The Ladies of the Secret Circus

by Constance Sayers

  She inhaled sharply. “May I?” Lara turned to the man to see if she could remove the painting from the wall.

  He nodded.

  Lara pulled the painting from the nail on the wall and turned it over. The crude charcoal wording read CECILE CABOT TAKES FLIGHT.

  Cecile Cabot.

  She turned the frame over and studied it carefully, trying to take in every detail she could so she could describe it to Barrow and Gaston. Holding it in her hands, she found they were shaking. This portrait appeared to be smaller than Sylvie on the Steed, but it could be an optical illusion since this frame was much smaller. From Barrow she knew to look at the canvas—which, after she flipped it over, seemed identical to the one that Barrow was now studying. “Why did you bring me here?” Lara looked up at the man.

  “This painting was of Le Cirque Secret. The owner keeps it in here. It is his favorite.”

  “This is a very valuable painting, you know.”

  The man shrugged. “It does not matter to him.” He pointed to the desk that seemed to belong to the head of Le Cirque de Fragonard. “He calls her his tragic muse.”

  “Tragic?”

  He nodded. “The woman in that painting died right after she posed.”

  “But that’s not possible…” Lara leaned in to study the woman’s face. If Cecile Cabot had died, then who was the woman claiming to be Cecile in Kerrigan Falls? Looking down at the painting, Lara felt a connection to this woman. This Cecile Cabot. The platinum hair. This was the woman who had written the journal.

  Lara put the frame back up on the wall. “Thank you. Is there anything more? Archives or anything?”

  “Oui.” The man nodded and led her back to the railcar. As Lara stepped up into the car again, watching for the ponytailed lady, she saw the old man bent over, pulling out boxes of papers. “All circus memorabilia.”

  Lara knelt down. “Is it okay if I look through this?”

  The man nodded. “I have more cleaning to do.” He motioned around the courtyard.

  All she wanted to do was run back into that office, pull that painting from the wall, and take it away to the institute.

  Furiously rummaging, Lara discovered about ten other boxes containing photos, costumes, programs—everything from the French, British, Spanish, and German circuses before World War II. Two boxes labeled FRANÇAIS seemed the best bet to find anything on Le Cirque Secret. The first box contained a bunch of tickets to other circuses as well as photos—many of them of haunting oddities, like clowns making themselves look like otherworldly creatures with makeup and wigs.

  The second box contained circus programs. She was midway through the second box when she spotted them: familiar aged composition books, two of them, with weathered, almost leathery beige covers bearing the name CECILE. Flipping through them, she recognized the familiar handwriting.

  She smiled. “A scavenger hunt, huh?” She looked around the railcar. This entire day had been one big scavenger hunt.

  The man returned thirty minutes later to find her on the floor surrounded by circus memorabilia.

  “Success?” He wiped his forehead with his hankie.

  “Oui,” said Lara, holding up the two books.

  “Would you like to borrow them?”

  “Yes,” said Lara. “C’est possible?”

  “Oui.” The man scowled. “These are rotting. They were to be…” He motioned, looking for the word, flicking his hand toward the curb. “Tossed.”

  Lara looked down at the composition books, her heart sick at the thought that someone might have thrown these away. What if she had not come to Paris? They would have been lost to history. What if her mother had never brought the painting over to her? What if Gaston hadn’t noticed the EG? There were so many things that nearly led to her not being on this quest.

  “Did it help?”

  “Merci.” She nodded. “I should probably head back.”

  The man walked toward the door. “Taxi?”

  Lara followed him back to the office. Her pulse quickened as she got a last look at Cecile Cabot while he dialed the phone on the desk.

  Barrow had said there were three paintings: The Ladies of the Secret Circus. Now she knew the location of two of them. She was closing in on the mystery. One more painting to find, and she had a good hunch it was of Esmé.

  An idling taxi waited for her at the front entrance.

  “Merci.” She shook the man’s hand. “For helping me.” She held up the composition books. “And for these.”

  He bowed. “I’m at your service, mademoiselle.”

  Arriving back at her hotel, Lara kept her ball cap low and her blond hair pulled into a low bun. The lady with the ponytail was nowhere to be found, but she quickly got into the elevator and hit the button for the fourth floor. The elevator was old and came to a creaking stop on the second floor. Lara held her breath as the door opened, but there was no one there. The whole scene reminded her of the eerie elevator with a mind of its own in the Doris Day film Midnight Lace. At the fourth floor, Lara hurried to her hotel room and slammed the door behind her. Turning on the lights, she checked the bathroom and the closets, even ruffling the drapes.

  The phone was blinking with a message from Audrey. She was frantic.

  Lara, It’s your mother. You used the protection spell. I could feel it. Are you okay? Let me know as soon as you get this message. I knew that I should have come with you. I knew it. Call me!

  Picking up the receiver, she got out a calling card.

  Audrey picked up on the first ring. “Are you okay?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I know when you use magic.”

  “That answers so many questions for me now,” quipped Lara.

  Audrey wasn’t in a humorous mood. “What happened? Tell me.”

