Paulina puts down the looking glass and stares. “Are you naïve or just stupid?”

"I am looking for Paulina.”

The man brushes past her.

“Where is Paulina?”

A woman points vaguely toward the sea of tents that sit in the field behind the big top.

“Paulina. I need to find Paulina.”

A young boy shrugs and runs off.

Hannah feels the sweat build on her palms and forehead, although it is freezing and frost crunches under her feet. She opens a tent flap. “Oy!” A man pulls it down again.

She should be doing this logically, methodically. Going from tent to tent, or perhaps finding the man in charge and asking him to direct her, or to call out on his megaphone — Paulina, come and show yourself. You are wanted by a lady.

“Paulina?”

This way.

“Paulina?”

That direction.

“Paulina?”

Grass, night sky, gas lamps, stars, tent flaps, raucous fit of laughter, a distant roar of a tiger.

Paulina Paulina Paula Perla Perla…

She sits in a dark tent, a looking glass propped up on her lap, wiping away her rouge with a soft cloth. The woman looks at her. Is it she? How can it be? But the eyes. There is something in the eyes. But the face, it looks so rough and worn under the makeup.

“Paulina. I have been searching for you.”

Paulina-Perla turns around in her seat and crosses her small arms over her middle. “The answer is no.”

“What do you mean?”

“No.”

“I…”

“I will not come and live in your house and entertain your guests and do a little light housework along the way. No, no, no.”

“But—”

“I am a woman who loves her freedom. I will not be a slave to a gentlewoman. Do not think you are the only one. At least once a week, some gentlewoman comes charging into my tent, wanting to buy me, thinking that I am like a lapdog they will have around the house for their entertainment. Well, the answer is no. I shall not come.”