Page 13 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Where are you going?’ Michel asked.

‘Wherever the train takes us.’

‘Who is us?’

‘Our troupe. Do you not realise what train you have stowed away on?’

Michel looked at the crates, most of which were hammered shut, yet a few revealed small secrets: colourful material – perhaps a suit, a dress; some sequins spilled out from crates that had been badly closed. Suddenly, Michel heard a low rumble partially disguised by the screech of the wheels as they clattered onto a new track, taking them further away from Paris.

Michel looked at Jean, who smiled. ‘Can you not smell them? I am surprised they did not wake you earlier. Monsieur Aramis is an early riser and usually much louder than this.’

‘Monsieur Aramis?’

‘The lion. You just heard him roar, did you not? Come now, do not tell me it is not obvious to you? The costumes, wild animals, a dwarf and a giant?’

‘The circus. You’re a circus.’

‘Aha, correct!’ Jean-Jacques clapped his hands.

‘Maman took me once. I think I was five – no, maybe six. It came to Saint-Émilion.’

Jean-Jacques produced a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Michel.

Michel took one and Jean lit it for him with a gold lighter, engraved with the Ace of Spades.

‘You like it?’ Jean asked, giving Michel the lighter to take a closer look. ‘The first magician I ever met gave me this. He said it was lucky.’

‘And is it?’

‘I like to think so. I’m still here, aren’t I?’ Jean grinned.

‘There is a circus in Paris, the Cirque d’Hiver.’

‘Of course. Our competition, although we do not match them. They have more performers – the best – more animals. Hell, even their train is enormous! Their carriages stretch for miles. Not like this rickety six-trailer. Although, we did have more. Once.’

Giordano reappeared carrying a plate of bread and cheese in one hand, and in the other a jug of coffee with small cups stuffed into the pockets of his breeches.

‘You could help, you know,’ he snorted, as he struggled to close the carriage door behind him.

Jean stood and relieved him of the coffee and plate, and Giordano removed the cups and joined Michel on the floor, crossing his legs as Jean poured him some coffee.

‘Did they ask anything?’ Jean asked.

‘No,’ Giordano said sulkily.

‘They didn’t notice your new suit and that you were taking your breakfast in here?’

‘No.’

‘My friend,’ Jean laughed and slapped him on the back, which spilled the man’s coffee once more, ‘you need to stop being so vain!’

‘I’m not vain. I just like to look nice.’

‘We shouldn’t quarrel; we have a guest. Michel, this is Giordano. He is moody and sulky, but he is also the best man you shall ever meet.’

With the compliment, Giordano lifted his head and held out his small hand to Michel. ‘I am not moody. Nor sulky. The rest is correct.’

‘Eat.’ Jean passed Michel some bread and a slice of cheese.