  “A woman chased me in the Père Lachaise Cemetery. I think it might have been the she that Shane Speer meant in the she wants you dead prediction.”

  She could hear her mother gasp. “Did you get a good look at her?”

  “No. She’s about my height, but she was wearing a wig. Oh, and she’s in great shape; she chased my ass all over Paris. I used the spell and found a place to hide. A circus of all places.”

  “Where are you now?” Audrey was clearly ready to pepper her with questions. “Are you safe?” She was nearly shrieking. “I can’t get ahold of Gaston, but you need to call the police. I knew I should have come with you.”

  “I’m fine. I’m back in my room.”

  “Don’t leave. Call Gaston if you go anywhere.” Audrey was speaking rapidly. “You need to come home. Barrow has the painting now—”

  “Mom.” Lara cut her mother off, trying to sound composed, but her heart was pounding. She really wasn’t safe here, but she couldn’t go home yet. As she held the phone, Lara checked under the bed and behind the closet, then pulled back the shower curtain and even the heavy drapes that led to a balcony—all empty. “Barrow thinks it’s a rare painting. I also saw its twin today. A painting called Cecile Cabot Takes Flight. Our Cecile—I don’t think she was the real Cecile, Mom.”

  “What do you mean?” Audrey seemed to struggle with what to say next. “Who was she, then?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lara, twirling the phone cord. “But I can’t come home until I find out. The spell protected me today. It will keep protecting me.” It wasn’t just the spell. While she couldn’t admit this to her mother, Althacazur knew she was in Paris. He’d orchestrated this entire day, she knew that. He’d promised her answers, a “scavenger hunt,” but he’d also protected her today. That was one of the reasons she wasn’t banging on Gaston’s door right now.

  Her mother audibly sighed. “Do you have enough candles?”

  “I do. I feel such a connection to this woman and this mystery. I need to do this.”

  She hung up and contemplated her next call. Finally, she picked up the hotel phone and punched in the numbers.

  The voice picked up on the second ring. “Archer.
”

  Oh, that voice. Lara felt she could breathe again, and she closed her eyes, sinking into the pillow. She’d missed him. “It’s me.”

  “How is Paris?” He had taken on an intimate tone. She could imagine him turning away from the door so Doyle couldn’t hear him. The last time she’d seen him—on their first date—she’d told him that she’d imagined Todd at the gala. Sinking a little from the memory of it, Lara thought she must have been an idiot to tell him that.

  “Weird things are happening.” Flicking off her shoes, she grabbed the remote volume to turn down the oddly comforting atmospheric music that had been playing when she’d come in the room. Lara couldn’t believe that she’d just blurted that out to him.

  “Like what?” His voice took on a concerned note.

  “I was chased through the Père Lachaise Cemetery today by a woman.”

  “Really?” The register in his voice rose.

  “You think I’d make that up?” She sank into the pillow and crossed her legs.

  “Did you call the police?”

  Lara sighed. Of course he’d tell her to call the police. Perhaps she should call the police. “No. I was rescued by a man at the circus.”

  “You really need to start at the beginning.” He was clicking a pen; she could hear it snapping.

  “I ran, like, two miles.”

  “You can run two miles?”

  She loved that he could calm her down with his banter. “Yes, Ben. I can run two miles. Anyway, there was a man sweeping a courtyard. When I ran by, he saw that I was scared. He motioned for me to come into the courtyard and I hid in a railcar that was also a circus museum. Here is where it gets really crazy. This man showed me a painting of the real Cecile Cabot, not the woman from the painting that I have. This Cecile Cabot died in the 1920s here in Paris. Now I don’t know who it was who helped raise me. After that, he let me rummage through old circus memorabilia and I found something.”

  “What?”

  “Two more journals from Cecile. Hopefully, I’ll find out more answers there.” She was scanning them as she spoke to him, picking out sentences here and there. It was the same voice, the same writing. Checking the date, she saw that it picked up where the other book left off. She had the next volume. These books were in worse shape than the first one, so she’d definitely need Barrow’s help reconstructing some of the damaged pages. She couldn’t wait to show them to him.

  “Is the dead bolt on your door?”

  “It is.”

  “Have you checked the closets? Do it while I’m on the phone.”

  “I checked them while I was on with my mother.”

  “And you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, just shaken up.”

  He inhaled like he was about to speak, but then hesitated.

  “What?” she pressed. When he’d done this in the past, there was always a kernel of wisdom in his next comment.

  “You don’t think it’s odd that you ran right into the place where you found the journals?”

  “You think someone led me there?” Of course Lara realized the chances of running randomly into Le Cirque de Fragonard were slim.

  “It’s exactly what I think. Where was Gaston? Why wasn’t he with you?” There was the same edge to his voice that she’d heard from Audrey.

  “He was shopping for paintings today. And I’m not a child, Ben.”

  “You’re not a child, but you might be in possession of a valuable painting. Maybe the woman was after that?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that it might be the painting that had spurred the woman to follow her. Barrow might have told someone about it and how much it was worth. It might be worth kidnapping Lara for. More than likely, though, it was the powerful woman she’d been warned about. There was no point in giving Ben that piece of information. He’d think she was crazy since the warning came from a circus fortune-teller. Either that, or he’d insist she get the next flight home. And she wasn’t going home just yet.

