Sorry this took me a bit longer. I had to take a break and do my taxes. Taxes suck.

Fun note...I'm an aerialist myself, so I think I was destined to love this movie before I even saw it. My inclusion of aerial arts here is in part because of the film, and in part because I love it so much. ;-)

Chapter 7

Later that same night, Phillip and Anne were cuddled together in the guest bed at the Barnum house. It was past midnight, as the show had run long.

"We're having sold out crowds. Standing room only. We've even had to turn people away this week," Phillip explained, yawning from exhaustion.

Anne stroked her hand gently over his chest and said, "That's good, isn't it?"

Phillip sighed. "Yes and no. Attendance is up this week because tragedy always draws a crowd. I know some of them are trying to show their support for the show. But some of them are simply morbidly curious about what happened to P.T. The worst ones might even be hoping for another accident."

Anne frowned. "That's terrible."

"People can be terrible. In this morning's paper, they're suggesting that P.T. died from his injuries and we're keeping it a secret to keep the circus going," Phillip stated.

Anne's eyes widened. "That's...ridiculous!"

"I suppose it is," Phillip agreed, "but businesses have done worse to keep the doors open. The Kowalski brothers pretended to have conversations with their father in his office when clients came in to keep their law practice going. He was dead and buried for a year before the clients found out."

"That's terrible." Anne shook her head.

"I know. But the press loves a scandal. They were outright giddy when they found out about Mr. Kowalski."

"Any more news from Murray, with the Board of Trade?" Anne asked carefully.

"Not yet. But I don't know that no news is good news in this situation," Phillip mused. "I'm also doing eight shows a week now. I have to admit, I have no idea how P.T. did this by himself in the beginning. I'm exhausted and...I don't know…"

Anne slid her right hand up to his cheek, leaned down, and kissed him long and slowly.

"You're only one man, Phil. You're running yourself into the ground. You're trying to be a father to P.T.'s kids. You're sorting out the circus. You're on every night. No one can keep up this pace," she said.

Phillip pulled her in for another kiss. "You keep me going. You are my strength, Anne."

She smiled mischievously and shifted her weight onto him so their legs were entangled under the quilt. "Promise me something?"

Phillip looked up at her curiously.

"Look for someone who can help you. I know P.T. created the role of ringmaster. But he trained you. Now, it's time to train someone else, someone who can ease the burden for you. Sharing the weight of it all...that would be good for both of you."

Phillip shook his head. "They need me, Anne."

Anne silenced him with a finger to his lips. "That's what P.T. once said to Charity, remember? And it almost cost him his family. So ask for help. Do it for me, Phillip, and for the children we hope to have."

He couldn't help grinning at the idea of their future children.

So he crushed Anne to himself and kissed her thoroughly before losing himself in her for the night—a beautiful distraction from the chaos around them.

Over the next two weeks, Charity divided her time between the hospital and her home. She insisted Phillip and Anne move back to their own house, but Anne, in turn, insisted on staying over on the nights Charity spent at the hospital ward. She was less afraid to leave Phinn alone, now that the threat of him up and dying while she was gone seemed to have passed, but she still spent every third night with him. Dr. Warshaw was convinced his patient was now in the recovery phase, albeit a long and painful recovery phase.

Every morning, the doctor and two nurses would come and try to help Phinn sit up in the bed. And every morning, it broke Charity's heart. He had learned to temper his response, now that he knew what to expect, but he still ended up crying out in agony most days. The other patients in the ward had also learned what to expect and looked on with pity or empathy.

What concerned Charity the most, however, wasn't his pain. It was how solemn Phinn had become. His initial optimism had faded into a dull acceptance of his situation, and Charity had never seen him so despondent. Even in the early days of their marriage, when he was dismissed from job after job and they had to scrape their pennies together to buy milk for their babies, Phinn would still smile his beautiful grin and wipe away her tears. Phinn was always the light in the dark, and Charity didn't know how to help him now. She ached for him, but so much of it was beyond her control.

Unlike before the accident, his days were now a monotonous routine. He was given breakfast, and then the tortuous process of helping him sit up would begin. It was always followed by morphine and several hours of sleep. Then lunch and changing all of his bandages. Charity helped when she was at the hospital, watching her husband's wounds slowly knit themselves back together. The external injuries looked much better than when he fell, now three weeks ago. Charity hoped with everything in her that his bones were healing the same.

