The tents went up with practiced precision. The striped canvas rose against the pale sky, and soon the smell of sawdust and roasted nuts drifted through the cold air.

Backstage, behind the painted wagons and the stacks of trunks, a young woman stood outside a small dressing room door.

The door was painted deep red. A small brass nameplate still hung there, polished so often it shone like a warning.

It read: Wren Holloway.