Penny Davenport sighed as her mother paraded another would-be suitor around the house, showing off every imported trinket from Japan — the delicate fans, the porcelain teacups and jade statuettes. All tiny, all extremely breakable and dainty. Why was her mother so obsessed with qualities the exact opposite of Penny's?

Not that Penny didn't try to be dainty. She had trained her feet to take miniscule steps, kept her arms tucked in close at all times, and hardly dared to breathe in the formal sitting room. Even now, her corset squeezed her lungs uncomfortably. What if she fainted? Would the gentleman rush to her aid? She'd probably wind up squashing the man; he was reed-thin.

Penny snorted, then ducked her head. Mrs. Davenport shot her a scathing look, but kept up her prattle about the imported saucers.

Considering his fascination with the gold inlay, her latest would-be suitor, Jonathan Billings III, would not even notice if Penny collapsed. Her shoulders slumped. That was nothing new. Nobody seemed to notice her except her mother, and she only did so to list off all the things Penny was doing wrong.

Why did she even have to be there? Neither Mrs. Davenport nor Mr. Billings cared if she was present. Penny's mother was making a case for Penny's worthiness as a match using everything else in the house.

Penny shifted, the satin of her dress crinkling loudly.

Jonathan Billings III turned, his eyes landing on her for only the second time that evening. “And you, Penny, I assume you embroider. Are any of these yours?” He gestured to the hand-stitched miniature pillows, f it only for a mouse's head.

Penny rose from the settee. “I'm afraid not, sir. I have no skill with the needle. If you’ll excuse me, please, I'm feeling rather tired.”

Mrs. Augustine Davenport reeled as though Penny had slapped her. Jonathan Billings III blinked rapidly.

At least he was looking at her for a change.

“May you have a lovely night, sir,” Penny said, dropping into her best curtsy. She may not know how to sew — her f ingers could never quite grasp the needle right — but she could at least curtsy. Of course, she ruined her exit by banging her thigh into the armchair, the vibration shaking the room. Penny silently cursed her clumsiness. Her mother would be up later to chastise her for her unladylike deportment, but by then it would be too late. Jonathan Billings III would be long gone, another potential f iancé scared off.

If I met someone on my own terms, would it feel different? Penny wondered. Maybe if I sang to them, they'd actually look at me, not the shiny room around us. Maybe if we had something — anything — in common... She knew most men were only interested in her wealth.

Up in her room, Penny wriggled free of her dress and ripped at the stays of her corset until it was loose enough for her to actually breathe. Throwing a robe around her shoulders, she sat at her mirror and began brushing her hair, tugging at the long, dark tresses.

Without even thinking about it, she began to sing, notes cascading out of her, the music lifting her spirits.

Tap, tap. She just caught the sound at her door as she paused between songs. It was too soon for her mother to have extricated herself from the embarrassment below, not that she'd knock in any case.

“Come in, Helen,” Penny called.

A cautiously optimistic face poked in, and then the maid entered, carrying a tray of biscuits and milk.

“I thought you might like some refreshments, Miss Penny, since you didn't have much of an appetite during Mr. Billings's visit.”

Penny smiled as she sat up and moved to the table and chair by the window. “It's true, I'm always nervous during these meetings. Thank you, Helen.”

As Penny dipped a biscuit in the milk and took a bite, she watched Helen tidy the room and turn down the bed. Penny often felt a stab of guilt as Helen did these menial tasks that Penny was perfectly qualif ied to do. Helen was up before dawn, stoking f ires, scrubbing f loors, chopping food, and doing whatever other task was called for that moment. She probably hadn't sat all day.

“Why don't you get off your feet for a minute?” Penny gestured at the spare chair in the corner.

Helen shook her head and kept f luff ing the pillows. “No, thank you, miss. This is just the last bit before I turn in for the night. I’ll be resting soon enough.”

Penny could hear the rumble of voices beneath them. She thought about her mother tutting at her all day, reminding her to sit up straight or commenting on how sloppy her needlepoint was — as if that even mattered. Lately every conversation turned into her mother trying to coerce her into a marriage of convenience. “I wish I could please her.” Penny sighed.

