The Ladies of the Secret Circus

by Constance Sayers

  “What does that mean?” Ben took a sip from the tiny cup after stirring sugar in it with a tiny spoon.

  “The circus is in another dimension,” said Barrow.

  Ben laughed. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” said Gaston. “We searched her room. There was an envelope with her name on it, but it was empty. We think she had a ticket.” It seemed to Ben that this was a well-worn discussion between the two men.

  Barrow shook his head. “She knew we’d never let her go alone. Lara had no intention of telling us. If history repeats itself, there was only one ticket—and it was for her, alone.”

  “I never would have allowed her to go alone.” Gaston rubbed his face, his gray stubble showing.

  “There was no ‘allowing’ Lara to go. No one controls her. She had to go,” said Barrow, who now seemed to be an expert on Lara after just a few days. “You can’t get a ticket to Le Cirque Secret—not after all these years—and not go.”

  Ben could tell that tensions were high between the two men, but he wasn’t sure the argument was helping Lara.

  “You’d have let her go, if you’d known?” Gaston had sunk back into the chair, but now he leaned forward, like he was readying for another round.

  “Yes,” said Barrow. “The scholarship required it.”

  “There is no fucking scholarship here, Teddy,” said Gaston, his voice rising. “We’ve left her alone in a daemonic circus.”

  “Daemonic?” Ben hadn’t heard anyone use the term daemonic.

  “Yes,” the two men said in unison.

  Barrow’s voice rose; his clipped English accent grew more pronounced. “You can sit there all day and think that you could have held her back from going, but you couldn’t have. And you wouldn’t have.”

  “That fucking painting isn’t my only concern, and neither is that circus. That is all I’m saying.” Gaston folded his arms, the veins in his neck prominent. “That was your dream that you’ve chased all these years.”

  Barrow looked like he was about to speak, but Ben interrupted. “Maybe it was a deranged killer—a real physical person and not some otherworldly circus run by a devil. Have either of you considered that?” He was trying to cool the situation down. In his experience, you only pieced things together when you were coolheaded. For Lara’s sake, he needed to be that now. “You have them here in Paris, too, don’t you? We need to call the police. She was chased by someone the other day—from her account it was a physical person. You can’t just assume that she’s gone and joined a daemonic circus.”

  Barrow narrowed his eyes. “We have psychopaths here in Paris as well, monsieur. But the concierge saw her leave around ten forty-five.”

  “So?”

  “So,” said Barrow slowly, like he was trying to remain patient with a child. “From everything we know about Le Cirque Secret, performances began promptly at eleven. Always.” Barrow had given up his desk chair to Ben, who was sipping his espresso. “The empty envelope and the time being so close to eleven is a good indicator that she had a ticket.”

  “This isn’t the doing of a madman or an art thief, Ben,” said Gaston. “If we went to the police, we would sound crazy. Anyway, we did call the police. We called you.”

  “What did she say when you talked to her last?” Barrow directed his question to Ben.

  “She assured me she wouldn’t be wandering around Paris without you both. That she wouldn’t take any chances—” As he recalled the conversation, Ben’s body felt heavy; he couldn’t speak for a moment. What if Lara disappeared as well? He was furious with her for taking chances. He nodded toward the composition books and couldn’t believe what he was about to ask next. “So this circus, if it is real, it has no physical location?”

  “It does not.” Barrow tapped on the desk. “Nothing about the circus was physical. That was the problem. When Gaston called about the circus painting that Lara had, it was the first real lead that the paintings were real and that the circus, itself, had ever existed. But these books.” He laid his hand flat on them as he would on a lover. “These books are the first real indication of what went on behind the scenes. Cecile Cabot’s journals explain everything. The legend has the circus appearing only to the ticket holders who were given an address. And we know that it sounds crazy, but that’s what happened to Lara. I’m sure of it. The circus had been reaching out to her.” Barrow took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The man appeared not to have slept for days. He was unshaven, his shirt untucked and stained with coffee.

