Chapter 8

Whatever the case, Bo Li had gotten what she wanted out of Nanny.
She no longer remembered the details of the original story, but she vaguely recalled that in the novel, Eric had first joined a circus, then learned magic and singing, and only later become so famous that his name spread all the way to Persia—known everywhere as a “prodigy” and “master of traps and hidden passages.”
Here, everything was reversed.
She really had landed in the…horror‑movie version.
Cold sweat trickled down her back.
She’d watched plenty of horror films—and starred in more than a few.
Because of cultural differences, there were very few ghosts in Western horror. Most stories were about how a serial killer methodically butchered their victims.
Of course, for the sake of sequels, the killers were often given inhuman strength and stamina.
In those movies, what made the killer frightening was that they were rotten to the core—unpredictable, unreachable, completely merciless.
Sometimes they’d talk to their victims, but only to break them down, savoring their fear and struggle.
All she could say was, thank goodness this wasn’t a “pure” slasher, and Eric wasn’t a completely deranged serial killer.
Yes, he was unpredictable and hard to communicate with—but at least he craved touch, at least a hug could make him back down.
Bo Li felt her own sense of right and wrong warping.
She actually didn’t find Eric that terrifying anymore.
Maybe he could change.
She knew perfectly well he was dangerous and could kill her at any moment.
By now, the knife had brushed her throat, teeth, and back more than once.
He’d only spoken a single sentence; everything else she had to guess at.
And yet, maybe because she’d slipped out of his grasp three times already, every time she saw him her adrenaline spiked, her survival instinct blazing to life, her thoughts sharp as lightning.
Since crossing over, she’d felt profoundly alone and helpless. She needed someone—or something—to jolt her forward.
Eric was perfect for that.
Tell her that wasn’t some kind of mutually beneficial relationship.
She and Eric would make excellent partners.
With that thought, she turned to look at him.
Eric was already looking at her, gaze fixed.
He clearly hadn’t expected her to treat Nanny this way. There was a hint of scrutiny in his eyes.
Bo Li met the look, cleared her throat, and said steadily, “We have to clean this up.”
Eric still didn’t speak.
But she could read his eyes. He didn’t know what “clean up” meant—or why she’d said “we.”
From start to finish, he’d done everything alone—alone pinning Nanny down, alone tying her to the chair, alone driving the knife through her palm.
Yet Bo Li said “we.”
The word baffled him. The scrutiny in his gaze deepened, shading toward wariness.
She wasn’t wrong to call him a wild animal. His guard was higher than anyone she’d ever met.
Even now, she still wasn’t sure she’d really convinced him.
It felt more like he’d yielded to his loneliness.
He longed for touch, for even the illusion of warmth—even if the person offering it had ulterior motives.
“Everyone’s going to be up soon…” Bo Li said. “We can’t let her talk about any of this.”
She leaned on that “we” again. Twice.
Eric paused, but didn’t object.
Getting Nanny to cooperate was easy. Eric had the knife; Bo Li had the mouth.
She showed Nanny the wound on her palm, now scabbed over with hemostatic powder. “If you keep quiet about what happened today, I’ll find a way to heal this. Otherwise…” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I don’t mind if you lose the hand. It’s not mine.”
Nanny glanced at Eric and, swallowing her pride, nodded.
Bo Li thought for a moment and added two more conditions.
First, Nanny was never to send her out stealing again.
She had no interest in getting arrested and shipped off on some petty‑thief conviction.
Second—
Bo Li took out the gold pocket watch and slipped it into Nanny’s skirt pocket. “Give this back to Mike. Tell everyone Eric didn’t steal it. Say you found it in the woods and forgot to return it.”
Nanny stared at the watch, looking dazed. “You—stole the watch and framed him… And he still stood up for you? What did you feed him to make him so tame?”
Bo Li patted her shoulder. “That’s not something you need to know. Just do what I said.”
But Nanny’s eyes darted, already calculating. She’d clearly spotted a perfect chance to sow discord.
Bo Li had fought too hard for Eric’s trust to let her ruin it.
She drew in a deep breath, imagined herself as a cornered, vicious, desperate person, and drove her elbow hard into Nanny’s temple, then leaned in close and stared into her eyes.
“Do as I say,” she snarled, “or you can say goodbye to your other hand too.”
It was her first time using her acting skills to threaten someone. The effect wasn’t great—but she’d nearly sent Nanny straight to heaven with that elbow alone.
Nanny reeled, cold sweat pouring down her face, terrified she’d get hit again. No matter what Bo Li said after that, she nodded frantically.
