Chapter Text
Chapter 2:
Oh Be Careful Little Eyes What You See
March 17, 2003
Laughter echoed under the big top—then dropped away, dropped away like someone put a blanket over it—as the Graysons slipped behind the curtain.
Just past the curtain, Strina Elira crouched down without a word, already reaching for his face.
"Merde, gullebarn"
Chacho Gallius stepped in behind her and gave Dick's shoulder a firm squeeze.
"Be strong."
Dick leaned briefly into the touch, his chest warm. He didn't usually get hugs before the act—not from them. But tonight they both held on just a little longer than normal.
Then they were gone, melting into the canvas shadows, arms curled protectively around Tsharli as they moved.
His parents led him off toward the back of the area to help him secure his harness and do any last fussing on his costume.
The tent lights faded behind Dick in a golden blur.
He was still smiling. Not his stage smile, but the real one—the kind that made his cheeks hurt. His chest still shook with laughter.
"Yeter, he did his best," Daj said, the slight accent in her Turkish and French blending and resonating deep in her chest, her voice gentle but warm like a blanket that bathed in the sun. She knelt beside him, fingers already working to attach and check his harness straps with practiced efficiency.
"I thought it was a joke," Dick said, looking between his parents. "People laugh when I say things wrong."
"And how does that make you feel, kızılgerdan?" Daj's left hand settled lightly on his shoulder as she spoke the Turkish word—little robin—with the same warmth she always used. Her right hand rested over her stomach, fingers spread like she was protecting something precious.
"Pek iyi değil," he admitted softly—not really good—his eyes falling to the patches of grass poking through the canvas groundcloth. His cheeks got hot. He had been so excited to be part of the joke that he forgot what it felt like to be the one everyone laughed at.
Dado's eyes swept the crowd behind them—quick, sharp, like he was checking corners. Dick had learned that look from Strina Suri, who always said watch the watchers first. When Strina Suri looked around it always looked graceful and elegant, Dado looked jerky and unsettled.
His jaw tightened. "We should be glad, Dikhlino, that he seemed amused by his mistake. Many men—especially those with money—don't like being laughed at. Not by children." His voice dropped lower. "Especially here. In this bibaxtali than."
Dick's smile went away. He ducked his head, tugging at his costume collar where the stitching scratched against his neck. Strina Elira usually fixed these rough spots before shows, humming while she worked, but there hadn't been time in Gotham.
"I didn't mean it like that."
Behind them, Dado leaned closer and rested his hand on Dick's knee. The other curled around Mari's, both of them resting on her stomach, his larger hands warming hers.
"We know, chavo'm. Tu as le dil baro."
You have a big heart, Dado said, lifting one hand to rest against Dick's neck, gently pulling him down until their foreheads touched. For a moment, the trio just breathed—quiet, steady, together.
Mari let out a long breath, offering Dick a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes. She reached forward and fixed his collar—her fingers slow over the scratchy seam—then smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt with practiced ease. From around her shoulders, she slipped the yellow scarf and wrapped it gently around him, tucking it under his collar and securing it with one of the extra bobby pins she always kept for last-minute costume fixes.
Her voice was low, almost musical when it came.
"Kalbin güzel, kızılgerdanım," she murmured. Your heart is beautiful, my little robin.
Then, softer still: "You didn't hurt anyone."
She touched his cheek, her thumb light at the corner of his mouth as if coaxing his smile back into place. "Sen iyi bir çocuksun. Ben biliyorum." You're a good boy. I know it.
She offered him a bright smile before pulling him into her arms, sitting him on her crouched knee. John shifted so that the small family of three were still huddled together.
"It is chilly tonight, kızılgerdan," she said in Romani. "If you behave, maybe we will have a treat."
Dick perked up. "Pommes caramélisées?"
"Only if you behave and do not push Tsharli," she said, hand resting on his chin and giving it a small shake, her eyes narrowing. It was a warning, seeing as Dick had pushed his cousin before the past four shows.
Dick raised his hands like he was giving up. "I don't push him, I nudge him." He said this proudly, but when his mother's face didn't smile back at him he kept going. "With momentum." His mother's face pinched in a long suffering expression as his fathers widened in a smile.
"But he deserves it, I promise."
"We do not put our hands on others," Daj said firmly. "Even if they deserve it."
Dado leaned in from behind, putting his hand on Mari's shoulder. But first he looked around them—a habit now, after three nights in this city. "A little nudging never hurt anyone."
And with that, he gave her a small, playful push.
She turned her head, slow like a storm cloud. "A adam."
"Yes, Romni'm?"
"If you are not careful I will share your Pommes caramélisées with Gallius."
Dado dropped his hand right away and stood up straighter. "I have been warned."
But his grin? Still there, like always. Even when it was tight around the edges, like everything else since Gotham.
Dick did not know why, but his parents did not seem to like the city very much at all. Something about it made them watch the shadows more carefully, and made their jokes and banter feel forced. Like they were performing even now in the shadows when he was the only audience around.
