The next day, Bo Li sought out Thorn and asked if he was willing to stay on as an actor.
After a night of terror, Thorn seemed to have grown considerably, no longer as panic-stricken as he had been the previous evening.
Hearing her question, he lowered his head and pondered for a moment, then softly said, “I am willing.”
Bo Li patted his head. “Good child. My name is Polly Claremont. You may just call me Polly.”
Thorn blushed and stammered, “Miss Claremont.”
“Call me Polly.”
Thorn’s face flushed even deeper, yet he insisted on addressing her as “Miss Claremont.”
Bo Li corrected him twice but could not change his mind, so she simply let him be.
Thorn was a little older than she had guessed, nearly fifteen. Only because he never had enough to eat did he appear as though he were twelve.
Bo Li felt an inexplicable pity for him. She first took him to have a hearty meal, then had a servant lead him to bathe and have his hair cut.
At first, Thorn cooperated well, until he realized that a haircut required removing his head covering. Hugging his head, he let out a shrill, miserable scream.
Bo Li coaxed him gently for a long time before Thorn, still sobbing, finally agreed to remove the head covering—on the condition that only Bo Li be present in the room.
After some thought, Bo Li consented.
The cost of living in Los Angeles was high, and during her school days she had often trimmed her own bangs and stray hairs. Shaving a head bald should be no great challenge.
Only then did Thorn gather his courage and take off the head covering.
Truthfully speaking, Thorn’s appearance was not terrifying. The swelling on his face resembled more the overgrowth of bone, or a benign lipoma.
Bo Li, who was accustomed to eating meals with horror films as her companion, did not so much as twitch an eyebrow at his appearance. Her movements remained gentle as she finished shaving his head.
Thorn kept a careful eye on her expression, and when he saw that she did not reveal the same revulsion as others had, his dependence on her deepened further, to the point that he followed her almost step for step.
Bo Li paid little attention to this.
Her thoughts were elsewhere—Madame Merlin, to her dying breath, had never disclosed the whereabouts of those deformed actors.
If one wished to open a circus, one must first find those deformed actors.
On her own, she could never track them down.
She would need Erik’s help.
Yet for some reason, Erik’s attitude toward her had grown strange.
Especially on the day she shaved Thorn’s head—he had fixed his gaze on her fingers for no less than ten minutes.
His gaze was as cold and piercing as ice, so chilling it seemed to hinder the very flow of air.
Bo Li felt suffocated. Could it be that he thought shaving a head was a form of harm, that she was humiliating Thorn?
It was not entirely unreasonable—after all, in some cultures, cutting or shaving hair was indeed regarded as an act of humiliation.
Bo Li quickly explained, “…You misunderstand. I shaved Thorn’s head not to humiliate him, but because he had gone too long without washing his hair or bathing. If the filth were not shaved away, his scalp might fester and ooze.”
Erik made no reply, yet his gaze still did not move away from her fingers.
Bo Li felt her fine hairs stand on end beneath his gaze, her heart thudding wildly in her chest.
His eyes were so strange, so unfathomable, that even if in the next instant he were to take a knife and sever her fingers, she would not have been surprised.
A sudden thought flashed through her mind, and she asked, “Your hair has grown a little long as well—shall I trim it for you?”
He regarded her with that inscrutable gaze for a moment, then actually nodded.
Bo Li was utterly baffled—he, who reacted so violently even when she merely looked at him, was willing to let her cut his hair?
She changed to a clean barber’s cloth and draped it around him, wetting her fingers to comb through his hair.
He seemed uncomfortable, his eyes shutting tightly, his Adam’s apple rising and falling with a heavy swallow.
Bo Li suddenly recalled—he could not be more than two, at most three, years older than Thorn. Yet he was far more developed: taller in stature, with longer fingers, and a more prominent Adam’s apple.
His masculine hormones were also stronger.
Startled by her own thoughts, Bo Li hastily pushed them aside and began cutting his hair.
His hair was thick, seemingly just washed, carrying a faint scent of soap. It felt cool and dry to the touch.
At the nape, the hair was shorn short, its roots hard and prickling to the hand, while at the forehead it grew fine and soft, like the down of a small creature.
The sensation of her fingers entangling with his hair raised goosebumps along her arms.
Suppressing the violent pounding of her heart, Bo Li reached out to brush back the hair on his forehead.
In the next instant, he suddenly seized her wrist.
Bo Li froze.
But he released her at once, as if signaling for her to continue.
Taking a deep breath, Bo Li trimmed his fringe simply, trying to give it some layering, then used the clippers to shave the roots at his temples.
When she had shaved Thorn’s head, her mind had been utterly calm, without a single stray thought.
But while cutting Erik’s hair, her inner thoughts grew stranger by the moment.
Perhaps it was only her imagination, but his hair seemed to possess more vigor than Thorn’s—especially after she trimmed it short at the temples, revealing the dark blue-black roots beneath—
She almost felt a peculiar pull of attraction.
