‘We’re not going anywhere,’ I say, trying to sound confident. But everyone’s gloom is catching. I’ve never seen my mother look so despondent and I overheard Dad saying that it’s not just the big top that needs replacing – two of the trucks need new tyres, too. And apparently if we don’t get new rigging soon, it’ll be too dangerous for the acrobats. ‘They’ll figure out something,’ I say, and wave a hand towards the big top. ‘Mum’s not the only one working on a new act.’

Kit and I have tried to spy on her a few times, to find out what her new trick is, but she always sniffs us out. Literally. Every magician has a special power and Mum’s is an amazing sense of smell. Like a dog, she can tell when people are afraid or angry or lonely. She can even tell if I’m faking sleep. My special power – which I have only an inkling of – seems rather less useful.

Kit tosses his serviette into the darkness. ‘We’ll probably end up in Perth with my grandmother.’ His voice sounds watery, as if he’s trying not to cry. ‘I feel sick at the thought of living there.’

And I feel sick at the thought of life without Kit and my circus family.

To try to lighten the mood, I use my toes to pick up a dropped hair band, and pass it to Kit. I have unusually long toes, inherited from my dad, and – after lots of practice – I can even hold a pen with them and write my name. I wish I could come up with a circus act that made use of my clever toes.

Kit carefully takes the hair band and gives me a crooked smile. ‘I know you’re trying to stay positive, Tulsi … But sometimes bad stuff happens, no matter how much you don’t want it to.’ I know he’s thinking of his dad’s death two years ago.

Before Kit’s dad, Dimitri, got sick, he was a world-class trapeze artist and could do a mid-air quadruple somersault, which is one of the all-time hardest tricks. Kit – also an acrobat – is determined to do a quadruple one day. When he’s up there, spinning and flying through the air, it’s clear that’s what he was born to do. He practises for hours every day, and while we’re hanging out chatting or waiting for dinner, he’ll do fifty push-ups or crunches. Before bed each night, he watches YouTube clips of his dad and other acrobats. He calls it research, but I know it’s mostly so he can see his dad.

Kit pushes a finger into a tiny hole in the sleeve of his costume. Normally he takes his costume off straight after a performance and soaks it in a bucket of water.

I lay my hand over his. ‘Stop poking. You’ll ruin it.’