The dress rehearsal was a complete and utter disaster.

The head grip was all smiles. “Good sign, that,” he said. “Nothing left to go wrong tomorrow night.”

Oh, how Bert wished these words held truth. In a weak moment, he’d agreed to switch around a few acts. He sneezed. These allergies would be the death of him! Had he been feeling himself, he would have stood up to Mr. Houdini. Why he needed that juggling act to perform before him, Bert had no idea. And then that Oberon had been carrying on something awful about getting on the bill. His audition wasn’t half bad. Maybe Bert could find a slot for him. But it would have to wait until after tomorrow night. After the Vanishing Elephant. Bert sneezed again. Three times. His aching head. His itching eyes. His raw red nose.

A cup of tea would make him feel better. This backstage chaos could carry on without him for fifteen minutes, at least.

Bert took himself to his office, unaware that he had missed, by moments, a certain girl juggler who had entered carrying a piece of paper but exited without it. He also could not know that this same girl was at that moment conspiring with the assistant elephant keeper.

While Bert waited for the teakettle to whistle, he rummaged in the top desk drawer, seeking a packet of Digestive Biscuits, but instead finding a note he’d written to himself: Don’t forget M’s birthday. The note was days old. Which meant—he glanced at the wall calendar courtesy of Shaffer’s Theater Goods to confirm his suspicion—he had indeed forgotten his wife’s birthday. What else could possibly go wrong? He reached for the bottle of milk for his tea. This action brought him face-to-face with a sleek chocolate-striped cat with golden eyes.

“You!” Bert sneezed, reaching for his bottle of Dr. Leo’s Breathene. “You’re the reason I’m falling apart!” He stamped his foot. “Shoo!” Stamped again. “Scat.”

The cat neither shooed nor scatted. She twitched her tail. Once. Twice.

Bert must have dozed off in his chair because the next thing he knew, the kettle was shrilling in his ear. He jolted, then pulled it off the hot plate and poured the steaming water over a spoonful of tea in his Brown Betty teapot. Where had the milk gone? And why had he left that saucer on the floor?

The tea steeped to a lovely caramel hue. Bert drank the entire cup and didn’t miss the milk, turning his attention to the stack of papers on his desk. He flipped through invoice after invoice, including one requisition for the use of a wagon and two cart horses, all of which he signed with a flourish. Paperwork and tea completed, Bert felt capable of handling any calamity upstairs, including a fish-deprived seal, an opera diva who refused to follow a seal act, and a troupe of bumbling jugglers. He whistled every step of the way, feeling quite chipper though he couldn’t say precisely why.