For the first time, Bo Li realized that cutting someone’s hair could feel so… ambiguous.
Her breath instinctively quickened.
It must be because too much had happened these past days, and Erik was the only man at her side—that must be why she harbored such thoughts.
In time, they would pass.
When she finished, Bo Li stepped back several paces and carefully examined her work, finding her skill to be quite decent.
But Erik abruptly undid the barber’s cloth and rose to leave.
Bo Li quickly stopped him. “Wait!”
He halted, turning his head slightly.
Bo Li noticed the tips of his ears had flushed red, as though a rash had spread across them.
An allergy to the razor?
“What is it.” He cut off her gaze.
Bo Li came back to herself. “…Could you help me with something? Madame Merlin never revealed the whereabouts of those deformed actors—can you help me look into where they are?”
He paused, and his tone grew somewhat strange. “Do you not already have Oliver Thorn?”
“Thorn knows nothing,” Bo Li said, baffled. “He is not you—he cannot hold up a circus all on his own.”
Erik remained silent.
Bo Li stepped forward and tugged at the hem of his coat, her voice imploring: “Please, you are so clever, surely you can find those deformed actors quickly… help me, will you?”
A few seconds later, he withdrew his coat from her grasp and turned to leave.
Though his manner had been indifferent from beginning to end, Bo Li knew he had agreed.
She fell into thought.
So, not only did he possess that peculiar gentlemanliness toward women, he also seemed unable to resist a woman’s coquettish entreaty?
With Erik’s help, the whereabouts of the other deformed people were soon brought to light.
One of Tricky’s assistants, seeing both Tricky and Boyd meet strange deaths, had quickly contacted a ship captain, intending to send five deformed people—including Emily—across to London.
Aside from “Four-Legged Girl” Emily, there were also a dwarf, a giant, a “Lizard Man” with backward-bending knees, and a big-footed girl suffering from lower-limb hypertrophy.
At a glance, the captain discerned the nature of the assistant’s trade, and opened his lion’s mouth, demanding five hundred pounds for passage. Otherwise, he would not allow them on board.
The two became deadlocked, arguing endlessly at the dock.
Yet the captain and the assistant were exceedingly cautious—never once did they utter the words “deformed people,” but referred to them only as “cargo.”
Bo Li herself had not failed to search the dock, but the assistant had long since disguised himself as a dockhand, blackened his cheeks, pasted on false whiskers, and conversed daily in Spanish. How Erik managed to pick him out from that vast sea of people, she did not know.
After rescuing the deformed people, Bo Li rented a villa in the suburbs and settled them there.
The “Big-Footed Girl” was named Marbelle. She had a head of fine, beautiful golden hair. Tricky had beaten her mother in order to take her, and not long after, her mother had died of illness brought on by grief.
“From then on, no one ever rinsed my hair with vinegar again,” she murmured. “My hair has grown coarse.”
The “Giant” was named Theodore. He stood a full two meters and forty tall. It was the first time Bo Li had seen someone taller than Erik, and she could not help but feel a little wary. She only shook his hand and exchanged a brief greeting.
The “Dwarf” and the “Lizard Man” were called Francis and Flora, respectively.
For some reason, the dwarf did not much like Bo Li, rolling his eyes whenever he saw her.
Flora, however, was a little girl fond of beauty. The moment she heard she would no longer need to play the lizard, she let out a cheer and treated Bo Li as though she were her own elder sister, hugging her neck and perching on her lap, refusing to come down.
The dwarf cast his eyes around and said, “So, you are all so quick to forget Mr. Tricky’s kindness in recognizing our worth?”
Marbelle was the first to spit. “To hell with his so-called kindness! He killed my mother. If he were not already dead, I would gladly crush him beneath my foot!”
Theodore remained silent.
Flora said, “I don’t like playing a lizard. I want to dance ballet, I want to be a pretty girl…”
The dwarf cursed, “With knees like yours, in this life you can only be a lizard girl! No audience wants to watch a lizard girl dance ballet!”
Bo Li looked on coldly, suspecting that this dwarf was not a victim, but a perpetrator—compared to the other deformed actors, dwarfs were hardly rare. Many troupes had dwarfs, some even had dwarf couples performing together.
With ship fare so costly, every extra person meant another hundred pounds. The assistant would have had no need to spend such a sum to ship a dwarf to London—unless he served another purpose: to watch over the others.
Seeing their quarrel unending, Bo Li considered for a moment, then drew out her purse and handed the dwarf two pounds. “Since you do not wish to remain here, then go.”
The dwarf said in disbelief, “These people are all a bunch of lazy good-for-nothings… You would rather have them than me? I tell you, I am especially good at making money… you will regret this!”
“I will not regret it,” Bo Li said calmly.
The dwarf snatched the two pounds and stormed off in anger.
No sooner had he left than the others began complaining to Bo Li about how sharp-tongued and mean-spirited the dwarf had always been, and how good it was that he was gone.