  “Why?” Ben knew he had to be open to all possibilities.

  Gaston nodded. “We’re aware it sounds crazy. If her great-grandmother was, indeed, Cecile Cabot, then she has a true connection to Le Cirque Secret.”

  “But so would Audrey,” said Ben.

  “I think Audrey is in the dark about Le Cirque Secret, or perhaps denial,” said Gaston. “There must be something special about Lara, but I don’t know what it is.”

  Ben almost snorted. “And you both believe this fantastical tale?”

  Gaston straightened his back. “Tell me, Ben,” he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Back home, do you have a case right now that defies explanation?”

  Ben sighed, recalling the Ouija board and the three men who had gone missing every thirty years. “I do.”

  “It’s either this or a deranged lunatic.” Gaston sank back in his chair. “I’m hoping for this.”

  “I’m not sure they’re mutually exclusive,” said Ben, skimming the composition book notes. “From what you’ve translated, the facts seem pretty weird. Are you sure someone wasn’t drinking too much absinthe?” There was a painting lying on the worktable.

  “The Giroux, you mean? Oui,” said Gaston.

  Ben walked over and lifted the canvas off the table. He could hear Barrow stirring like he was going to chastise him for not wearing gloves, but they knew Ben was furious with them for failing to keep Lara safe. Ben turned. “So this is what all the fuss is about, huh?”

  “Yes,” said Barrow, looking itchy. “That was in the safe here all night. You might want to wear gloves.” He motioned to a pile of gloves next to the loupe.

  “It hung on Audrey’s wall near the bathroom for decades,” said Ben, irritated. “I think it can withstand my hands.”

  “Lara said she found a second one at Le Cirque de Fragonard.” Barrow seemed excited about this information, a point Ben thought was out of place given Lara’s disappearance. “I’ve been wanting to see it.”

  “Is this when she was chased?” Ben placed the painting back on the table and leaned against it wearily. “And you two don’t think that’s odd? She happens upon a painting that no one else has seen, then she goes missing? Where is Le Cirque de Fragonard?”

  “Near Marais.”

  Ben grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go.” The espresso had jolted him awake, but his eyes were burning and he longed for a bed. That would have to wait, though.

  “Here,” said Gaston, handing him a thick pile of handwritten notes. “We found this on Lara’s bed in the hotel.”

  “What is it?”

  “She translated the third journal. You might want to read the translation from all three journals before you say that you don’t believe any of this. She did.”

  The Journal of Cecile Cabot—Book Three

  June 9, 1925

  While it was my suggestion, I was stopped dead in my tracks when I saw them together. He was smiling, and it felt like a small betrayal. But what was I expecting? That he’d dread spending time with my sister? Surely I wasn’t that naive.

  As I walked to the trapeze, a sly smile crossed Esmé’s lips. For the painting she was posed dressed in a black-and-gold-striped jacket with a short front and long tails, gold shorts, and stockings with a light netting. To indicate the pattern of her stockings, Émile sketched a crosshatch pattern over her thighs. Despite trying not to watch them, I felt the attention to my sister’s stockings had dragged on quite long.

  Grabbing
the Spanish Web, I began to climb but thought better of it and came back down. I’d perfected the corkscrew move to where I could float in midair for several minutes. It all began innocently enough. Fatigued after practice, I didn’t want to climb the ladder again. Standing at its foot, I closed my eyes and wondered what it would be like to move through the air, landing at the top. It was effortless, really, the lifting. My body felt light, as though it had longed to take flight.

  Now I can take to the air at will—the ladder and rope are quite unnecessary. Yet for my audience, props are required. To simply soar to the top would have felt like I was performing some cheap magic trick with mirrors. Instead I lured them into an act they recognized and then slowly I pulled the rug out from under them, challenging everything they thought they knew about circus acts. I loved the sound of the gasps in the audience when I shed the ropes and bars and it was just me and the air. Those moments have provided me with the greatest sense of peace I have ever known, like a mermaid returning to water.

