The circus arrives at midnight.
It appears silently, tents of black and white stark against the glittering skyline of Paris. Nobody sees it go up - they never do. But when the sun rises, the soft warmth of Autumn slipping over the streets, no-one is surprised by the monochrome leaflets which have dotted the streetlights, telling of the arrival of Le Cirque de la Miraculeuse; after all, part of the magic of the circus is that you don't expect it.
Children pull at their parents' sleeves in anticipation as dusk draws closer, signalling the opening of the circus' first night. The queue to enter is horrendous, and numerous adults mutter under their breath that the entirety of Paris must be in the line.
They aren't wrong.
But when, suddenly, the dark silhouette of each tent is illuminated by the lights of the circus, even the grumpiest parent can't help but be entranced by the spectacle.
The circus has come to Paris for as long as anyone can remember; it rarely changes, with some tents as familiar to Parisians as their childhood homes. It is these tents to which people immediately flock, to the tried and tested miracles which never grow old. There's Le Dessinateur, who can draw you without seeing your face; Mime, who Parisians have sworn they've seen drive a car made of thin air; and the children's favourite, Le Bulleur, whose bubbles cannot be popped, and can be shaped into anything and everything.
The air shimmers with wonder as the tents are filled with stunned circus-goers, awe clear on every face, whether they're new to Le Cirque de la Miraculeuse or not. When the circus leaves, there will be arguments about how the performers managed these tricks, these illusions; but in this moment, there is nothing but magic and belief.
And yet, this year, there's something different. Whispers amongst those who've been to the circus before spread faster than fire: there are new tents.
They're tucked away behind the main centrepieces of Le Cirque de la Miraculeuse. They're smaller, and some of the more sceptical Parisians comment that they can't be anything special if they aren't with the main acts. But others, those who understand the circus, know that the opposite must be true. Yes, the tents are smaller, but they must be important; they're hidden, after all, and what's more significant than that which is kept between a loyal few?
The first is pitch black. The only colour on it are the twin specks of green light in the eyes of the black cat where a sign should be, easy to overlook in the excitement of the circus. Its neighbour, only a few feet away, is a burst of colour in the monochrome of the night. The red canvas sticks out, black bulbs dotted on the scarlet material to match the carved ladybug at the top of the doors, drawing a crowd to both the tent and its neighbour. Curiosity burns in the group as they split into two smaller crowds, one for each tent.
Each crowd expects the spectacular; instead, they see the miraculous.
The circus arrives at midnight. And it is there that our story begins.