Once I’d managed to walk between raindrops, I decided it was time to dive into puddles. That took a bit longer to master. I mean, flying may be as simple as – how did Douglas Adams put it? – throwing yourself at the ground and missing, but puddle diving requires a bit more… nuance.

She’d roast him first, of course. Dragon fire killed the pain and added a crispy outer shell that was just so… She was distracted from her search for the perfect word by another infernal itch. This time it was right above her left ear-slit.

When the crowds were thin, though, and the children screamed with fear instead of laughing at their antics, the blue teardrops appeared at the corners of their eyes, their faces were updated in the Registry, and they disappeared. Some said they were going back to college; others found jobs as buskers making balloon animals in zoos and amusement parks, but every single one left Clown Alley, left the life.

Jack hadn’t come up from clown college either, but he was no kid. At sixty, he probably ought to be thinking about retirement, but he’d been born and raised in the circus. He was the last in a line of clowns that dated back to the first American circus.

He was a headliner among clowns; his name – Jacko – was on all the posters.