she says to the strongman.She doesn’t say she wants to audition. It doesn’t occur to her that there can be a question of her merit. She knows she can do anything they ask of her. It’s a matter of routine. The thing Tresaulti has that she wants is a home.(She’s an excellent soldier for shimmying through iron grates, but she has a tendency to hang behind when the fighting starts, like she’s not sure if the battle is worth it, and nobody has time for a hesitant soldier. She’s been passed around assignments more times than she can count, for not wanting to die.)“I see,” says the strongman. “What for?”“Trapeze,” she says.From his position on the rig, one of the trapeze men grins and flexes his feet. “Want to step up, girly?”She holds out an arm to the strongman.He lifts her one-handed and deposits her onto the trapeze (“Name’s Big George”), who has laid out flat and made himself into a table again, a knot of immovable muscle; she is standing on his shins, arms behind her, wrists tight around his long brass arms for balance.She pushes back and forth until she has the speed and height she needs; she is embarrassed at first to be standing on a living thing instead of a bar or a rope, until she looks over her shoulder and sees that George doesn’t seem to mind.
