She’d copied Claire Heliot’s act, the one where she walked a tightrope opposite her lion. In this case, the cat is the lithe Dante. It’s a rather difficult illusion to achieve because there is no tightrope and there is no panther, simply she and a cat walking on the arena floor toward each other, but the audience thinks she is balancing on a thin piece of twine opposite a six-hundred-pound animal. As the audience jumped to their feet, it was clear why she was the star of our ensemble.

Next, it was my turn. As I climbed the ladder, the spotlight followed me. My hands were sweating, which was not a good start. Gripping the chalk, I wiped my hands on my legs and looked at Hugo standing on the perch opposite me. Unbeknownst to the audience, he’d enchanted an invisible net under me.

To the patrons, it looked like there was nothing between me and the ground. If I fell, however, they’d see that something had, indeed, caught me and realize they’d been duped. Whether they’d admit it or not, our patrons would be disappointed that we’d cheated and tipped the risk in our favor. That is the thing about the circus. Our potential for death is the entertainment, whether by fire, knife, lion, or trapeze. From my time of watching from the side stage, I could tell that each successfully performed trick allowed spectators to believe, for an instant, that magical things could happen and death could be held at bay, if only for an evening.

I set out and the first handoff went a little shakily, but Hugo’s sure hands gripped me. Even for him, it looked like it was a struggle to hold on to my sweaty palms. The chalk had turned pasty. I slid a little out of his grip, but we held on. The problem was that we were on a rhythm with Michel, who was waiting to grab me on the other side. Michel’s hands weren’t as sure as Hugo’s. I would have liked another second or two, but I turned and switched with Hugo grabbing the bar. I never trusted the bar on the return since we didn’t practice our returns with as much frequency. As I went into the roll, I teetered, losing the propulsion needed to reach the angle that would allow me to meet Michel’s hands. Worse yet, the audience knew it. I could hear the sound of dull moans mixed with excitement as they anticipated what would come next. In a split second I felt myself sink in the air and my face became hot—almost feverish—as I waited for what would come next: the humiliation when the net below me was revealed to the patrons.

My thoughts raced. “No,” I cried, loud enough that Niccolò’s orchestra paused.