Vincent appears beside me, top hat in hand, and gently tweaks my earlobe. ‘You did good, Tuls.’ Vince is my mum’s brother, and one of my favourite people in the world. He smells of clove chewing gum and the orange-scented wax he puts on his twirly moustache. When I was younger, he’d let me ride around on his shoulders for hours at a time.

He passes me a small handful of pistachio nuts before leaning forward to peer through the curtain with a frown. He’s trying not to show it, but I know how worried he is about our small audiences lately.

This circus is the only home I’ve known. I was born right here in the big top after a show one evening – Dad caught me and wrapped me in Mum’s velvet cape – and all these people are more than just fellow performers. They have babysat me, fed me and helped homeschool me and Kit; but, more importantly, together we make this wonderful, joy-filled thing – this circus show, this unique-each-night gift for the audience. It takes hours, no, years of practice to make it look effortless and smooth, but nothing beats the feeling of a full-house audience rising to its feet, cheering and clapping.

‘Yes!’ exclaims Vince. Mum has just turned a handful of sawdust into glittery golden confetti, which she tosses into the air with a dramatic gesture.

I want to know the words of that spell. Of every spell! All I want is for her to let me in to the world of magic.

Mum doesn’t know it, but for the past few weeks I’ve been secretly practising a couple of spells I’ve heard her use. This afternoon, I’m pretty sure I made the door of our van swing a few centimetres. My plan is to keep practising, then choose the right moment to show her and prove that I’m ready to learn big magic.

The scattered audience rises to its feet, clapping and whistling, as Mum bursts back through the curtain, smiling. Jerry strides into the ring, twirling his fire sticks. The lights go down, except for a spotlight on Jerry and another on Claudie, who’s playing spooky violin music. Later, after the trapeze and highwire acts, and after Zanni’s dogs perform, all of us take a final bow and the audience trickles out.

Backstage, Mum and I pack her props into a red wooden box. She passes me her wand. Up close, it’s just a stick of bamboo that’s been wrapped in black velvet tape she bought at some newsagency. It’s her fingers that send the magic.

‘Mum?’ I say quietly as I slot the wand into the box. ‘Remind me why you were taught magic before you were sixteen, given that it’s against the rules.’

She raises one eyebrow and says, ‘This again? Teaching me too young was just one of my mother’s many bad decisions.’