Page 92 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Clean yourself up, Serge.’ Frieda placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘We need to leave, now. Jean, Giordano, get the triplets to help you pack up. Michel, ride with Serge and take our caravan. I will stay with Werner.’

Michel watched her as she continued giving instructions to the others. Her make-up was smeared from her tears, but her face was set as she took charge – she was the new ringmaster.

Maybe it came from the incident, maybe it came from the quiet creak of wheels on the rutted road and the horses’ hooves clopping, or maybe it came from weariness, the knowledge that everything was now different and could not be undone. Whatever it was, Serge softened towards Michel that evening.

‘How is your head now?’ he asked as he navigated Claudette and Beau, who diligently pulled their master as he slept.

‘I feel dizzy sometimes. The air helps.’

‘You will be fine. I have been hit so many times on the head I am surprised it is still attached!’ He chuckled then stopped, as if realising the impropriety of it, and turned quickly to look at the caravan behind him as if Werner had heard.

‘Do you think this is a good idea? I feel foolish to have escaped south just to return north again.’

‘I don’t know. You can see, can’t you, that we are not safe anywhere? It does not matter where we stop – it can never be for long. We will always stand out – we did before the war, we do more so now, and it is certain that if we live, if the war ends, we will be at odds with the world once again.’

‘Where is this friend of Werner’s? Giordano said somewhere near Paris?’

‘Just outside the city. He’s an old friend, a good man. He has money and land.’

‘And we’ll be safe there?’

‘Safer than we have been.’

A cold wind suddenly swept over them, and Michel shivered and wrapped his coat tighter around him.

‘Winter’s coming,’ Serge said.

‘I used to like winter. The fires my neighbour would build, the wine we drank, the books we read as the snow softly tapped on the windowpanes…’

‘I hate it.’

Michel wanted to ask why, but instead lit a cigarette. He offered one to Serge, who accepted.

‘I have never seen you smoke anything apart from your pipe,’ Michel said.

‘I don’t often smoke cigarettes – they clog the throat more than the pipe, I find. I need my throat to be open and well. Swallowing a sword is not as easy as you think.’

‘I never thought it was.’

‘I saw my first sword swallower in Paris, you know?’

‘Yes, there are many circuses there.’

‘We are not a real circus though, Michel. We are a travelling group of misfits. Not like Cirque Medrano! Do you know it?’

‘At the edge of Montmartre? I know it.’

‘I wanted to work there, but I could not. I was not talented enough. Werner, he worked for Medrano a little in his youth. He wanted his own show to travel, though. He said everyone should have the chance to see his performers.’

‘You are from Paris then?’

Serge shook his head. ‘Poland.’

They lapsed into silence once more, until Serge broke it with a cough and flicked his cigarette to the ground, the sparks flying.

‘You should not smoke so much, Michel. My father smoked. Every day. I cannot remember ever seeing him without a cigarette in his mouth.’

‘He’s in Poland now?’