  Until I’m warmed up, however, it’s dangerous for me to be distracted. Lack of concentration is the only dangerous part of my magic. If I’m caught unawares, my flying powers might not be there exactly when I need them. While I’m good, my flying powers are not yet perfect.

  To know that I am a magical creature like Esmé has filled me with purpose here. The other performers, like Doro, have begun to treat me as an equal. It’s still tense when Esmé is in the room, as she demands loyalty from our troupe. Any act of kindness toward me is taken as an affront to her. Yet I see how this act of choosing between us has weighed everyone down and a silent resentment toward her has formed. We’re already existing in Hell; why make it worse?

  Walking back to my room, Doro passed me and nodded to Esmé. “Looks like she’s got a fly in the web,” said Doro’s puppet. He raised his eyebrows in what he thought was a private joke between us, yet he couldn’t have known how this comment would affect me. I stormed back to my dressing room in a jealous rage, leaving Esmé and Émile to themselves. I hadn’t felt this way when he’d painted Sylvie, but then I hadn’t been to his apartment when he was painting her. Some part of me feared he would make a fool of me.

  Back in my room, I peeled off my leotard and dress, deciding to head into Montparnasse instead. If I stayed, I feared I might storm out there and rip the canvas in two. Where was this anger coming from? Placing the back of my hand on my forehead, I didn’t think I was feverish, but I’ve been in a constant state of agitation lately.

  At Esmé’s request, we now have separate dressing rooms and most of the space is empty, but I’ve kept the old velvet daybed, my vanity, and the rug. A new mirror arrived for me a few weeks ago. While I assumed it was from an admirer, there was no note attached. It was rather beautiful, a heavy gold, baroque full-length thing, but I’ve begun to fear it’s enchanted. As I stare into it, I almost don’t recognize the vengeful creature staring back at me. It isn’t just my reflection in the glass that disturbs me, but the mirror itself. There are angles where I’ve caught a reflection of myself that is not possible. I’ve asked Doro if there was a fun-house mirror missing from the arcade with some poor spirit trapped in it, but he gestured no. At times, the image that has peered back at me is one of a young girl with only one arm and one leg—her left limbs missing entirely. Knowing it must be my head playing tricks on me, I’ve taken to covering it with my robe and I’ve asked for it to be removed, but no one has bothered with it, claiming it’s too heavy and bulky.

  Father was back today. Moving the circus always required him, so I figured that we will be leaving the Bois de Boulogne. I broached the topic of the mirror and how no one had moved it, but he brushed me off like I was a silly girl. “Turn it around, for goodness’ sake,” he said dismissively. So I did. Still, it has made me hate my dressing room, so I’ve begun staying in Sylvie’s.

  June 10, 1925

  Today Émile sketched more of Esmé’s face detail, so she was sitting close to him. He’d tried to catch me earlier, but I retreated to Sylvie’s dressing room. The sight of them together sent me into a fury. “You cannot just hand him over to her,” said Sylvie, her face sympathetic. “Get out there and fight for him. It is you that he wants, Cecile.”

  While I’ve thrown things in my own room and ripped up my own costumes, I don’t know how to fight Esmé. I’m afraid of her. Sylvie was wrong. Everyone wanted Esmé, so there wasn’t much point to fighting for Émile when I’d surely lose.

  As I entered the big top, Father was observing Esmé telling Émile a joke that had them both roaring with laughter. “You’re distracted?”

  “Non.” I didn’t want Father to know that I cared about Émile or that I was bothered by the camaraderie between them.

  “Tell me. Has Esmé gone and stolen your candy?” He motioned over at the painter and his subject, so close they were almost touching.

  Father has always known how to choose the precise knife with which to stab you in your weakest spot. I glared at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  A thin smile appeared on his lips, and he deduced that he was correct. “Or did you just hand it to her as you did when you were younger?”

  “You’re enjoying this,” I said, chalking my palms and wiping them on my thighs.