Dado crouched down and pulled him into a hug—tight, warm, strong. Dick breathed in the familiar smell of chalk and sweat, mixed with sawdust and the warm elephant smell that always meant home.
"Dikhlino," he said into his ear. Little watcher. "Keep your eyes sharp tonight. Sharper than usual. Like Strina Suri taught you—see what doesn't belong."
Dick nodded against his chest, his arms squeezing tight around Dado's neck. He thought of Strina Suri's lessons—how she'd make him find the one person in a crowd who didn't clap in time with the others, or spot which tent pole had been moved from yesterday. A detective, she'd say, notices what others miss.
Daj joined the hug too, wrapping around both of them like she did when she forgot other people were watching. She always held on too long. Especially lately. Maybe she just didn't like being the first one to let go. Neither did Dick. Really hugs from his family were his second favorite thing in the world.
He would stay tucked in their arms forever if not for the fact this hug currently was keeping him from his first favorite thing, flying.
So—after another moment—he wiggled in their arms, the rough stitching under his arm starting to itch.
"Okay, okay—a chavo I'm not."
"No," Daj said softly, her hand brushing over his curls, the other still resting on her middle. "You're not."
Dado kissed his head. "But always our kızılgerdan you'll be." His eyes found Daj's over Dick's head. Something passed between them—quick, silent. A conversation Dick couldn't hear but felt in the way they both tensed.
Daj rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, her hands resting on her stomach like she was holding a secret.
"When we leave this place," Dado murmured, so quiet Dick almost missed it, "we will talk about a lot of things."
"But tonight, we fly," Daj whispered, her voice curling around the phrase with practiced ease.
He held onto their hands a moment longer, lingering when he normally would be gone. Then places were called and their paths split.
Before they separated, the three of them reached out, their fingers linking—Daj's in Dick's right hand, Dado's in his left.
Three squeezes. One breath. It was time to fly.
***
The moment Dick headed north, toward Zikita and the rigging ladders behind the canvas, he wasn't alone.
Tsharli stepped out of the shadows beside a support post, falling into step just behind him like a shadow. Or someone who knew they weren't supposed to be there.
"You've got a scarf again," he said, voice low so it wouldn't carry. "That's three shows in a row, you know."
Dick didn't look at him. He adjusted the yellow fabric around his shoulders, letting his fingers skim the edge. Soft. Familiar. One of his grounding things. Yellow means home, he reminded himself, the words looping gently in his head like Strina Suri had taught him.
"The scarf again—my Daj gave it to me only once," Tsharli went on, dragging the words like a net behind him. "And I was sick. Maybe you need a blankie, lille bebis?"
Dick's mouth twitched. His heartbeat ticked louder.
In. Out. Don't react.
That one hit sharp and fast, like a pebble thrown to sting. Because he knew what Tsharli meant. Too young, too babied. Too "chavo."
His mind scattered—faces in the crowd, the backstage ladder, the smell of sawdust—then snapped tight again. He pressed his thumb to the inside of his wrist and tapped three times.
Breathe. See. Smile.
Still, Tsharli wasn't finished.
"You're still playing the Chavo, huh?"
Dick's jaw tensed. Impulse means action—but wait for the second thought, Dado always said.
He tried. He really did.
"I'm eight," he said sharply. "You weren't even allowed on the rigging when you were eight."
Tsharli shrugged. "Yeah, well. I didn't need as much time. The troupe knew I was ready."
"That's not true," Dick snapped before he could stop himself. "Chacho Omari said I nailed the double backflip better than you last practice. Said I should be flying with the bigs, not you."
His pulse was pounding in his throat now. He knew he shouldn't be saying all this. But the words came out like popcorn—loud, fast, unstoppable.
Tsharli's face twisted. His mouth pulled tight, all teeth.
"Omari's just being nice," he said. "Because he feels bad for you. That's why they still call you chavo."
Don't listen. Don't let it in. Find your anchor, find your breath…
But his feet shifted. His vision tunneled.
"You know why you're still in the show?"
Stop talking, please stop talking.
"Because they all feel sorry for you. That's it. That's the only reason."
The words landed like darts. No warning. No shield. Just straight through.
Dick's breath caught.
His chest buzzed.
And his body moved before his brain did.
He shoved him.
Hard.
Tsharli staggered back into the pole, arms flailing to catch his balance. He didn't fall. But it was close.
Then the older boy growled and lunged—
But Dick was already moving, blood boiling behind his eyes, a roar in his ears—
Until a gray trunk curled suddenly around his waist and lifted him clean off the ground.
"Zikita!" he yelped, startled and breathless and still angry.
The elephant snorted, shifting her weight, swaying him slightly like he was nothing more than a loose coat she'd picked up.
"Hey!" Tsharli snapped, scrambling to his feet.
A deeper voice cut in before either of them could say more.
"Enough."
They both turned.
Chacho Makoto and Toma-Kak stood just to their left, Makoto's arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. His fingers picked at an exposed thread on the inside of his elbow.
