently, and the bird looked down at the girl. It dove. The audience held its breath as the swan fell like a shooting star.

Down, down, down the swan dove.

The girl in the brown dress watched with huge eyes. She was still smiling when the swan broke itself against the ground at her feet.

It hit the floor in an explosion of silver feather and sawdust, and in the half second of silence that followed, the sound of its wings scrabbling against the ground as it died was enough to tear a hole in Mirandus Head’s heart.

The girl screamed. She staggered away from the fallen swan.

As though her scream was the signal, the birds in the tent went mad. Some of them pelted toward the earth as the swan had. Others turned on their fellows. The hawks and the eagles ripped into the songbirds, and feathers rained down.

Mr. Head leaped out of the way as a phoenix hit the ground next to him and burst into flame.

“Victoria!” he bellowed. “Stop this!”

The tent was filled with screaming now. It was a nightmare of crumpled birds and fleeing children. In the midst of the chaos, Mr. Head spotted one of the Strongmen shielding a group of children with his broad back. “Get them out of here!” he called. “Clear the tent.”

Bibi appeared next to him, roaring loudly enough to rattle skeletons out of their skins, but she couldn’t do anything to stop Victoria from the ground. Nor, for that matter, could Mr. Head. They stared helplessly up at her, standing on thin air, and the manager was chilled to his marrow by what he saw in her face.

She did not look furious as she murdered her own companions. She did not look enraged as she terrified an audience full of innocent children. She looked satisfied, as though she had just proven something important to herself and to the rest of the world. He had allowed a monster into Circus Mirandus, and now the children were paying the price.

“DO NOT PANIC!” The voice rang through the tent.

Rang? No, ringing was something normal voices could do. This voice pulverized the very air.

The Man Who Bends Light stood in the tent’s entrance, and his coat billowed as though caught in a rising wind. “NOTHING IS WRONG.”

The children stopped screaming.

Their expressions smoothed into mild curiosity, and they turned to look at him. The birds were still fighting and flailing overhead, but the children, even the ones who had tears running down their cheeks, were suddenly unaware of the chaos. The performers and the Strongmen had been left out of whatever illusion had taken hold of Victoria’s audience, but they recognized the Man Who Bends Light’s magic for what it was at once.

They leaped into action. They hustled the scratched and bruised audience out of the tent, and within seconds, only the illusionist, the manager, and the Bird Woman were left.

“What have you done?” the Man Who Bends Light asked in a fractured voice. His eyes took in the dead and dying birds that littered the ground. “Victoria, why?”

She glared down at him. “I tried to tell you,” she said. “One little accident, one little misstep.” She spread her arms. “And everything Circus Mirandus works for is destroyed. Now do you see how pointless this place is?”

Mr. Head knelt to pick up a dazed bluebird. “As if we did not already know that faith is such a fragile thing,” he murmured.

“You should have agreed to come with me,” Victoria said to the Man Who Bends Light. She was so bold, so certain that she was far beyond their reach. “You could have been someone who mattered.”

Mr. Head knew the moment the Man Who Bends Light made his decision. Resolve replaced the devastation in his features. He strode forward until he stood directly beneath Victoria.

The manager closed his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Victoria sounded more curious than nervous. “I know better than to fall for one of your tricks.”

“But you are falling, Victoria,” the Man Who Bends Light said in a soft voice. “Did you think you could fly?”

Magic. Faith. Mr. Head thought it ironic that Victoria had never made the connection. Nobody had ever touched magic without believing that they might be able to do so. And very few people could believe in something if the Man Who Bends Light wanted them to think it wasn’t true.

Victoria dropped like a stone.

The manager opened his eyes in time to see the magician catch her before she hit the ground. She scrambled away from him as though his touch burned.

“What did you do to me?” she screamed. “What did you do?”

“Such a fragile thing,” Mr. Head said quietly. Perhaps the effect would last months, or even years, but Victoria obviously thought it was permanent. She sucked in great gulps of air and stared down at her costume.

“W-what did you d-do?” She choked the words out again between sobs.

“What was necessary,” said the Man Who Bends Light. He refused to look at her.

She stumbled to her feet and fled the tent.

“See that she leaves the circus,” Mr. Head said to Bibi. “For good.”

The tiger growled her agreement and stalked after Victoria.

Mr. Head approached the Man Who Bends Light cautiously. The magician was watching the surviving members of Victoria’s flock retreat through the skylight. Every line of his body was etched with grief.

“We should call you the Man Who Bends Minds,” the manager said. “I’ll admit it’s not as cheerful, but it would be more accurate.”

“I am sorry.” He gave his words to the sky. “I am so, so sorry.”