  “I have no opinion one way or the other on the matter, although you know how I do enjoy chaos.” His tone changed, low and grave, like a warning. “This is a lesson for you, Cecile. Where your sister is concerned, one day you will need to fight for what is yours.”

  His comment lingered long after he’d left.

  After practice, Doro found me. “The painter was looking for you,” said Doro’s puppet. “They left.”

  “They?”

  “Esmé and her fly.”

  My heart sank. “Together?”

  “He said that you’d know where to find them.”

  Buoyed by Father’s words, I decided that today I would claim what I felt was mine. I threw on my best dress, a blue chiffon drop-waisted number, and allowed my hair to cascade down my back in ringlets. As I left, I found Doro standing by the door again. Once, on a dare from Esmé, I tried to take him with me, absorbing his essence. It nearly killed me, sending me to bed for weeks with a raging fever.

  When I stepped onto the street, I realized that the circus had, indeed, moved. It took me a moment to orient myself. No longer on the Left Bank, but now in Montmartre. I caught the omnibus to Boulevard Saint-Germain and then walked to Montparnasse. It had been a nice stroll, but it had taken me nearly two hours.

  When I reached Le Dôme Café, I didn’t see them sitting at the bar or in the café. An uneasy feeling set in. I walked the two blocks to Émile’s apartment. As I opened the door in the landing, I heard Esmé’s voice coming from the rooms upstairs. Then the beginning of a song from Émile’s phonograph, “Oh, How I Miss You Tonight.” My instinct told me to turn around and return to the circus, but I’d led her to him, insisting he paint her.

  I ascended the stairs and knocked on the door. Inside, I heard a furious scrambling and giggling. They were drunk. Placing my ear to the door, I heard the sliding of clothing as it was arranging back on bodies. My heart sank. I was too late.

  Not long ago, I had been in that room; my clothes had been on that floor. I’d been a fool to think he cared about me. Tears began to flow down my cheeks as I turned and began down the stairs, my legs hurting from the earlier walk.

  Finally, Émile cracked open the door, just a hair. From the look of horror on his face, it was clear that he had not been expecting me. His face had a conflicted look, like I had interrupted something that he’d wanted in the moment but now was ashamed of.

  At least he looked sorry, that was something. A real cad wouldn’t have shown even that much emotion.

  “Qu’est-ce?” I heard Esmé call from the bed. I couldn’t see her, but from my angle on the steps, I could see the tangle of bedsheets through the crack in the door.

  My eyes met Émile’s. I
’m sure I looked frightening with my red, swollen face, but I didn’t care.

  “Cecile.” He moved toward me, but I shook my head and placed my finger to my lips.

  I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that I’d caught them together. Turning, I continued back down the stairway.

  June 24, 1925

  Émile never returned to the circus.

  I have no idea if Esmé’s painting was ever completed or if they took to working on it at his apartment, away from me.

  After last night’s performance, Sylvie and I stopped by the Closerie des Lilas. We’d ceased going to Le Dôme, to avoid seeing him. As we were leaving the café, I heard his voice calling to me from across the street.

  “Ignore him.” Sylvie touched my hand protectively. There has been a change in her recently. She was always the third person in our mortal trio, but she has taken greater care with my feelings over my sister’s. This hasn’t always been the case. When we were younger, Sylvie vacillated between Esmé and me, choosing sides and tipping the scales as it suited her. From the memories I have, I know that Sylvie could be fickle. Often, I’d be left out of the maze while she and Esmé played, deciding that I couldn’t follow them for silly reasons. But like her mother, Sylvie was also a political creature. While she has been a friend to me, she is not unaware of my increasing stature within the troupe, and it has tipped her loyalties a bit.

  “Cecile.” Émile’s voice was pleading. I heard cars honk as he crossed to me. When he finally caught up to us, he was out of breath from running down the street.

  I was stunned by what I saw in front of me. In the two weeks since I had found Esmé in his room, there had been a startling change in him. Dark circles hollowed the area under his eyes. Normally thin, his frame was now skeletal and his clothes hung on him. “Émile? What has happened to you?”