“She has a high bar, miss,” Helen agreed.

“Yesterday she told me I was a poor excuse for a lady and was better suited for a circus. She actually called me a freak.” Penny's heart squeezed, remembering the disgust in her mother's eyes. All because Penny couldn't embroider in as tight a line as she could.

“Oh, my lady, I'm sure she didn't mean it.” Helen smoothed down the coverlet, then met Penny's eyes. The maid's eyebrows quirked up as she tried to lighten Penny's mood. “Can you imagine — you, in a circus?”

Penny smiled. “You don't think I would make a lovely magician's assistant?” she joked.

Helen laughed and waved off the possibility, but something turned over in Penny's mind. Was that idea so preposterous? She'd always loved when the circus came to town. The last time she'd been truly happy and relaxed with her parents was years ago, when they'd taken her to one. Fingers sticky from sugary treats, and dazzled by the music and lights, she had raced around, her parents following along indulgently.

Maybe a circus troupe would be more forgiving of her f laws. She'd also get to travel, more than if she were married to some f inancier. She'd get to meet all kinds of interesting people and collect memories rather than trinkets for the mantelpiece. Shaking her head, she f inished her milk and got ready for bed. If she were fast enough, she could pretend to be asleep before her mother barged in to scold her on yet another failure as a daughter.

Once Helen had left her and Penny settled into bed, she allowed herself to sink back into what-ifs. If not the circus, maybe there was something else she could do — somewhere else she could go? But any relative would just cart her back to her mother. If she joined the circus, then even if her mother did track her down, she'd never ask her to return. She'd be too affronted. She'd probably spin some story of how Penny had caught pneumonia and perished rather than allow anything to tarnish the Davenport name.

Penny would need some savings, as only the top-billed performers lived comfortably. She'd also need an act. Hmmm. Her voice was strong — that was one set of lessons she had enjoyed — but most circuses didn't feature singers. Penny turned on her side, and her gaze caught on her bookshelf, where Hans Christian Andersen's collected fairy tales jutted out from among the other titles.

If Penny really wanted to cut ties with her family and upbringing, start fresh in a new world, wasn't she like the little mermaid? Striving for something all her own? A new identity? It wouldn't be a quest for love, though — quite the opposite: she'd be trying to escape the stuffy men and arranged marriages of her esteemed social circle.

But just like the little mermaid, who hadn't felt right in her scales and longed for human legs, no matter what she might have to suffer to get them, Penny was willing to make some sacrif ices. She knew circus life wasn't easy; living on the road couldn't be, and she'd lose the comforts of her station. But that was a small price for the chance to be more herself. To move as she liked, without fear of destroying anything in a room full of ridiculously fragile tea sets. Nobody to tell her to walk more softly or she'd rattle them off their shelves. Nobody to try to squeeze the air out of her with a corset made for a younger Mrs. Davenport. “If it f it me at your age, it should f it you....” her mother had said.

Maybe she could present herself as the voice of those whom legend believed to be lost to the sea — the citizens of Atlantis. She had secretly hoped they'd transformed into mermaids ever since f irst reading of the tragic fall of their empire in Ignatius L. Donnelly's Atlantis: The Antediluvian World. Why not? If people could traverse snow and ice to reach the bottom of the world, who was to say the ancient Atlanteans hadn't f igured out a way to survive underwater?

Penny fell into a restless sleep f illed with dreams of mermaids and rolling country landscapes and brightly lit stages. And when the Medici Bros. Circus arrived in town two months later, she took the plunge.

She dove from the tight-lipped, tight-minded upper crust into the welcoming arms of a band of misf its, and she never looked back. No matter how low the circus's fortunes became. Not even when she ran out of savings, spending the last she had on medicine and blankets for her troupe. Her new family was worth it. And though she still couldn't always shake her self-consciousness, they never judged her or made her feel inadequate. She was free to be whoever she wanted. And that was... Miss Atlantis. XM0JKUUWCspQFjbLeSYCx9Tn8AuTsTki/PA3p0DFQXTMTmeDJBzTqNp0UD9FnON/