Page 58 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Making coffee with Vassily. Apparently, the magician has a cure. I told Giordano not to find us unless it works – he must try it on himself first.’

‘I heard Anton’s radio this morning, I think – but then it could have been a dream.’

‘No, you heard it. He told everyone this morning that the government are seeking an armistice with the Germans and the Italians.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That we will surrender. It is just a matter of time.’

‘And then what?’

‘And then they will come. In droves. They’ll seek us out more quickly than we can imagine.’

‘What does Werner say?’ Michel asked.

‘Ah, now you trust him.’

‘Not quite. But he seems like he may know what to do.’

‘My head hurts, Michel. I cannot answer this now. We keep moving, never stopping, that’s all I know.’

Michel lit a cigarette whilst they waited for Giordano’s miracle coffee. He looked for Serge, for Odélie, but they were nowhere to be seen. Then he looked for Werner and wondered what they had told him about his day in the river with Frieda. Whilst he waited and his eyes scanned the crowd of workers, the person he longed most to see walked across the grass towards Werner, as he revealed himself from a large gypsy caravan painted with red flowers, edged with gold trim and mounted on lacquered black wheels. He greeted her fondly, kissing her cheeks and escorting her inside. Michel shielded his eyes and squinted, trying to see her more closely as she walked up the few steps, then just as she turned to look in his direction, his view was obscured by the shadow of Giordano, who stood before him, a cup in each hand, grinning as if today were the perfect day.

‘It works!’

The day was spent moving into the caravans: one for Jean and Giordano, one for Frieda and Werner, another for Madame Geneviève and Madame Rosie to share – the fortune teller had threatened to leave if she did not have one – and one more to be shared by Odélie and the triplets. The rest would camp – even Serge.

Michel helped fix tents, erect posts, and carry boxes of food to a small cooking tent manned by a tired Felix; always keeping an eye out for Frieda, but only seeing Odélie, who ignored him and flirted with Serge.

Before dark the following day, Michel was summoned to see Madame Rosie.

He pulled the purple curtain of her tent aside, revealing the fortune teller lit from above by soft light. She sat at a small round table, a glass ball in front of her.

‘Madame?’

‘Ah Michel, finally you have come to me,’ Madame Rosie said. Her accent was strange, but beautiful. Her w’s and v’s were switched around, her voice throaty and rich. Michel found it slightly hypnotic.

He sat down across from her, unsure of what to expect.

‘I’ve been waiting for you to visit.’

‘Jean said you needed me for something?’

‘Give me your hand,’ she said.

‘He said you needed help with the tent?’

‘Give me your hand,’ she repeated, her green eyes, almost yellow in this light, boring into his.

Michel placed his hand into hers; they were soft like a baby’s.

‘You will live a long life, Michel.’

‘I am sure you say that to everyone.’

The Madame smiled at him, revealing a gold-capped incisor. ‘Perhaps. For those who pay.’

‘I have little money.’