You see a scattering of black and white and feel immense relief. The circus, it's still here. All day you'd been reliving the previous night's wonders. You long to hold and taste the hot chocolate. You tried to make it this morning, but it was lacking something, some vital magical ingredient. You long to see what else the circus has to offer. You may not know it yet, although you might have an inkling, but tonight will be the last time you enter as a mere visitor. The circus will capture you.
You arrived early, still dressed in your black office suit and white shirt, and have to wait for the gates to open. You take time to look around and observe the other early birds. Most are dressed in black and white, though always with a touch of red. They greet each other as if they're long lost friends, but from the snippets of conversation you deduce they are all strangers. An elderly gentleman tips his bowler hat and offers you a red rose. He smiles when you take it: "Welcome to the club". Before you have time to ask him 'what club' the gates open and he disappears amongst the monochromes and reds. Giddiness overtakes you as you revisit the Cloud Maze, you look for the Wishing Tree, knowing exactly what to wish for tonight and lastly you return to the mesmerizing Ice Garden. Now with a delicious hot chocolate clutched in your hand - cinnamon, definitely cinnamon and chillies, maybe rum - you notice a tent, a little way off, almost separate from the others. You wonder if that tent belongs to the artists. You'd love to meet them and purposefully walk towards it. Only after walking round the tent twice you spot the entrance, but maybe that's part of the magic. You're surprised to see the tent is dark and empty, except for an easel with a blank canvas. It stands in the centre and is illuminated by what you can only describe as a ray of sunshine, although there are no gaps or tears in the fabric of the tent and how could that be, you wonder, it is after all dark outside. Momentarily the sunshine fades, as if a cloud has passed in front of the sun. Mesmerised, unable to avert your eyes from the easel, you bump into a comfortable chair. You notice four of them, all different colours. You decide to take a seat in the sky-blue wing chair, right in front of the easel.
As soon as you sit down the sun streams back into the tent. A painter's palette appears, hovering in the air. A brush dips into the paint and starts painting the canvas. You expect a portrait, but find the brush is painting a Van Gogh-like field of sunflowers. One burst off the canvas and lands in your lap. You touch it and wonder what magic makes it possible for you to feel the grooves of the brush strokes, yet smell the sun on the petals. Looking back up you see three brushes at work simultaneously. Your face lights up. You recognise the pale hues of Renoir. Golden yellows, soft blues and peachy oranges transform, not only the canvas but a large part of the tent into a hazy garden. You cannot resist. You get up and walk over to the lake. A lady in a long blue skirt and yellow jacket is about to step into one of the boats. She beckons you and you join her party. A man in a white jacket and light hat rows you across to a white house in the distance. The wind carries music towards you. You spot the ballerina in the music pavilion. Degas? you think, and in an instant you are standing in front of her, watching in awe as she pirouettes around you, on pointes, light as a feather. Faster and faster she spins. Colours swirl in front of your eyes. You close them, feel the chair and sink down. The music fades and when you open your eyes the canvas on the easel is blank. The show is over. In a daze you leave the circus, but when you pass the ticket boot you have the presence of mind to accept the card offered to you by the gentleman in the bowler hat.
Arriving home, you take off your jacket and put the rose and the card on the table, slowly and dreamily. You do not want to break the magic so you leave the lights turned off and go to bed. It won't be until you wake up in the early afternoon before you notice the red paint splashes on your clothes. And that's when you know. You know now, in the core of your being, that you'll join the people whom you quietly referred to as odd, dressed in monochromes and reds. You'll be like them, chasing the circus, entering whenever and wherever you can. You are Rêveur, The card states it plainly, in cursive Euphemia script, along with a date and place.