Zikita rumbled softly and gave Toma the smallest nudge with her trunk. He patted her without thinking, like saying good job, then reached up to pat Dick's ankle as well.
"I should've guessed," Makoto said, looking between them. "One show. Too much to ask for one show to pass without one of you trying to flatten the other?"
"He pushed me," Tsharli said, his eyes wide with fake tears forming.
"He was being mean," Dick grumbled from Zikita's back.
"I don't need to know," Makoto interrupted. "You are family and it's high time for you to act like it, yes?"
"Yes."
"Very good, now Tsharli let's go get you taped up." The older boy nodded and Makoto led him away with a firm grasp on his shoulder.
"I tried really hard to ignore it, I promise I breathed and everything...I just wish he would stop."
"Dikhlino," Toma-Kak breathed after a moment, his strong voice steady and calm, "we can't control the actions of others, just our responses."
Dick opened his mouth, then closed it again. That sounded like something Strina Suri would say too.
Tsharli came back with Makoto and stood on the right side of Zikita, arms crossed and pouting. Chacho Makoto and Toma-Kak stood a little way off, close enough that their shoulders almost touched—the way they always stood when they thought no one was watching. Heads bowed, breathing each other in like Dado and Daj did before they flew.
"Sorry," Dick said, turning to Tsharli.
"You should be," Tsharli growled back.
"Chavo." Dick turned, his face going red. That word again. Like a bruise pressed too hard.
"Yamete," Makoto adjusted his cuffs with a snap before even looking at them—he disciplined like he dressed: precise, no-nonsense, immaculately sharp.
"Keep the drama for the ring, boys—not for the dust and walkways," Toma-Kak said as he began his walk further forward in the line.
"Just smile..." Makoto said in a pinched tone as he got into line on the other side of Zikita.
"Merde," Toma-Kak called as he walked forward to his space in line. Tsharli kicked at the sawdust muttering something under his breath and Makoto was fussing with his cuffs like he always did.
***
The lights were blinding as a sunrise. Fast. Blinding. Beautiful.
The music thundered from the far side of the tent—cymbals, strings, something that might've been a trumpet or maybe just the world's loudest kazoo. Dick didn't jump. He had been part of this show since he was three, since his arms could barely circle around Zikita's neck.
The curtain pulled back and the show was on.
The circus was loud, bright, crazy chaos to most. But to Dick, it was just a theater in the round. That's what Chacho Gallius called it. Theater with dirt floors and better lighting.
And in the theater, you didn't have to win everyone—you just needed anchors. A few faces to hook into. A few hearts to pull. Strina Suri had taught him that too—find your constants, kızılgerdan, the ones who will smile back.
His Chachos said Dick was an expert at it, even if he was only eight.
Zikita started her first walk around the ring, and Dick made his spine straight the way Strina Elira taught him. Shoulders back. Chin up. Smile soft but real.
Then he looked at the crowd. Found his anchors.
First: the peppermint lady, sitting in a second-row box seat with her purse held tight to her middle and her eyes wide as dinner plates. She had smelled like spearmint and old clothes during the meet and greet.
Dick gave her a slow, scooping wave - Just like Gallius had told him once: a wave should paint light like a prince.
Next: the toddler in the little gray suit, who had drooled on Dick's sleeve earlier and squealed with joy when Dick handed him a juggling ball. Now he sat in his father's lap, holding a toy elephant and kicking his feet. His parents seemed more interested in talking to each other than watching him or the show.
Then: the big man who got his words all scrambled when he tried to talk fancy. During meet-and-greet, he'd said something that made all the grown-ups pause and blink, like when Dick accidentally said something backwards. Then the pretty lady with him had to fix his words, and the man's face went red like Dick's did when Daj had to translate for him. But when Dick had laughed—not mean-laugh but happy-laugh because someone else got tongue-tied too—the man had almost smiled back. Like they both knew what it felt like when your brain moved faster than your mouth.
He was big like Toma-Kak—broad shoulders and thick arms that looked like they could lift a whole circus tent. Now he sat straight-backed next to the lady in the red dress who kept touching his arm. His eyes moved around the crowd the way Strina Suri's did—watching, noticing, remembering. But he looked uncomfortable, like when Dick had to sit through long dinners with Uncle Haly's business friends. The red-dress lady kept pointing at different acts and whispering in his ear, trying to pull his attention back to the show. It reminded Dick of how Daj would squeeze his hand in new cities when his brain got too busy looking at everything.
Finally: a redheaded girl a few years older than Dick with cotton candy the size of her head in one hand and a sticky pink smear across her cheek.
Perfect.
Dick moved through each wave carefully. No crazy back-and-forth. One smooth scoop of the hand, the way Chacho Gallius had shown him—like painting light.
Zikita rumbled softly beneath him, her huge body moving with practiced grace.
This was the part the audience never noticed—but he did: the moment when the noise became rhythm. When the music, the lights, the crowd's energy all clicked into a pattern.
Their cue.
The music changed. The lights switched to a warmer tone. Uncle Haly's voice boomed overhead.
