A frown, unseen. ‘That’s a good guess.’

‘Grace said you couldn’t stop looking.’

Alask promised himself he’d never underestimate small-town folk again. He took another drag, but the cigarette was done. Threw it onto the tarmac, crushed it.

‘There was a farming accident. Lost both legs and arms, got cut up real bad. Terrible shame.’

Nodding, head low.

‘Father’s gone, just him and the mother. He’s all she’s got.’

‘So the money better be right.’

‘Otherwise no point asking.’

They sat in silence, watching moths dance in soft, amber light. Far away an owl cried twice, but there was nothing more.

On the last day he borrowed a car and drove to the farm. There was no hurry. The boy wasn’t going anywhere. The circus, on the other hand, would leave the next morning. Even as Alask manoeuvred along narrow lanes and scared birds from bush hideaways, Orpheus manned the get out, lowering scaffolding, helping the team pack props, making sure nothing was left behind. It wasn’t what Orph was used to, but that didn’t worry Alask. He trusted his friend.

It was fine to be without them, the venue far behind, the smell of lush green fields, the rustle of the trees, a rising, falling hiss. Alask tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, whistled between his teeth. He didn’t intend to cajole the boy or his mother; he’d never had to before. They would accept his offer, or not. It was a good thing he was doing, he assured himself. Alask was nervous again.

He made good time. Soon the lane widened into a gravel expanse that crackled like frying oil beneath the car’s tyres. The main farm building was small, low-roofed, dwarfed by the silos and barn to the rear. It looked patched and worn, in disrepair. He parked beside another vehicle, a three-litre Egan a little more dishevelled than the car he was driving. As he stepped out, slamming the door, the woman came out of the farmhouse, looking back at the doorway behind her, face flushed. He approached her, beaming.

‘Mr Barron …’

‘Mrs McClusky. How do you do?’

Her face brightened. She looked at her feet.

‘Actually, it’s Ms Sutton. I’m a widow; I used to be McClusky, but I took my maiden name.’

‘So sorry,’ he said, clasping her hand in his. It was small and soft as a child’s. She seemed surprised, yet held on.

‘No, I am,’ she said. ‘For being a bit of a cliché.’

‘Not at all, you’re a survivor, Ms Sutton: a noble survivor,’ he said, taking the hand in both of his.

Her lank hair fell around thin shoulders, and the sober blue dress was buttoned to the neck. Her cheeks wore a fresh apple blush; she hardly looked at him. The widow smelt of warm milk, sweet, and her heartbeat was strong. He liked her. Alask bowed his head.