And that was how Bo Li got Nanny to agree to her conditions.
She let out a long breath and turned to look for Eric—only to find he’d slipped away at some point.
She shrugged and didn’t dwell on it. For the next two days, she needed to focus on planning her escape.
First, she had to take the hiking backpack.
The pack was too important. It had everything—hat, jacket, underwear, snacks, canned food, pads… For now, this underfed body barely menstruated and gauze was enough. Later?
She had no desire to end up with a nasty infection.
There was also her spare phone and a power bank.
The spare was an old iPhone she’d retired. The battery health was down to eighty‑five percent and it might shut off without warning, but it still ran smoothly, with plenty of storage and a good library of ebooks.
Her reading tasted ran broad; she’d gone on a spree, buying novels and serious nonfiction alike.
One of the books was even called *How to Skin a Lion*, a collection of tips for everyday life from the Middle Ages to the Victorian era—how to break a horse, make hand cream, keep your breath fresh, and, yes, how to skin a lion.
She’d only bought it for fun. She hadn’t expected it to become a survival manual.
Most important of all: this era already had generators.
If she was lucky, she could actually carve out something like a twenty‑first‑century life here.
She had to get that backpack back—by any means necessary.
The problem was that it had already caught the manager’s eye and been moved to the big tent—the largest one in the circus, guarded around the clock by hired gunmen.
On her own, there was no way she’d get it out.
And she didn’t want to ask Eric for help.
Given where they were now, if he didn’t kill her, didn’t use his knife to make a point, and was willing to take her away from the circus, she’d already be grateful.
Asking for more would change things between them.
She wasn’t ready to face those consequences.
So Bo Li could only look elsewhere—see if anyone else in the circus might be useful.
For the next three days, she forced herself to stop tracking Eric’s every move and instead struck up conversations with the others.
They weren’t as frightening as she’d imagined.
Most were drifters from the fringes of society, illiterate, uneducated, unable even to spell their own names.
Aside from Eric, the most educated man here was the manager. Second to him was a magician named Richard Simon.
Supposedly, Richard had once been the circus’s star magician.
He was handsome and knew a lot of tricks—floating apples in midair, plucking coins from behind people’s ears, pulling live rabbits out of hats.
Many audience members were his devoted fans. Some had even come from New York, begging him to perform on Broadway.
But once Eric appeared, Richard was demoted to second string. Only when Eric took a rest day did Richard get to close the show like he used to.
For the past two days, Bo Li had seen him pacing outside the big tent, clearly hoping to reclaim his old spotlight while Eric was injured.
Maybe, she thought, she could use this magician to get her pack back.
At dinner, she carried her plate over and sat beside Richard.
He really did have a good face—deep-set eyes, a high nose bridge, a gentle, melancholy air.
He wore a thin wool coat over a white shirt and velvet waistcoat, a fake gemstone ring on his thumb.
“Mr. Simon,” Bo Li said with a smile.
The instant she spoke, a prickling coldness crawled up her back, like a field of needles pressing into her skin.
Someone was watching her, the gaze so solid it felt like a touch.
She looked back in alarm—and saw nothing.
Just her imagination?
Richard answered her greeting. “Good evening, Polly.”
She forced herself to focus.
They’d probably been familiar, once—only people on close terms dropped last names. Everyone else stuck to “Mr.,” “Miss,” or “Mrs.”
Bo Li pushed aside that unsettling sense of being watched, thought for a moment, and then asked, as if offhand, “What did the manager say?”
Richard blinked, then gave a wry smile. “So even you’ve heard.”
He sighed. “The manager didn’t say anything. But it’s obvious he doesn’t want me anymore. And why should he? Eric knows more tricks than I do, and he costs less… It’s normal if the manager doesn’t want to keep me. It’s fine. I can try my luck with another troupe.”
Bo Li put on a worried expression. “Can’t you talk to him again?”
“Even if I dropped my pay to Eric’s level,” Richard said, rubbing his brow, his smile tired, “the manager still wouldn’t take me back. Eric’s too clever. He picks up tricks after seeing them once… He’s a born magician. I can’t compete.”
Bo Li looked at him, let righteous anger fill her face, and leaned closer to whisper, “Mr. Simon, you’re a good man. The way they’re treating you is disgusting.”
He seemed puzzled by the strength of her reaction but still said, “Thank you, Polly. That means a lot.”
Bo Li laid a hand on his arm, dropping her voice even lower.
“…I’m low‑rank and ignorant. I can’t speak for you with the manager. But I do know something that might help you.”
Richard sobered. “I’m listening.”
“The manager’s got a strange bag, have you heard?”