Page 112 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘I’m going to go and rest for a while.’ Frieda said, standing. Michel took her in his arms and held her close so he could feel her heart beating with his.

‘I’ll check on Werner. Make sure he is OK.’

Frieda kissed Michel and left him sitting next to the fire, his head full of Giordano, German bombs, and the vision of the stump of Kacper’s tongue in his mouth.

Michel suddenly woke, his neck bent to the side. Bertrand’s snoring had reached an impressive volume, and Michel sat and rubbed at his neck.

‘Are you awake?’ Jean asked, sitting upright.

‘I am. I don’t want to be.’

‘Me neither.’

‘It’s cold.’

Michel stirred the fire in the grate back to life, then added a couple of logs. He sat crouched next to it, warming his hands, watching the flames lick at the wood as it hissed and spat.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Jean said.

‘We should try and speak to Werner about where we go next.’

‘I don’t think there is anything he will say to help.’

‘So, we stay here?’

‘I think we have little choice.’

Michel sat back in the chair and heard the sound of footsteps. Before he could open the curtain to check who it was, Henri and Serge barged through the door, their clothes soaked through as if they had swum from Paris.

‘It was raining! Our whole walk back it was raining,’ Henri said, and stripped off his coat. ‘My car broke down. Can you imagine? It was new too.’

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Jean was suddenly full of energy. ‘You know we thought you were dead? Giordano probably is! He went to Paris to find you and they took him away!’

‘Quiet!’ Henri’s voice was harsh. ‘Sit.’

Jean sat and Bertrand woke but did not move.

‘Where are the others?’ Henri asked.

‘Asleep.’

‘Wake them. They all need to hear this.’

Michel did as he was told and woke the troupe, who crammed themselves into Henri’s living room, bleary eyed and disbelieving at seeing Serge and Henri.

‘Where is Odélie?’ Eliáš asked, his face a picture of misery.

‘She is staying in Paris for now,’ Serge said. ‘She plans to join the Cirque d’Hiver.’

‘We are not good enough for her, never were,’ Madame Rosie said.

‘Listen. All of you. What Serge and I tried to accomplish was not as easy as we thought. My contact – a general who is partial to bribery – is also, it seems, partial to entertainment. It is his wife’s thirtieth birthday in a week, and it coincides with his promotion. The deal we have made is that we will perform for him, for his wife, a circus – right here. They have a house in town – used to belong to a musician friend of mine before he left. Now it is theirs – five storeys of beauty. I would swap my ramshackle pile with him! Anyway, I digress. He gave us a permit.’

‘So we dance and sing for him, and then what?’ Jean spat. ‘He arrests us all.’

‘We have agreed that he will then give us papers to leave the country – all of us. Without question. But first we must do the show.’

‘By we you mean us – this tiny troupe – perform a full circus? This is a joke, surely?’ Jean said.