At the corner of the fairground where the coloured lights dimmed and the cacophony of sound faded, was a wooden caravan. Capturing the essence of a long-forgotten time, it would have once been a spectacle to behold with its spindle wheels, ornate gables and finely worked trim. Now, however, the paint was chipped and faded, the wooden shutters hung askew and the wheels were warped. 

Sam eyed the rotting staircase leading to the door. Above it in looping swirling letters the sign read Magical Madame Carla. 

‘This must be it.’ he said, turning to the others. 

Veronique pushed him forward. ‘Go on, then. Age before beauty.’ 

Sam placed a foot on the first step. It groaned but held, as did the next. Reaching up, he tapped his knuckles on the mottled blue and purple door. 

Nothing. 

He turned and looked back, shrugging. 

Joe was jiggling and Fedor put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Do you need the toilet, or is it excitement?’ 

The boy cocked his head thinking. ‘Little of both.’