The circus arrived at dawn, when the fog still clung to the river like a thin silver shawl. Trucks rolled along the dew-wet cubes of the boulevard, and men in orange waistcoats, with gloved hands, unrolled ropes, erected poles and, unwrapping sheets, painted blue and gold tent stripes in the air. The smell of damp sawdust, rope wax and freshly fried sugar mingled with the cool breeze off the water. Lena stood at the edge of the square, clutching a volunteer badge in her fingers. She could feel the plastic grooves under her fingers, as if something more important than her name was written in them. She was fourteen years old and there was that certainty in her step that pretends not to be afraid, yet trembles somewhere under the skin. Not because she didn't know the circus. On the contrary. She knew it from stories that no one in her house finished. - 'Are you going to help me with these crates or are you going to stand like this until autumn? - someone asked, and then pressed a corner of a wooden crate into her hands. Maks, a schoolmate who knew as much about the circus as he could search on his phone, grabbed the other corner and rolled his eyes. - Come on, dreams don't do the job here. She smiled crookedly. Dreams. The word had been burning her from the inside ever since she'd found a faded poster in a shoebox in the attic: a smiling acrobat in a navy blue costume with a star on her shoulder, and above her the words 'Circus Orion - One evening, infinite stares'. On the back of the poster, a small arrow and a date were drawn in pencil. Mum never talked about the past, and when she asked, she changed the subject. Lena put off the questions until the time was right. And that time came with trucks, with nails in bags and with a voice that could silence the whole yard. - 'Ladies and gentlemen of eighties opera boxes and science fiction, we're putting it down gently,' spoke the tenor, so sonorous that even the seagulls slowed down by the river. Mr Orion. He was dressed in a long dark coat, the lining of which flashed in the sunlight like the night sky, and a cylinder with a small silver spearhead. Around his neck shone a thin lanyard with a star. - Volunteers are doubly thanked. There's a rhythm here, there's discipline here, here we don't listen to the phones, we listen to each other and what's under the tent. And what's in the box with the star, we don't touch. Not once. Lena and Maksym looked at each other reflexively. "The star chest" sounded like something from posters and imaginations. It was only when they placed the long, dark chest in front of them that she saw the burnt symbol on its lid: a five-pointed star inscribed in a circle. The wood was cold, as if it had just been pulled from an icy lake. As she slid her hand across it, she felt an almost imperceptible tremor, something between a purr and a breath. - Hey! - Rose, an aerial acrobat, dropped to the ground from the platform as softly as if she were a bird. Her hair was bouncy, tied up with a red ribbon, and her hands were covered in rosin. She smiled at Lena communicatively. - The first time? - A bit - the girl admitted. - Just... Mum used to... Never mind. Rose did not inquire. She waved her hand. - 'We'll talk later. Now will you help me hang the ribbon? Orion prepares the Tent of Mirrors and everyone tiptoes. The words 'Tent of Mirrors' sounded like a promise and a warning at the same time. At the edge of the square, a smaller structure was already growing: silvery, metal, with an entrance covered by a heavy graphite curtain. Patches of material reflected the light like the surface of water, without wrinkles, without blemishes. Lena grabbed a rope and pulled Rose's red ribbons up as high as the dome of the main tent. As the acrobat climbed them like a stalk, slapping her calves against the silky smooth fabric, each movement was smooth, measured, sure. All that could be heard was the creaking of the pulleys and the quiet 'yes-yes' of the ropes. - Lights! - shouted someone from the lighting pulpit. Maks ran over to the table and started to slide the sliders in. Coloured light streamed down the ribbon and Rose cut a spiral in the air that would have developed a fog. Lena felt a sting of envy and delight. Was this how the woman in the poster moved? Was this how she was looked at from below, with her head raised until her neck hurt? Meanwhile, Mr Orion approached the Mirror Tent with several artists. There was a slender illusionist with sharp cheekbones, later introduced to Lena as Dahlia, and two technicians carrying long mirrored tubes. Orion spread his hands with theatrical solemnity. - Rule one: in the maze of mirrors, we do not walk alone. Rule two: we don't touch the glass unless someone on the other side asks. Rule three: the curtain closes whenever there is no one in the middle,' he said, leading them between the narrow, glittering corridors. Lena, although she shouldn't have, came closer, pretending to rearrange a box of nails. She saw Dahlia facing the huge sheet. Her reflection flashed, but not in the same way. For a fraction of a second - maybe two - the mirror seemed delayed as to the blink, as to the movement of her fingers. Dahlia didn't flinch. She lifted her hand and ran a comb of black ebony through her hair, as if underwater. Lena squinted her eyes. There was something strangely soft and thick about it, like the air in August before a storm. - 'Step back, please,' chuckled the technician without a shadow of politeness, and Lena took half a step back, feigning an indifference that was not at all easy. As she walked away, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that in the corner of the Tent of Mirrors stood a box with a star. The same one. Or the same one. She only flashed it, as the curtain fell with a soft "shhh" and everything was swallowed up by the grey material. The rest of the day passed in a rhythm of construction. Audience benches sprouted from the angular elements, rails from the tubes. Garlands of light bulbs were hung, hoops were polished, on which someone would be spinning head down tomorrow. Lena and Maks were given an easy but responsible task: buckets, cloths, cleaning up the carpenters' marks. When the sun finally broke through the clouds, everything sparkled and the river no longer looked alien. - Is this yours? - Rose asked, pointing to the pendant around Lena's neck. A small star on a thin chain, matt, almost the same as the one on the chest. - 'I found it at home,' muttered Lena, hiding it reflexively under