On the three week anniversary of Phinn's fall, the girls came to visit their father once again, as they had been doing routinely. They stayed for about an hour, talking about the upcoming start of school and Caroline's dance classes.

The weather was still sweltering.

It was late August, and the city held onto the heat well past dusk each night, wearing it like a heavy coat. During the day, the fire brigade had taken to hosing down the children playing in the streets, who laughed and squealed with delight. Helen would join in with unsuppressed joy, soaking whatever dress she wore. Caroline, on the other hand, would dip her toes in the puddles and refused to play with the other children. Charity understood what she was going through. Her body was changing, working toward womanhood. Still, Charity wouldn't let this stage of life steal her daughter's joy. So she bought Caroline and Helen swimming costumes, making sure they were modest enough that both could enjoy the water without feeling self-conscious.

In spite of Phinn's condition, they had good days. The girls stopped staring at their father like he would die at any moment. His prone position in the bed became their new normal. They brought books and read to him. Helen told him all about the calico kitten she'd found, adopted, and named Milo in spite of the fact that "he" was clearly female. Caroline talked about how much she missed her dance classes during the summer hiatus.

Charity tried to hold onto her hope. But with every day, as the initial pleading for her husband's life faded away, she found herself in a new kind of despondency. She found herself wondering if this was her role now—caretaker to an invalid. Would she now measure every day of life from a new beginning, the day Phinn fell? The thought made her feel heavy and tired, and then she hated herself for feeling such a way. She loved Phinn. Loved him with every breath and every bone in her body. She would've followed him anywhere, but this was not a place she'd ever envisioned. If he never walked, perhaps could never sit upright again, what kind of life was that? It would be like stripping a bird of its wings.

A creature who has learned to fly will never be content on the ground.

She'd read that in a book somewhere when she was a girl. Charity vaguely remembered the story being about a horse that grew wings, only to have them stolen. It was a sad story, but then, so many fairy tales really were.

And Charity understood the love of flight better than anyone knew.

That same night, after leaving the hospital, Charity tucked her girls into bed. She asked Grace, her housemaid and nanny, to listen for the children. Then she made her way outside into the darkness and over to the circus tent. It was warm, yet she wore a cloak around her shoulders with the hood over her bright blonde hair. When she arrived at the tent, she found the usual scene after a show. Peanut shells littered the floor, along with paper fans and other trash. The roustabouts would come through in the morning and clean up for the next night's show, but all was quiet for now. Charity walked through the backstage area, finding it empty. The rest of the cast would be out eating and drinking for a few hours before those that called the tent home returned to sleep. Circus performers were proving to be a nocturnal bunch, often going to bed in the wee hours and sleeping until almost noon.

Charity went into the makeshift area Phinn and Phillip used as an office when they were on site. From one of the trunks in the corner, she pulled out a few articles of clothing. Listening again for footsteps, she quickly shed her dress and the layers of undergarments required of a lady. Then, she pulled on one of Anne's old costumes. The sky blue leotard left her arms and legs bare, which was still a gloriously strange feeling. She pinned up her hair, securing it tightly so the flaxen waves wouldn't fall into her face. Then she went back out to the main tent. She worked the ropes of the rigging to lower the lyra so she could reach it from the floor. Charity had learned over the past three years that the hoop from which the aerialists hung was called a "lyra." The ropes were called the "Spanish web." There was so much more to it than just trapeze. And Charity had fallen in love with all of it.

She had trained in ballet most of her childhood, but it was only to perfect her posture and teach her grace. There was never, ever the promise of performing. Ladies did not perform, and they certainly didn't dance. Charity clearly remembered her mother's face the one time she'd asked about training to dance professionally. She'd looked as though she might vomit. Now, Charity wished she'd defied her. She wished she'd broken free of the chains of her upbringing earlier and run away with Phinn at thirteen. Even now, they danced together frequently, and when he would lift her, the thrill of the power of movement made her giddy. She wouldn't change their life as it was, but she wished for the chance to have pursued a dream of her own alongside her husband, to do more than watch from the seats as the circus swirled around her.

