Page 46 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘No room. Get Beau out of here before the ringmaster sees you.’

But Michel took his time gathering up the reins, turning Beau, waiting, hoping…

‘I said, get him outta here!’ The stagehand’s face was puce with rage.

Beau pulled Michel on, and out into the night, the flap of the tent closing in their wake.

Eliáš brought Claudette back to Michel just after ten. People were streaming out of the tent like ants and scurrying towards the exit, the village beyond, leaving the grass strewn with papers, bottles and napkins in their wake.

‘Here,’ Eliáš said, his French thick and unnatural on his tongue.

‘Where are you from, Eliáš?’ Michel asked.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I was just asking – your accent is different.’

‘Czechoslovakia,’ Eliáš said, and turned quickly away, striding to his own tent, his shoulders hunched.

A few hours later, Michel was deep in a sleep that had him dreaming of his apartment in Paris. Only this time, both Beau and Claudette filled the space, and on the chair near the window sat Frieda. As Michel moved towards her, others appeared – first Jean, then Giordano, Serge, Werner, and then Odélie…

‘Odélie…’ he said, half asleep.

‘I’m here.’

The voice was louder, closer.

‘Odélie…’ he said again.

‘Michel, wake up.’ He felt a hand on his face, opened his eyes and saw the real-life Odélie standing over him.

‘You were dreaming.’

‘Yes.’

‘Of me.’ She smiled.

He nodded and Odélie bent her head to his, kissing him, moving her body onto his.

‘You dreamt of me,’ he heard her murmur once more, as she slipped her dress over her head and brought Michel close to her.

Seven

Le Vent du Changement

Michel awoke before dawn and once more Odélie was gone. He lay on his bed for a moment and let the trill of birdsong spread throughout the camp, building with each minute that the sun rose.

The clanging resumed behind him as Felix set to work on fixing the engine. Michel dressed and left the tent, rubbing his eyes and yawning as Anton passed him, his radio under his arm again, heading for a small gathering that had sprung up around Madame Rosie and Madame Geneviève, who were dispensing hot coffee and stale bread.

‘Michel, is it not?’ Madame Rosie greeted him as he took a tin cup of coffee from her. Her black hair was scraped back into a twist, a string of gold coins around her forehead, a small gold ring in her nose.

‘It is.’

‘I have heard about you.’

‘Good things?’

She cocked her head to the side as if deciding. ‘Things.’