"Ladies and gentlemen... THE FLYING GRAYSONS!"
The applause that followed hit like a wall.
Zikita made one final turn and stepped into the center of the ring. She stopped with her body facing the east, her head raised high. Her big foot stepped up on the pedestal and Dick leaned forward to stay balanced.
And then, as one, the Graysons moved.
It wasn't just a bow. It was a choreographed explosion of movement—timed to the music, measured down to the heartbeat.
Dick twisted to his knees, his arms spread wide, showing the audience where to look.
His Daj ran three steps and flipped sideways and backward, her movements flowing like water.
Dado mirrored her from the other end, and where Daj continued moving, Dado stopped, braced, waited, his hands ready to catch her in their practiced dance.
The family moved like one organism, each person's skill complementing the others. Dick had watched this opening hundreds of times, but tonight he noticed how Chacho Omari's precise timing set the rhythm for everyone else, how Strina Elira's graceful extensions made the whole troupe look more elegant.
From the north, Omari launched first—grace tight as a wire. A beat later, Makoto followed from the west, his flight sharp and calculated. They flipped with controlled precision, then in a practiced move that made the crowd gasp every single night, Omari fumbled and dive rolled while above him Chacho Makoto flew in a high arching layout.
The crowd roared and Dick felt that familiar surge of pride. These weren't just performers—they were his mentors, his protectors, his family. Strina Suri had taught him to see details, Strina Elira taught him how to carry himself like a prince, Chacho Gallius had taught him to paint light with his movements.
Finally it was Dick's turn.
Dick prepared two bounding steps—one on Zikita's shoulder, the other on her trunk—and waited. When he first started doing this trick he was young and Chacho Omari had him facing Zikita so he could get the cue, but now he faced away and had to feel for it.
He waited. Then suddenly Zikita's trunk moved and he swung his arms back, taking off at the top of the arc. He stretched as tall as he could before snapping his hands down to his hips and pushing through his core in a floaty back layout, landing on Zikita's haunches. He clapped and then he and Zikita bowed together like they did every night.
"That was… THE FLYING GRAYSONS!"
Dick stepped in a slow counter-clockwise twirl across Zikita's back, arms outstretched as he went. The family ran once around Zikita clockwise, waving a final time before the adults and Tsharli scattered to their starting positions.
"They will be back later tonight," Uncle Haly continued as Zikita walked toward the north entrance once more, the curtains pulling back as the second act performers flooded into the ring.
The roar of the crowd behind him felt almost soft once Zikita came to a stop.
Dick stood up, looked around to make sure no one was paying attention, and balanced his feet on the flattest part of his friend's back and took just one breath before leaping in the air and flipping backward—one, two, he was halfway through the third flip when he realized the ground was a bit too close and that he was going to hit it.
Or he would have if not for the arm that snatched his waist and pulled him up.
Toma-Kak.
The strongman breathed heavy for a moment, heart thudding through his bare chest as Dick hung limply over his arm.
"Not now, drago," Toma said as he shifted Dick in the air, getting his large hands under the boy's armpits and dangling him in the air, "Later for flying."
Dick gave a crooked grin, legs dangling. "Sorry."
Suri approached from the side her bun bounced with every step, already winding the tape—her hands faster than her mouth, like always.
"You're going to twist your ankle doing nonsense like that," she muttered, shaking her head.
She plucked Dick from Toma with an annoyed sigh and sat him down beside the rigging trunk. "Hands."
Dick held them out, chastened but not miserable. Suri began to wrap, smooth and fast.
"Remember, on your perch you're Poirot," she said as she taped. "So observe. Save the stunt work for later."
Dick nodded. "I was just stretching."
"Mmhmm," Suri said, unimpressed.
Omari's shadow arrived before his voice did. Chacho Omari—the troupe's quiet center, their coach, their leader on the ropes—stepped in, tall and watchful, arms folded, eyes like rope under tension.
"You're lucky Toma's faster than your feet," he said simply. But he didn't dwell on it. Instead, he crouched and ruffled Dick's hair—a gentle gesture that reminded Dick why the whole troupe called him baro, big brother.
"Talk me through the clip-in."
Dick blinked. Then nodded, eyes focusing.
"I climb the ladder. When I reach the platform, I clip the back loop. I pull, full weight. I don't move until I'm sure. Then straight to my perch—no waiting, no play."
Omari gave the smallest nod. "Good, bachamo. What about the bar?"
Dick hesitated. Then: "Pull forward to click the latch and release. It'll swing out, not drop."
"And the dismount?"
"One slow lay-out. Not a double. We're not doing doubles tonight."
Omari's eyes didn't move. "Why not?"
"Because they're not consistent. Because we don't need it to finish strong. Because it's not safe and there's no net on show night."
Omari gave the faintest grunt—his dark lips curled around teeth as white as pearls as he ruffled Dick's hair once more.
"Don't get clever," he said.
"I won't."
