Page 66 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Take this.’ She handed him a glass filled with the thick, red wine. ‘Drink.’

He drank.

‘It will warm you, keep drinking.’

The wine was not like anything Michel had tasted before. A spice had been added – perhaps cinnamon; no, cardamom – something that made him relax back into the seat.

‘I like the way you talk to the horses. You calm them. Even if it means you catch your death of cold. Tell me, why do you read to them so? It’s odd. Who are you, Michel?’

‘I’m not sure I’m anyone.’

She smiled and her eyes narrowed. She sat across from him on a footstool covered in a dark green velvet threaded with gold – as if sunlight were trying to escape through a canopy of leaves.

She poured herself some of the spiced wine, the slop as it hit the glass like heavy rain on a windowpane. She sipped at it, then, licking her lips, she said, ‘Tell me your secrets. Tell me who you are. And then I will tell you who I am.’

‘I have no secrets,’ he answered. He placed the glass onto the brass table and felt his head swim.

‘As you wish.’ She placed her hand on his knee. ‘Sit back. It is the warmth; it is making you sleepy.’

Michel did as he was told and enjoyed the feeling of heat that came from her hand.

‘If you will not tell me your secrets, tell me a story instead. I hear no stories; I know so little of who you are.’

‘What story would you like?’ Michel looked into her emerald eyes and held her gaze.

‘Tell me the story of the man who can talk to horses.’

‘And what will I get in return?’

‘A story of a girl who is always hiding, but what she wants more than anything is to ride away on a jet-black stallion to a home of her own.’

‘You?’

Frieda took her hand from his lap. ‘First, your story.’

Michel sat up slightly, and Frieda poured more wine into his glass. ‘There is not much to tell.’

‘You were born in Paris, your father had died. Continue…’

‘My mother and I lived in an apartment in the 14th arrondissement. She liked to paint and filled it with colour. We had little, but she made everything bigger, more wonderful. Monsieur Bertrand and his wife Amélie were our neighbours. They would watch me when Maman had to work. Monsieur Bertrand taught me to read. He bought me the book you hear me read to the horses. I was not good at school; I had a stutter, and I could not find the words when the teacher asked me questions. They made fun of me, until I grew a head taller than them. Then they stopped. Monsieur Bertrand taught me to read aloud, to master my stutter. Then he found me a job when Maman died and I had no money. I was a stable-boy and I read to the horses, to calm myself, and then to calm them. I learned to train them, to ride them. And now I am here.’

Whilst he had spoken, she had closed her eyes and Michel wondered if she had fallen asleep.

‘You think it is a small story, don’t you?’ She opened her eyes.

‘It is what it is.’

‘I like it.’

‘You do?’

‘I like it, but you could make it more like it was, Michel. It could be full of colour, laughter, what your mother said to you, what she smelled like, what Paris was like in the rain!’ Her voice was higher now, her words rushing out. ‘The smell of baked bread from the boulangerie, or how the sun rose above the city’s rooftops, or how the gardens looked in the summer, or how the people sat at cafés and sipped coffee and ate cake!’

‘I could. But I am not really a storyteller. I am a horse trainer.’

‘Do you miss Paris?’

‘I do.’