The bright circus colors hurt her eyes. You can take the dwarf out of the circus, but you can't take the circus out of the dwarf, she thought. She was looking around the compartment of her friend and compatriot, Honore Brett. Scattered around the compartment were remnants of a lifetime of work under the big tent. Clown costumes, fake noses, silly hats and orange wigs. Even the big shoes.

It was a shame he had to shoot the accordion, but it was a casualty of war. The pretense must be kept up at all costs.

"Sacre merde" she tought (*mercy me). Where is that funny little fellow, anyway? She didn't know if she should wait for him, or proceed with the plan without him...