Suri finished taping and pressed her palm to the center of Dick's hand, sealing it like a promise. "Good little grey cells," she murmured. "Now I expect notes on crowd behavior tomorrow. And remember—in the ABC case, Le méchant hid in plain sight by being exactly where he shouldn't belong."
As if summoned by Suri's words Dick saw him.
Just past the canvas flap. A tall man. Still. A long gray coat. A pinstriped hat. Head tilted like he was watching—not the crowd, but them. He was round and thick like Uncle Haly's friend who ran the concession stand—the kind of big that made Dick think of soft circus pillows and jolly laughs, except this man wasn't laughing at all.
Dick's chest felt squeezed, like when Zikita hugged him too tight.
Dick blinked.
Gone.
"Don't forget the shoes," Suri added, pulling Dick from his thoughts with a soft pinch to his knee. "Poirot always starts with shoes."
Dick laughed—just a puff—and turned to the ladder
Once he got his grip, he pulled his knees through and tucked them onto the rung, pausing long enough to breathe, then pulling himself upright into a sit.
Omari and Toma stayed beneath him the whole way, eyes locked upward, shoulders tense—his protectors, even now.
Dick climbed with clean motions. At the rigging, he locked in the rear line, gave it two pulls, then tugged once more to be sure.
Clip-check. Pull-pull-pull. Anchor, then move. The rhythm helped. Patterns always helped.
He kept his chin up as he crossed the swaying rigging. The lights below shimmered off the canvas like scattered stars. From up here, all the circus sounds got soft and far away—drums like a heartbeat, ropes creaking like old doors, people moving around like busy ants. His perch wasn't quiet, exactly, but it felt organized.
His space.
He reached automatically for the small hook Chacho Gallius had installed beside his perch. His fingers found the familiar weight of the opera glasses—brass and black leather, small enough for his hands but powerful enough to bring every face in the crowd into sharp focus.
Last week, for his birthday, Gallius and Elira had pressed them into his palms together. Elira adjusted the strap while Gallius winked.
"For a proper detective," Gallius had said. "Poirot himself would approve."
Elira had smiled and added, "Now you can watch over all of us, kızılgerdan."
He lifted the glasses to his eyes and adjusted the focus. The crowd snapped closer like it wanted to be known.
Start with constants, Strina Suri had said. Find your anchors. They hold the shape of the night.
Dick's breath came steady. Three in, three out. His fingers tapped twice on the perch rail. Then once on the scarf tucked under his collar.
Anchor One: Peppermint Lady. Second row box seat. Purse to her chest, eyes huge. Silver bracelets catching every light. Hands now folded instead of clapping. That's a shift.
Anchor Two: The toddler in the little gray suit. Standing now on his father's lap. One sock gone, toy elephant wedged under his chin. Parents are still talking. He was closer to the edge of the ring now. Too close. Will need redirect if he climbs.
Anchor Three: The redheaded girl. Cotton candy gone, fingers sticky, jabbing the straw into the ground like a sword. Energetic. Safe. Normal.
Anchor Four: The big man who got his words tangled up like Dick sometimes did. Still looking overwhelmed, still not really watching the show. The lady in red was still trying to get him to focus on the performance instead of scanning the crowd. But there was something careful about the way he looked around—not anxious-looking, but protective-looking. Like how Dado checked exits in new places. His broad shoulders and thick arms reminded Dick of Toma-Kak's strength.
Dick blinked once. Lowered the glasses. Let his mind arrange things. His brain moved fast, so he sorted in layers: people, behavior, change.
Then he spotted him again.
Just past the curtain flap, a man in a long gray coat stood too still. Pinstriped hat pulled low. He wasn't watching the silk dancer like everyone else. He was watching the performers backstage.
Dick's tummy felt cold and fluttery, like a whole bunch of butterflies had gotten lost in there.
When Dick blinked and looked again, the man was gone. Maybe he'd imagined it. Sometimes after watching mystery movies with Chacho Gallius, Dick saw suspicious people everywhere for a few days. Gotham already felt like a scary movie set anyway.
But something nagged at him. He lifted the glasses again and swept the crowd, looking for patterns that didn't fit.
There—by the animal cages. The pinstriped hat man was talking to one of the tent workers Uncle Haly had hired in Gotham. The worker kept looking around all nervous while the coat-man talked, his shoulders hunched up like he wanted to disappear.
Dick's stomach did that flip thing again, but worse this time.
Uncle Haly hired lots of local workers. He told himself. That was normal.
Dick was probably just seeing mystery stories where there weren't any, like when he thought the new plate spinning act was a spy because he wore sunglasses and a tie every day.
Dick focused on his breath. It was quieter up here. Not silent—but removed.
Dick's training kicked in automatically. Sweep left to right, anchor to anchor, just like Strina Suri taught him. Peppermint lady—still clapping, silver bracelets flashing. Toddler—wandering too close to the ring edge, parents still distracted. Redhead—safe, licking sticky fingers. Big man—still scanning like Dado did, lady in red trying to redirect his attention.
But something was wrong. The patterns felt off.
