Page 70 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Jean did not take his gaze away from the road ahead.

‘I saw it with my own eyes,’ Michel told him.

‘So, what are you trying to say?’

‘That Werner tipped them off about Anton. He saw the wires and things in Anton’s tent and got mad.’

‘Must have been a trick of the light. Werner would never have tipped them off about Anton.’

‘Why do you keep trusting him, Jean? Why? He doesn’t pay any of us. He treats Frieda as though she is his property, and he clearly paid the Germans to take Anton away.’

Jean did not answer. He flicked at the reins and stared ahead.

‘Jean. Answer me, please. I thought we were friends?’

‘We are, Michel. We are friends. But I don’t know the answer. I don’t know what happened.’

‘Then who does?’

‘Werner. You want to ask him?’

‘If I do, what will happen?’

‘You already know the answer to that.’

‘So, I do nothing?’

‘For now, at least.’

They rode until midday and rested for a few hours, until Serge told them to continue on.

‘The horses are tired, Serge,’ Michel told him. ‘They need to rest, to eat.’

‘So do I, so I suggest you shut up and we carry on until we can find somewhere decent for the night.’

Michel swapped the horses round, so that Jacques and Abigail could rest from pulling Werner’s large caravan and take on the smaller ones. Michel rode Claudette, who restlessly flicked her head, now and then stopping to stare at the ground.

He talked softly to her all throughout the afternoon, until they reached a hamlet of five or so houses clumped together in a small valley, the smoke from their chimneys hanging heavy in the damp air.

Werner took control and spoke to the occupant of the first house, who directed him to the largest property, one with stables and a barn. Werner returned within minutes, a smug smile on his face. ‘Lodgings have been procured. The horses need rest, stables, feed. And Michel sleeps in the barn.’

‘As if I wasn’t aware they’re tired,’ Michel muttered to Jean.

‘At least you’ll be warm and dry in the barn?’

‘Serge, Vassily, Hugo – you’re in the barn with Michel too,’ Werner shouted before he led them on.

That night, the troupe was quiet. For a few francs, the lady of the house had prepared soup and potatoes, yet they ate without gusto – each thinking of Anton, yet not one mentioning his name.

Michel retired early to the barn and soon, Hugo, Vassily and Serge joined him, carrying their bags and a gas lantern.

‘Here, I still have a few bottles.’ Hugo pulled his famous liqueur from his bag. ‘We can toast Anton.’

Michel looked to Serge, waiting for him to decline. Instead, he took the bottle from Hugo and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He passed the bottle to Michel, who also drank, enjoying the warmth.

‘If I could have, I would have spirited Anton away… but alas, I am only a master of parlour tricks,’ Vassily said, his thin fingers rolling a cigarette.

‘So, you’re not really magic then?’ Hugo laughed, his face already growing red from the alcohol.