While comforting them, Bo Li went into the kitchen and baked a pie, spreading cream and chocolate sauce over the top. It required little skill, yet swiftly won over the two girls’ hearts.
Theodore gave her a courteous nod. “Thank you.”
Bo Li replied, “You are welcome.”
While eating pie, Marbelle kept staring fixedly at her feet—Bo Li had tied a strip of white lace around her swollen knees, and she was delighted, smiling brightly the whole evening.
Flora cried out loudly that this place was simply paradise: a roof overhead, gas lamps, cream and chocolate sauce. She declared she would stay by Bo Li’s side for her entire life.
At last, Bo Li bade them all goodnight and returned to her own room to sleep.
Before drifting off, she wondered—where was Erik?
Ever since they had rescued these people, he had vanished again.
The dwarf, clutching his money as he left the villa, was still cursing ceaselessly.
“Ignorant woman… she would rather have those deformed freaks than me,” he spat, “she knows nothing of my abilities, nor how much Mr. Tricky valued me!”
In the eyes of most audiences, though dwarfs were deformed, they were also the embodiment of diligence, kindness, and craftsmanship.
Francis had profited greatly from this—he and Tricky had conspired to buy cheap handicrafts in one city, then in the next, sell them at a markup under the banner of “dwarf-made.”
They exploited the people’s stereotypes of dwarfs and raked in money by the handful.
When Francis’s purse grew fat, he began to look down on the other deformed people, believing himself, like Tricky, to be their master.
Who would have thought Tricky would die just like that—and that he himself would be driven out by a woman? Since when could a circus be led by a woman?
It was like sailing a ship—if a woman were aboard, sooner or later it would sink into the sea.
The more Francis thought, the angrier he grew, until he burst out on the street, shouting curses: “Who cares to work for her? If not for her meddling, I’d already be in London making big money! Damn woman, ruining my good fortune—once I’ve made enough, I’ll hire men to sell you off to a brothel!”
And the fool of a woman had even given him two pounds as he left—just enough for a drink.
Francis tossed the coins in his hand and walked into a tavern ablaze with lights, not noticing the ghostlike shadow that followed him.
Two pounds bought only a bottle of Kentucky whiskey, and it could not even be drunk inside the tavern—the waiter, thinking he looked too much like a child, claimed that letting him drink inside would ruin the tavern’s reputation.
Swallowing his anger, Francis paid, took the whiskey, and returned to the street.
Damn it—like a child? His face was clearly covered in a thick beard. Nothing but an excuse. The waiter simply despised dwarfs.
But it did not matter. Soon, he would have money.
Francis took a heavy gulp of whiskey. Tomorrow he would apply to a troupe, sign a performance contract… In less than two months—no, less than a single month—he would once again be rich and respected!
“When I have money,” the dwarf muttered, “when I have money… damn woman, when I have money…”
In the next instant, he felt a tightening around his neck, something cinched firmly in place.
Before he could turn and curse, there came a crisp crack—the bones of his neck snapped clean, flesh tore apart inch by inch, and with a heavy thud, his head rolled to the ground.
Erik looked down upon the dwarf’s severed head.
Ever since he had seen Bo Li together with those other deformed people, dwelling beneath the same roof, the murderous urge within him had become impossible to restrain.
This was wrong.
He should not allow his emotions to waver because of her.
And yet, the urge to kill only intensified.
When he saw her bring those deformed ones back to the villa, choosing clothes for them, baking pies, shaking hands, embracing them—
For a moment, he had nearly wanted to slaughter everyone inside that house.
He had torn his gaze away swiftly, striving with all his strength to calm those strange impulses.
Yet no matter where he looked, everything seemed a weapon to kill.
Dining knife, dining fork, the shards of a broken plate, the rope upon the curtains, the poker in the fireplace, the coal tongs, the antlers mounted above the mantel… So long as he willed it, this place could be turned into a grisly slaughterhouse at any moment.
But why should he kill—because of her?
The dwarf’s blood had already spread to his feet, soaking the tips of his leather shoes.
Still, the restless murderous intent would not abate, lingering, circling, entwining about him.
He shut his eyes tightly, but unbidden his mind replayed the scene of her cutting Thorn’s hair.
The thought that her fingers had once passed through Thorn’s hair, had carried Thorn’s scent, made him long to snap Thorn’s neck.
This was far from normal.
More abnormal still was that, from the day she had cut his hair, there had lingered upon his head the phantom sensation of being caressed.
The head was the most fragile place, the face his greatest taboo.
Yet the touch of her fingers remained there still.
As though her fingertips had already brushed the edge of the mask, ready at any moment to strip away another layer of his skin.
It left him unsettled… exposed.
His chest tightened suddenly, his heart beating fast and heavy, each throb nearly convulsing, as though stricken by some incurable illness.
He did not know what sickness this was—only that his whole body burned with restlessness, his mouth was parched, and something within him was caving in, caving in, caving in—
Without end.