And then—the man's eyes found him.
Dick froze.
The big man was looking directly up at his perch, sixty feet above the crowd. Above the lights. His eyes locked onto Dick's for just a moment, and something passed across his face—surprise, maybe? Like he was impressed.
Dick's heart leaped with excitement. Practically no one ever spotted him in his nest! Strina Suri would be so excited when he told her—he'd had the perfect hiding spot, and someone with really good detective eyes had found him anyway.
Without thinking, Dick lifted his hand and gave a small wave—the kind Chacho Gallius had taught him, elbow first, like painting light across the air.
The big man didn't wave back, but he didn't look away either. He tilted his head slightly, like he was studying Dick, but not scary-studying. Curious-studying. His mouth moved—saying something to the lady in red beside him.
Dick grinned wider and pointed to himself, then gave a thumbs up. See me? I'm up here!
For just a moment, the man's expression softened. The corner of his mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile, but close. He nodded once, so slight Dick almost missed it. Like a secret between detectives.
Then the lady tugged at his sleeve, and the man looked away, back toward the ring where the silk dancer was beginning her routine.
Dick settled back against his perch, pleased with himself. Wait until he told Strina Suri that someone had spotted him even in his best hiding place. She'd probably want to know everything about the man's technique—how he'd known to look up, what had given Dick away.
But something else nagged at him. Through his continued sweeps with the opera glasses, he kept catching glimpses of the pinstriped hat man. First near the performer entrance during the strongman act. Then by the rigging area during the silk routine. Always in staff areas, always moving with purpose, always checking that watch.
The night air smelled different now—still cold, but with something sharp and wrong mixed in that made Dick want to scrunch up his nose.
Like he was following a schedule that had nothing to do with the show.
Dick's stomach tightened as he continued his scan. Then he swept the crowd with his glasses again, trying to find his anchors, but instead he spotted Uncle Haly behind an equipment crate. He wasn't alone.
The pinstriped hat man had Uncle Haly backed against the metal framework, standing too close, using his body to block Uncle Haly from moving away. Uncle Haly's face was red and sweaty, his hat knocked sideways. He kept trying to step around the man, but every time he moved, the man moved too, like a mean game of mirror.
The man checked his watch again. Then looked toward the ring where the silk dancer was taking her final bow. He nodded to himself, like a countdown had just reached zero.
Dick's throat went all dry and scratchy, like he'd been eating sawdust instead of cotton candy.
Uncle Haly looked scared. Really scared. But... but circus people argued sometimes. Maybe they were just talking about money stuff. Grown-ups always looked mad when they talked about money.
Still, Dick's tummy felt wrong-wrong-wrong.
After Toma-Kak, the clowns normally came out, but Uncle Haly had told the troupe that there would be no clowns tonight. Instead there was a new act—a pair of brothers who flipped on each other's feet. Dick had watched them practice so much over the past few weeks that he didn't feel the need to watch them now.
Instead he focused on his breath. The need to check the crowd more carefully curled in his gut.
He made it through most of the crowd with no problem, then he saw him, sitting near the bottom of the bleachers to the northwest.
A different man. Not the pinstriped hat man.
This man's posture was stiff and deliberate, his knees wide, his chest forward, his eyes like a hunter. Next to him was a woman with long black hair like ink poured down her back, and a girl who looked about fourteen.
The girl wore a white dress with lace trim and soft pearl buttons and she was the only one who looked at all interested in the circus. She leaned forward in her seat, her hands on the railing, her eyes locked on the twirling performer above the center ring.
But the girl's mother didn't relax. She kept one hand tight around the girl's wrist, the other pressed flat against her own thigh like she was bracing for something.
The man beside them didn't move.
He didn't watch the act. He didn't glance at his daughter. He didn't speak to the woman.
He just stared at the space beyond the performance, where the trapeze riggers were setting up.
Where the Flying Graysons would soon be.
Dick felt his breath hitch. His fingers tightened around the wooden perch.
Details first, he reminded himself, hearing Strina Suri's voice. The man's coat was expensive but looked uncomfortable on him. His shoes were shiny like dress-up shoes, but somehow he looked out of place among the other families. Too rigid. Too focused. Like he was waiting for something specific to happen.
And his hands—Dick squinted harder—they kept moving to his coat pocket. Checking something. Or maybe checking for something.
Facts not feelings.
Facts: the man came with his family and wasn't interested in a kiddie act.
Feeling: That should make Dick feel better—after all, he could find at least ten other parents doing the same thing with another scan of the area.
But why that intensity? Why that stillness?
Dick swallowed. He turned away.
Your focus is lighthouse, he told himself, remembering Makoto's words. Don't look into the shadows. You look at the light and make shadows leave.
But it was hard in Gotham. Where Dado said ghosts lived in the shadows, and they were always watching.
He searched again.
Peppermint lady, clapping harder now.
Toddler in the suit, shrieking with joy. He had wandered even further from his parents and was now near the steps.
Redhead, now stabbing her cotton candy stick into the straw like a sword.
