Page 94 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Le Cirque des Amis

En route to their new home, in the region of Senlis outside Paris, the trees had shed their rust-coloured clothes, leaving naked limbs whose skeletons felt no cold; in fact, they welcomed it, allowing the early morning frost to cling to them.

Michel, instead of shedding his own clothes, gained a few more. First was a patchwork-knitted jacket that Geneviève had left for him, then on top of that a long black woollen coat which Odélie said was left behind by some customers long ago, yet smelled strongly of cigarettes and a tangy aftershave Michel could have sworn he knew. He thought once or twice to ask her about the coat’s true origin, yet the bare branches of the trees swaying in the cold morning made him think again.

‘We are not far,’ Serge said. It was a Friday evening, and the sun had just begun its descent over the horizon.

As Serge navigated the road in the twilight, Michel soon became aware of a hazy shadow in the distance.

‘This is it?’

‘This is it,’ Serge answered, as a clump of brick buildings came into view.

The main house was set in an L-shape, the downstairs windows burning with lights from inside. A small gravel drive led to stables and a barn. But Serge did not stop; he continued to manoeuvre the horses past the stables, out into a field at the back of the house where the wheels sludged in the wet grass.

‘We’ll get bogged down,’ Michel said.

Serge ignored him and encouraged the horses on, both with their ears set back, foam at their mouths from the strain.

One by one, the others pulled into the field. Michel climbed down once Serge stopped and looked about him – on the left was the shadow of a cathedral’s tower, and the rooftops of houses disappearing into the dark.

‘This is it?’ Odélie lit a cigarette.

‘What were you expecting?’ Madame Rosie asked.

‘You said Paris, Jean. This is not Paris.’

‘He said near Paris,’ Giordano corrected. ‘This is near, is it not?’

‘I can’t see it.’ Odélie looked towards the horizon, as if the Eiffel Tower would appear before her eyes.

‘It’s dark, wait awhile,’ Jean joked.

‘I suggest we all get some sleep,’ Serge snapped, dark, puffy circles under his eyes.

‘Fine.’ Odélie climbed back inside her caravan, her voice loud as she complained to the triplets about their lacklustre camp.

‘Michel, you and I will stay with Werner. Hugo, Kacper – don’t bother to camp. Find a space with Jean and Giordano. Get some rest. It will be fine. Frieda, it may be better for you to sleep with Madame Rosie tonight. I snore, and Michel can tend to your father.’

She squeezed his arm. ‘He’s asleep for now but he has a slight fever. Keep mopping his brow and please wake me if you need anything.’

Serge nodded, and Michel took her hand – lightly, briefly – before she followed Rosie.

Michel unhitched the horses and let them graze. ‘We need something more for them.’

‘We’ll sort it at daylight.’

‘Look, I know it’s dark, but they need a stable,’ Michel insisted.

‘And I said we’ll sort it come daylight.’

Reluctantly, Michel left the horses outside and sat in Werner’s caravan, watching as Serge gave Werner water to drink and placed a cool cloth on his forehead.

‘He’s still sleepy,’ Michel said stupidly.

‘It’s a fever. And infection. We will need to get a doctor first thing.’

‘I thought you said Werner had friends here?’