RAVENHILL, 1860
The rain had soaked Livia to the bone by the time she left the publisher's office. Her shoes squelched with every step down the cobbled street.
Another day translating manuscripts no one cared to read.
Another paycheck that barely paid the rent.
The gas lamps flickered overhead, casting sickly halos in the fog.
She hated this part of town.
Too quiet.
Too many shadows.
Too many places for someone to hide.
Her instincts pricked.
A whisper of movement behind her.
She turned.
Nothing.
Just the hiss of rain and the rhythm of her own breath.
She quickened her pace, heart hammering.
Then came the sound—a single high-pitched giggle.
Playful.
Wrong.
She froze.
A figure stood in the alley ahead.
Tall. Unmoving.
Drenched in shadow.
And then she saw it—
White face paint, smeared like rotting porcelain.
A grin painted far too wide, as if cut into the cheeks.
He wore no mask. That was his face.
A clown.
No—
Not a man in costume.
Something else.
Her stomach dropped.
"Get away from me," she tried to say,
but her voice barely left her lips.
The clown tilted its head.
Then, in a blink,
it was right in front of her.
Livia gasped—tried to scream—
but a coarse, moldy sack was yanked over her head.
Darkness swallowed her
as muffled laughter echoed through the night.
When she came to,
the air was thick with the scent of sawdust
and something older—
like rotting velvet.
She blinked.
Above her stretched a red-and-black striped tent, impossibly vast.
Spotlights swirled across an empty ring.
Somewhere in the distance, an audience clapped.
Slow. Mocking.
Livia was no longer alone.
Then a voice—cracked, musical, and all too familiar—echoed from the shadows:
"Welcome to the show... Livia."
Her breath caught.
He knew her name.