The big man who'd gotten his words scrambled, both now focused on the silk performance overhead along with the lady in red.
And the man in the pinstriped hat and coat—
Gone.
Dick blinked, leaned forward slightly, his eyes straining beyond the floodlights.
He searched the shadows though he knew he shouldn't.
He spotted him again, now down by the edge of the rigging, half-shadowed by the curtain flap.
He wasn't alone.
Through the glasses, Dick could see him speaking to a man in canvas overalls—one of the tent hands Uncle Haly had hired for the circus' stay in Gotham. Dick had seen them talking before, during setup days when the audience didn't come. The hired hand kept looking around nervously while the man in the coat spoke, his shoulders hunched like he wanted to disappear.
The man in the coat reached into his jacket and pulled something out—too small for Dick to see clearly, but the hired hand's reaction was immediate. He stepped back, then forward again, reluctant. When they shook hands, it wasn't a normal handshake. It was deliberate, specific—the kind where something passed between palms.
The hired hand walked away quickly afterward, not looking back, his movements jerky with anxiety.
Dick's heart was beating so loud he was sure everyone could hear it, even over the circus music. The hired hand was heading straight for the rigging area—not just near it, but directly toward the anchor points where the Grayson equipment hung. Dick squinted through his glasses, watching the man's hands as he moved through the shadows.
The man stopped. Reached up. Did something Dick couldn't quite see to the anchor point—the exact rigging setup they'd use in two acts.
Dick's blood went cold. Not just any rigging. Their rigging.
Then he was gone, melting back into the crowd of workers like he'd never been there at all.
Dick's mouth went dry. He should tell someone. But tell them what? That a worker Uncle Haly hired was working? That someone in a coat looked suspicious?
Dick's throat went dry. He leaned forward on his perch, trying to get a better view of where the hired hand had been. The rigging area looked normal now—other workers moving around, preparing for the next acts.
The movement shifted Dick's weight too far forward and for a moment he felt like he was floating, like he might tip right over the edge.
Then his harness caught him with a sharp jerk, the straps digging into his ribs and pulling him back against the platform. His heart hammered as he realized how close he'd come to falling.
That was stupid. Really, really stupid.
He pressed his back firmly against the perch platform, his breathing quick and shallow. Strina Suri would lecture him for hours if she knew he'd almost fallen while trying to spy on people. Dado would probably ban him from the rigging for a week.
But he'd seen something important. He was sure of it.
The strongman act was wrapping up. That meant silk dancers next, then the foot-balancing brothers, then—
Dick's stomach dropped.
Then them. The Flying Graysons were next.
Dick swept his glasses one last time. The silk dancer's music was building to its finale. After her bow, there would be thirty seconds of stage reset. Then the foot-balancing brothers. Then fifteen minutes until—
He swept his glasses frantically across the backstage area, looking for the pinstriped man, the hired hand, Uncle Haly—anyone who could explain why his chest felt so tight, why every instinct Strina Suri had taught him was screaming that something was wrong.
But the shadows had swallowed them all.
His hands trembled so badly the opera glasses rattled against the perch rail. His tummy felt cold and fluttery, and he had to blink hard to keep his vision from getting all tunneled the way it did when he got overwhelmed. He was eight years old, sixty feet in the air, and he'd seen something terrible but couldn't name it. Chacho Omari would listen. Strina Suri would know what to do. Dado would act without hesitation.
But they were all too far away. Down there, scattered across the backstage area, getting into position. Even if he shouted, even if he screamed, the circus music would swallow his voice. By the time he climbed down from the rigging, unclipped his harness, found them in the chaos backstage—
The drums were already starting to roll.
Dick pressed his palms against his eyes. Think. What would Poirot do? But Poirot never had to solve mysteries while dangling sixty feet above a circus ring with no way down and no time left.
Dick was just a chavo who saw shadows and couldn't reach the people who would make them go away.
***
The drums started to roll.
His time was up.
Act Seven. Lucky number seven.
The cue.
Below him the lights spun red, gold, and green like spilled paint, sweeping across the ring.
Drums rumbled soft from the pit—more heartbeat than music.
Dick pressed his scarf tighter around his shoulders, the soft fabric a comfort against the scratchy harness. His stomach fluttered, full of butterflies that threatened to fly out of his mouth.
He didn't blink.
He didn't breathe.
And then he saw them.
Eight platforms, spaced in a great arc around the peak of the big top, ten feet below his perch in the rafters. His family.
Each platform held one Grayson.
The crowd erupted, but Dick wasn't looking at them.
He was looking at his people.
There—Daj, her braid wrapped and tied in her favorite scarf, red sequins flashing under the floodlights. She spotted him in the rafters and gave their signal: three fingers, tapped lightly against her shoulder. Tap, tap, tap.
I see you.
He saw the smile in her eyes. But it was tight around the edges, like everything else tonight.
And then—Dado, already bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, grinning like a kid himself. He copied the taps and added a flourish—an exaggerated third tap and a wink thrown directly at Dick.
