Jairo’s whole body was alive, music thumping his chest, lights hot on his face, hope rising like a tide in his heart. Oskar had been so excited about the trapeze that Jairo had taken it as a sign. For so long, Jairo hadn’t allowed trapeze. The reminder every time he flew was too much.


But now, when he sailed through the air, the memories brought a smile to his face instead of tears to his eyes.


Including trapeze in the show was Oskar’s initiative. Jairo had walked into their practise arena one day to find a new rig installed in the middle. When Jairo asked what was going on, Oskar, brown-blonde hair dishevelled, sported a cocky grin. ‘Flying, of course.’


Jairo had raged like never before. No trapeze. Not in this show. He turned to Melarie, who stood at the edge of the arena with an enigmatic expression, arms folded, saying nothing, even though she should understand. She’d been there all those years ago.


Finally, he stopped shouting and turned back to the four aerialists, from one shining face to the other. Shining with hope. Shining with excitement. Shining with shocked tears at his condemnation.


He could make them tear it down.


Shining with hope. He hadn’t seen it in the mirror for so long, he’d stopped seeing it in other faces. Jairo took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and climbed the scaffold. Stepped up to the platform. Set his hands on the bar.


And he’d flown.


The memories nearly dropped him. He was a god, but he knew that if he fell, he wouldn’t ease gravity’s claim on his body.


Jairo soared back and forth, back and forth, simple swings, and he found his heart too was oscillating. Grief to hope. Grief to excitement. Grief to shock that there could be something else, some other feeling.


He had fallen then, but he turned it into a somersault and landed on his feet, hard, knees flexing.


The aerialists had applauded as if he’d just executed a spectacular feat of daring instead of a swing and a somersault, something they could do asleep – simple falls wouldn’t injure the Veifa troupe. Melarie caught his eye across the arena, a twinkle in hers, and he realised that maybe they weren’t applauding his execution.


From that day on, Veifa training had a new fervour, an energy in the choreography, a hope that this time, the sacrifice would work.


Because just like there were humans, and there was more to being human, there was physical reality, and there was more to physical reality – another plane. Or there should be. Except for the small enhancements the Veifa enjoyed, humans were missing magic. The other plane was missing something too, something Jairo believed was linked to the lack of magic. The Arch. He had been trying to fix the Arch for eighteen years, sending candidates into the H’nsla, sacrificing themselves momentarily so their shards connected on the plane between lives. Once they placed enough shards, the Arch would become whole again. Magic would bloom on Earth.


Tonight they would do it. Oskar was the final sacrifice. Lightning struck the rod they’d wired from the hall’s roof to the stage with foretold precision, and Jairo believed.


He believed it right up until Oskar made his last leap onto the stage, straight into the inferno.


As planned.


He believed it right up until he dove in after, Oskar’s hand in his, all the lights dimmed except the raging flames.


As planned.


He believed it right up until he felt Oskar’s soul tear from his body, remaining in the fire even as Jairo dragged his charred remains upstage. The skin went from black and blistered to red and shining raw in seconds.


Oskar! Jairo called. He couldn’t follow, not where Oskar was going, but Oskar would hear Jairo’s call. Oskar would come back as planned. His skin was its normal tan now, his fingernails reappearing in their nail beds. If his body was healing, it wasn’t too late.


Oskar! Jairo moved to cradle the boy’s head in his palms. It might help. It had worked before. Oskar’s re-grown hair, devoid of its usual sticky gel, was soft in Jairo’s fingers.


‘It’s taking too long,’ a dancer said, their voice distant, as if they were on the other side of the hall, not the other side of the stage.


Oskar!


‘Curtain,’ called one of the jugglers. ‘House curtain in! Go! Go!’


Oskar! There was one voice not there, one voice that might help, one hand on Jairo’s brow that might give him the strength to shout louder in this space between spaces, this place of unreality. Oskar …


But Melarie wasn’t there. Oskar’s body was a heavy weight in Jairo’s hold. The boy’s soul slipped further away, and the only lights were that of the fire and Jairo’s hands glowing around Oskar’s head.