  “Promise me you won’t be wandering the streets of Paris alone tomorrow.” He was silent like he was piecing something together.

  “I promise no more wandering around Paris unchaperoned.” She twisted the cord of the old phone. “Anything going on back home?”

  “The Washington Post is sending a reporter tomorrow to do a story on Todd’s and Peter’s disappearances. Apparently, with all the success of the Ghostly Happenings episode, there is a renewed interest in Todd’s case.”

  “Oh,” said Lara, suddenly feeling the tug of Todd again. As scared as she had been running through Paris, she had felt alive again—it was an adrenaline rush. This whole mystery had given her a purpose, something she hadn’t really felt since her wedding. “That’s good, right?”

  “It might open up a lead, you never know.” He sounded tired. “When are you coming home?”

  “Day after tomorrow. We pushed our return flight back because the painting looks to be real. There is another expert reviewing it now.” Sadly, she wasn’t sure an article would lead to any information on Peter or Todd. If there were leads, it would come from Althacazur, not some hotline set up by the police.

  “I miss you.” His comment hung in the air. She knew he was testing her, seeing what she would say.

  “I miss you, too.” Hers came out in a whisper, a final breath. Through a little time and some distance, Lara realized that she missed him terribly.

  There was a pause on the line. “Be careful, Lara.”

  “I will.” She hated to hang up. “It was really good to hear your voice.” The ache for him, the distance was palatable now.

  The mood was interrupted by a rustling noise that had Lara sitting up like a shot. She heard something slide under her door. At first, she assumed it was a bill, but after everything that had happened today she wasn’t taking any chances. She rose from the bed and saw that there was a half-inch space under the old door. Lying on the floor in front of it was a white envelope that had been pushed through the opening. Snatching it from the floor, she quickly tossed it on the bed. The envelope had been too heavy and bulky for the hotel bill.

  Plucking it off the bedspread, she could feel the heaviness of the object. It was rectangular, like a—

  Like a ticket.

  She opened the envelope by unwinding one of those old-fashioned cords over a button. Plunging her hand deep inside, she pulled out a cream ticket with gold embossed lettering—the very invitation Mourier had gone mad trying to secure a second time. Yet here it was, on her bed, beckoning to her. The wicked ticket.

  Admission pour une

  (Mademoiselle Lara Barnes)

  Le Cirque Secret

  Trois Juillet

  Vingt-trois heures

  Palais Brongniart

  (Rue Vivienne et Rue Réaumur)

  Crouching down, she looked under the door to see if someone was still standing there. Seeing no shadow, Lara walked over to the door and looked out the peephole and found the hallway empty.

  The ticket was lying flat on the center of the bed. “I’ve heard about you,” she said to it. After a few minutes, she picked it up. It felt heavy in her hand, not like any paper she’d ever touched. She tore at the end of the paper but found the parchment didn’t give. Again, she tried, and it seemed that a liquid came from the very end of it. She looked down at her fingers. Was it blood? Lara sniffed at the garnet-red smudge on her finger and dropped the ticket back on the bed, horrified. The ticket was bleeding. “You bleed?”

  None of the tickets to Le Cirque Secret remained. Except this one.

  Althacazur had said he’d find her. And it appeared he had.

  The Journal of Cecile Cabot—Book Two

  May 25, 1925

  Father did something entirely unusual a few days ago. In a big show in front of all of the performers, he announced that he has permitted Émile Giroux to capture the circus on canvas for three paintings of the artist’s choosing. Since it is impossible for us to be painted, I pressed Father as to how he was g
oing to achieve this, but he said it was not my concern. This led to my questioning him why we couldn’t be painted like normal people in the first place. He said that my tongue could be cut out if I asked another question. We have enough mutes in the circus that I’ll take him at his word. Hours later, I overhead him telling Esmé that he would be enchanting the three paintings. Even though I have earned the respect of my fellow performers, he still treats Esmé like an equal and me, a child.

  I don’t entirely trust this development with Émile. Rarely does Father do anything without wanting something in return. He says everything is point and counterpoint. Balance is required.

  After being permitted to attend our practices, Émile chose me as his first subject.

  For the first sitting, I posed in my aqua costume with the brown beading. I prefer the blush one, my signature costume, but Émile fancies the aqua one because he says it makes my eyes come alive. Sitting for him was a maddening chore, but the idea of him studying me so intently stirred something in me. Now I think that I finally understand Esmé’s love for painters. Feeling Émile’s eyes on me was such an intimate act. The honesty in his depiction of me; the way he’s chosen to both scrutinize and rearrange me in paint. Each night, as he unveiled the progress of his work, I found that we were both so vulnerable: him for the artistic risk that he had taken and me for opening myself to how he truly sees me. While I am not the great beauty my sister is, in the way Émile has pinpointed my most intense moment, the one before I’ve ascended the ladder where I’m anticipating the crowd and the performance ahead of me, he has captured not just my likeness, but my true essence.