But his eyes were scanning the crowd too. Quick, careful. The way they'd been since Gotham.
Chacho Omari stood at the northeast platform, his grip tape perfectly positioned, his stance precise as always. When he caught Dick's eye, he touched two fingers to his heart—their safety signal, meaning all clear.
And that was all it took.
The butterflies calmed.
Below him, his family took their positions with the fluid grace of people who'd done this dance a thousand times. But tonight was different. Tonight, Daj's hand lingered a moment longer on her safety line. Tonight, Dado looked up—not at the crowd, but directly at Dick's perch, as if he could feel his son's eyes on him.
Their eyes met across sixty feet of empty air.
Dado pressed his hand to his heart, then pointed at Dick. Then at Daj. Then back at himself.
I love you. I love her. I love us.
It was their oldest signal, from when Dick was tiny and afraid of the height. Before he learned to fly. When love was the only thing that made the distance feel safe.
Dick pressed his own hand to his heart and nodded.
I love you too.
Daj caught the exchange and smiled—not her stage smile, but the real one. The one that said whatever happened, they were together.
Dick would remember that smile for the rest of his life.
Dick sat up straighter, his legs tucked beneath him, his heart beating in time with the drumroll below.
He didn't get to fly down into Chacho Gallius' waiting grip until the very end.
But he didn't really mind, because this was his favorite part.
Not the tricks. Not the flips. Not even the final dismount that had everyone clapping for him.
This.
The moment it started.
When he didn't watch his family—but the crowd.
He leaned forward on his elbows and found his anchors. He mapped them like stars, the way Strina Suri had taught him to map any room.
The peppermint woman, second row, her hands now clasped together, her mouth open in a reverent oh.
The toddler in the tiny suit, clapping and bouncing, now practically in the ring himself, too small to know why, only that something incredible was coming.
The redheaded girl's face had been cleaned and now she leaned against the railing, her father's hand gripping her jacket to keep her from falling forward.
Even the big man who'd gotten his words scrambled had turned skyward now. The woman in red gripped his sleeve. The man—who had scanned the tent all night—was finally watching in anticipation.
They didn't know what they were about to see.
But Dick did.
He had seen the act practiced every day since before he could spell his name.
He knew how Daj always started on her toes. How Dado started with his left foot. How Chacho Omari always pretended to trip just to show off. How Strina Elira grinned wide enough to blind the front row and how Chacho Makoto never smiled but made it look like art anyway.
He knew that Tsharli would overreach on his second pass and Chacho Gallius would pull in early and both would adjust midair like it was all planned.
He knew the breath, the beat, the rhythm.
But still—he watched.
Because knowing the magic didn't ruin it.
It made it deeper.
The wonder wasn't in the flips.
It was in the faces of the crowd. In the awe blooming where fear had been. In seeing someone realize that flight was real—not just for birds, or dreams, but for people who dared to leave the ground without a net.
Like always, it began with the ripple.
Eight Grayson's. Four platforms each side. Four pairs—timed down to the heartbeat.
No countdown, no words. Just the way it always was.
Everything was exactly as it should be. The crowd held its breath in anticipation. The lights painted everything golden. The music swelled with familiar, comforting rhythm. Dick's family moved with the grace of people who had never fallen, never failed, never missed.
For one perfect moment, the Flying Grayson's owned the air.
Daj leaped first, her form flawless, her timing perfect. She sailed across the space like she was born to fly, reaching for Dado's waiting hands.
Dick smiled, his fears melting away. See? Everything was fine. Just another perfect night, just another—
Dick pressed his face against the rigging and looked down.
The cross should be starting now. Everyone swinging to trade places in a perfectly timed ripple. Like they practiced every day.
Instead—
Something was wrong with the crowd. The peppermint lady's hands flew to her mouth. The toddler started crying. The redheaded girl's father grabbed her and pulled her back from the railing.
That wasn't right. The crowd should be gasping with wonder, not—
Dick looked back at the platforms.
And the world cracked open.
The ropes looked wrong. Some hung empty, swaying like broken guitar strings.
Dick's tummy did a flip. That wasn't supposed to happen. Chacho Omari checked the rigging three times before every show. Always.
Maybe it was a new trick? Maybe they forgot to tell him?
But the people in the crowd weren't clapping. The peppermint lady had her hands over her mouth. The toddler was crying.
That wasn't right either.
Dick looked back at the platforms.
Daj was falling.
Not swinging. Not leaping like she always did.
Falling.
Her arms reached up, grabbing for something that wasn't there. Her red skirt with all the sparkles fluttered behind her like a hurt bird trying to fly.
Dick's whole body moved before his brain caught up. He reached out through the rigging, his fingers stretching toward the empty air like maybe, maybe he could catch her.
Like sixty feet was nothing.
Like the air would listen if he tried hard enough.
His harness yanked him back, the straps digging into his waist.
And then—
Daj wasn't flying anymore.
The world cracked open.
He couldn't think.
He didn't blink.
He just… stopped.