Many dime novelists experienced creative blocks to their writing, but Lydia Pelton doubted any of them would stoop to impersonating a clown and rescuing a three-legged goat from the circus to overcome them. A wise decision on their part, no doubt. Letting Theresa convince her this was the best solution to both of their problems bordered on lunacy. Not only had they abandoned their corsets and skirts for—Lord, forgive them—oversized trousers and red shirtwaists, but they’d concocted the most ridiculous plan of extracting a bleating goat from the circus. At night. When everything was quiet and calm.

They were fools. The stench of the outhouses they hid behind only confirmed it.

Theresa tugged on Lydia’s shirtsleeve and pointed between the wooden buildings toward the lantern light of the circus grounds’ guard.

If he adhered to the same path as last time, he’d exit from between the colored tents, then meander toward the big tent—the opposite direction of the menagerie.

Lydia scratched at the tacky white paint on her face and watched the light grow brighter. Please don’t let this go like I’d write it.