Everyone's got an act.

It was something Anne said often. Charity understood her completely. It went beyond performing. Phillip's act was pretending he loved his parents' friends. Anne's act was pretending what other people said about her didn't matter. Phinn's act was denying when he was in way over his head. And Charity's act was pretending she didn't want the spotlight. For fourteen years, she focused solely on her family, on raising her girls. She wanted Phinn's success to be enough, but as the girls got older, she couldn't deny the pull of circus ring. She wholly understood Phinn's desire to "fly."

Because she had been sneaking into the circus at night for over a year and teaching herself.

Phinn's fall had not scared her away from the apparatus. It terrified her in a different way, but when it came to the circus it only made her realize how quickly things could change. Life was too short to be afraid. And she needed this distraction from her worry about Phinn's future. So, now that she knew he would be coming home, Charity returned to her secret affair with the aerial arts.

In the stillness, she reached up and seized the lyra and pulled herself up, feeling her muscles burn from the effort. Flying was not easy. She wove her legs around the cool metal and arched her back. There was certainly something sensual about dance, especially dance in the air, but in a beautiful way, not in the dirty way her mother had implied. Charity understood why Anne loved this so much. It made her feel complete.

She spun the lyra, and the circus tent whirled around her.

"Mr. Murray, it's very late. Can we continue this discussion tomorrow? Or perhaps on Monday?"

Phillip was exhausted, and he'd been arguing with Peter Murray for over two hours. Anne had long since gone home and the rest of the circus was out drinking, blissfully unaware of his struggle.

"I don't think there's anything else to discuss."

Both men stopped at the rear entrance to the circus tent. They had been talking outside, hoping for a breeze as reprieve from the heat.

"You cannot take the aerial acts out of the circus. They are as important as anything else. People don't just come to see people who are different, they come to see people who can do very different things, things the average person would never attempt. That's what makes it so thrilling!" Phillip made his point again.

Murray leveled his eyes at Phillip. "If someone dies, would that be thrilling? Because three weeks ago, your founder almost died. And I understand he's still in a rough state. The city can't let you keep taking that risk."

"Life is full of risk!" Phillip exploded.

"But this is unnecessary…"

Phillip chuckled darkly. "Life is also full of unnecessary things! The only truly necessary things are eating and breathing! Everything we do beyond that can either bring us joy, or make us wish death would come sooner. Mr. Murray, I would rather die having risked something, having felt the thrill of something...unnecessary, than doing nothing."

Murray stared him down.

"And we're not risking the audience. They are safe at all times."

Murray shook his head. "No. We can't risk having someone die in front of hundreds of people. It's a publicity nightmare."

Phillip scoffed, "Publicity. Everything comes back to that." He threw back the tent flap and stormed inside with Murray close behind him.

"Mr. Carlyle? Do I have your word that you will cease all aerial acts effective immediately?"

Phillip didn't answer. He was staring at the center ring of the circus, his conversation momentarily forgotten. Someone was in the lyra, stretched beautifully, her long legs extended and her back arched as she hung from the metal hoop. He had no idea who she was, and he was sure that only Anne and the two girls from the West Indies, whom she helped train, ever performed in the lyra. But this woman was blonde. In fact, Phillip only new one person with hair that bright, golden blonde.

Charity.

He realized it was her when she turned her face up toward the lamplight. He took a few steps forward, with Murray still following him. Standing closer, he could see the look of absolute joy on her face, a look he hadn't seen in weeks. He was angry with her, for a moment, for looking so happy while her husband lay in the hospital, but only for a moment.

"Charity?" He called her name.

Her head turned sharply. Unwinding herself, she quickly dropped from the lyra to the circus floor. She stared at Phillip, and he could tell she was afraid. He stared back, not sure what to say.

Finally, Phillip cleared his throat and said, "This is Mr. Murray, from the Board of Trade. He wants us to take all of our aerial acts out of the show."

Charity glanced at Murray, and then her eyes met Phillip's again.

In spite of all the questions he had for her right now, Phillip was sure of one thing. Charity was on his side, and they would both be damned if Peter Murray was going to ground the circus.