Swinging idly from her hoop, Rose waved at the people passing by, entertaining herself by blowing kisses instead of continuing her set. It really should’ve been her priority to be going through her performance but also there was a man on the group of three bidders, so she figured it wouldn’t be terribly hard to get their attention anyway.
“Working on your set?” She called out amicably. “I would be too if I weren’t sure of Mr. Moore on there. Everyone has a hook; what’s yours?”
The magic of circuses as a whole and an individual would never cease for Clara; both in the part and the entirety she was relentlessly infatuated and amazed by the bustle and strangeness of them. There was an otherness that, despite the differences of the troupes themselves (be they Venetian in nature or anchored under the prestige of New York City brick and mortar), was still alike.
And the people -- they were always fascinating.
But how could a girl as beautiful as the one in the hoop be anything but?
Clara looked up and raised her hand to her eyes as if squinting against the sun, though there was no such light in the sky.
“Hello there,” She called back. Something about the image was reminiscent of a dream Clara had once had of her mother. “I am, I suppose. Though I don’t think I have a hook.” Her laughter flutters to the ceiling, up to Rose. “Aside from perhaps a literal one in my tank.”