her shirt. - Strange, isn't it? - 'Nothing is ordinary at the circus,' smiled Rose, and for a moment there was a warmth that needs no fire. Evening came sooner than they should have. The boulevards were filled with people carrying glowing balloons and candyfloss bigger than their heads in handfuls. Children held hands with their parents, older couples shared a bench and thermoses. Lights were lit by the river and music came from the speakers, with each note promising something you hadn't seen before. Under the big tent, lanterns spun colours across the sawdust, and Mr Orion orbited like a planet in perfect orbit, pulling helpers to the right places. - Have you got that for me? - He asked, emerging suddenly in front of Lena. His eyes, clear as ice, swept over her quickly and carefully. - Gaffer tape. Black. Only black. The Mirror Tent has a cracked sill at the third frame. Dahlia will be furious when she sees the foulness. - 'I've got it,' Lena replied, grabbing a roll from the technical trolley. She felt a tremor in her fingers, but treated it as part of the music. She picked up the torch still. She pushed her way between the crates, past Rose and Maks, who were arguing about the light level on the proscenium, and stood in front of the entrance to the Mirror Tent. The curtain was heavy, soft as velvet and cold as stone at night. Behind it was twilight. Someone once said that mirrors only live by light. Here they seemed to breathe shadows. Lena lifted the fabric and slipped inside. For the first moment, she saw nothing but the reflection of the torch - a thin sheaf of yellow light that instantly multiplied into infinity. The corridor, which seemed straight, split into more passages, each one looking the same: level, clean, with steel frames on which there were no fingerprints. She walked slowly, remembering that Orion had said "never alone". But she was only there for a moment. Just to stick the tape on. Just to see it all up close. - Hello? - she called out quietly. The sound bounced off the glass and came back to her from behind, as if someone had answered. For a second she thought of her mum: the hands that smelled of something sweet and resinous, the abruptly broken conversation in the kitchen when she asked about the old poster. She stopped at the third frame, as Orion had asked. Indeed, a thin line had chipped away at the threshold, where the metal met the floor. Lena crouched down, holding the torch in her teeth, and began to measure the tape. The glue gripped coldly, with a hiss. As she stuck the first strip on, something white flashed in the glass next to it. She turned her head. Her own reflection was staring at her all too intently. She could have sworn that, for a split second, she saw the pendant at her neck on the left, although she wore it on the right after all. When she blinked, everything went back into place, like in a polite classroom where someone had just thrown an eraser. - All right, all right... - she whispered to herself. The feeling of someone standing behind her was like a drop of sweat down her spine. She turned abruptly and glared down the corridor. Empty. Just her light and her breathing and the thin, distant hum of the generator outside. "Don't go into the mirrors." The phone in her back pocket vibrated so suddenly that she almost dropped the torch. She pulled it out and unlocked it along with the exhaust. An unknown number. A single sentence. Letters like drops of ink. "Don't go in the mirrors." - Super joke, Maks - she muttered, although Maks never wrote without emoticons. Reflexively, she glanced at the top of the screen: no reception. So how did the message get through? She pressed her lips together and tucked the phone away, feeling the skin on the back of her neck rise. Suddenly, from the water beyond the walls of the tent or from somewhere that only the night knows, there came the dragging sound of a ship's siren. The audience outside the main tent boiled. It was starting. - Lena, report! - Mr Orion, although he was probably far away, sounded like he was standing right next to him. - Two minutes to get in. Are you there? - I'm on my way out! - she called out, then frightened herself at how hollow her echo sounded. She squeezed the last bit of tape and rose. Then the mirror on the right fogged up from the inside. Not as if someone had breathed on the glass from the outside, but as if it was warmer inside than it was here. Letters began to be drawn on the matt white layer. Slowly, as if written with a finger. L... E... N... A. Someone said her name in a whisper. The whisper came from the taffrail, not from behind. She breathed shallowly, no longer feeling the air. The lights on the frame flicked on for a second, fading as the generator grunted. A snare drum sounded outside. Three beats. Then Lord Orion's voice, sure as ever: - Ladies and Gentlemen, please be quiet.... Lena took a step back, but her sole caught on the edge where she had just stuck the tape. She wobbled and, in reflex, rested her hands on the glass. It was obscenely cold and as smooth as water in winter. On the other side, exactly opposite, her reflection did the same - but her fingers did not touch at the same moment. The difference was small, like a blink. Just enough to make her feel that something was wrong here. Mirrors deep down the corridor lit up simultaneously with a silvery glow. A silhouette moved in the farthest sheet. Not hers. A woman in a navy blue costume with a star on her shoulder, like on an old poster, raised her hand and touched the glass from inside. The pendant around her neck shimmered. Just the same. The snare drum fell silent. The curtain of the main tent was about to go up. People held their breath. - Lena... - whispered the woman from the mirror, and in response, from the other side of the corridor, someone moved the curtain of the Tent of Mirrors, as if someone was trying to swing it open from inside. The torch in Lena's hand flicked on. In the twilight, the shimmer of the glass was like a laugh and a blade at the same time. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that her teeth rang. Outside, a fanfare sounded, as if someone had just opened a star in the sky. Lena stuck her fingers under the edge of the curtain, ready to take a step in either direction. Just above her ear, close and clear even though no one was there, a quiet whisper rang out: - Can we see you now? The lights flashed a second time and the mirror opposite her vibrated, as if the glass had taken a breath.