When the twins start to fight, it's so sudden and strange that it takes two bars of "You Are My Sunshine" for the troupe to realize it's a fight and not some sort of fit.
There's no yelling, just a gasp here (nails connecting with cheeks) and a grunt there (heels scraping at shins).
But there's blood and tears and a rolling knot of limbs in the dust, knocking over chairs and sending the pinheads into a frenzy.
It ends with Eve clutching them to her chest, pinning their arms against their sides.
They're lifted off the ground then balancing drunkenly on tip-toes when Elsa barks, "My tent!" and storms through the canvas without looking back at them.
Settled on her sofa, they seem resigned to a standstill as she paces in front of them.
Dot's neck cranes at an awkward angle so her face is as far from her sister's as it ever will be.
"What were you thinking?!"
Bette worries her thumb nail with her teeth and stares at the worn rug beneath Elsa's heels instead of answering.
Their chests heave in tandem and neither of them moves to brush the dirt from their knees or to right the torn hem of their dress.
"Show in an hour and you look like you've been in some—" Elsa pauses just long enough to tally the damage, the red furrows down Dot's throat, the tiny well of blood on Bette's bottom lip. "—some back alley brawl!"
"Well?" Elsa reaches for her cigarettes, taps the pack against her thigh harder than absolutely necessary. "Who's going to explain?"
She sees a look pass between them over the flame of her lighter as she inhales.
On the exhale, Bette whines, "Dot, don't."
"I should tell her," Dot spits, staring daggers at her sister now. "Tell her how in love you are—disgusting. Maybe she'd stop sneakin' into our tent all the time."
"I hate you."
Elsa leaves her Lucky Strike to burn down in a glass while Bette tucks her chin against her own shoulder and squeezes her eyes shut.
"Is this true, liebchen?"
Such a pretty flush is burning its way up Bette's throat that Elsa knows her answer already.
When she finally nods, Elsa can't help but laugh—and laugh again when those dark, doe eyes meet hers, confused and the slightest bit hopeful.
"You're not mad?"
"No, my darling. Not mad." She strokes the back of her fingers down Bette's cheek and the girl's eyes flutter closed as if on cue. Her thumb across Bette's swollen lower lip elicits the expected sigh.
Somehow Elsa knows what that sigh feels like at the corner of her mouth but she can't remember how or why just now.
She drops a quick kiss to the top of Bette's head and murmurs, "Flattered," before running her hands down her robe and shrugging dismissively.
"Now. Go," she says. "Clean yourselves up and no more of this fisticuffs nonsense. Ask Ethel to help you with your makeup." She reaches out to rub at a dark spot on Dot's chin only to have her hand swatted away as usual. "To cover those bruises."
She's putting on her own makeup later when she realizes Bette wasn't wearing that silly blue ribbon in her hair, that it must have been lost in the scuffle.
Somewhere between the third and fourth drink, the familiar blue satin is coiling in her pocket like a snake. Her fingers wind through it for the hundredth time tonight. She can't quite decide if it's the lure of discord or devotion—or the heady mix of both—that sends her out of her tent to return it.
