The Ladies of the Secret Circus

by Constance Sayers

  I went to speak, but he cut me off.

  “You’ll want to know why.”

  It was exactly the question I was going to ask.

  “Because it is the cost of the circus that you both live in. Esmé bears it, alone. Now the next thing you are going to insist… with great aplomb… is that it is unfair for her to bear such a burden. Hear me now. Are you really so naive that you think I care about fair, Cecile? Have I allowed you to so greatly misjudge me?” He leveled his eyes at me. They were cold. I saw no traces of love or even affection for me in them. Never had I been more frightened.

  I knew what he was getting at. Father was the most feared of the generals and yet here he was consoling his sniveling daughter. “She hates me because of it,” I said, staring off at the barren trees of the White Forest. She had gone there and endured unspeakable things because of me. Now it all made sense.

  “Sadly, she will hate you more when she learns of your news.” He eyes went to the tiny swell in my waist.

  “How did you know?” I said, touching my stomach protectively. Beneath my fingers, I felt the warm ball below my navel, firm and round, like an orange.

  “How could I not. You must know, this is not good, Cecile,” he continued. “You and your sister are cambions—the offspring of a human and a daemon. You are carrying a child who is part cambion. While it can weaken with every generation, this birth—a child with the essence of a daemon—will be hard on you. You should know it’s what killed your mother.”

  “Will I die?”

  “Sadly, my dear, the Reaping is the one thing that I cannot control.”

  “But I have your daemon blood. Won’t that help me?”

  He shrugged. “You also have a fragile mortal shell, like an egg. Inside you have magic, that is true, but you are not immortal, sadly.”

  I considered his words. “Émile does not know about the baby.”

  “That is for the best.”

  “If he knew, he’d insist that we be together.”

  “I’m afraid,” he said wearily, “that is not possible.”

  He continued gazing out at the Styx below. The river and its coal-black waters were the source of his power. This was my world. While I came and went from the circus, I was, in fact, like Doro. A creature of Hell. That I could not be with Émile was the answer that I was expecting, the one that I had known deep inside.

  “It is my fault entirely that I brought this painter into the circus. I’m just sorry that you were the unfortunate pawn.”

  “What do you mean?” I stared off at the white sandy banks that led to the White Forest.

  “I enchanted the paintings.”

  “I knew that.”

  “While I enchanted them so that anyone who gazes on the three paintings will see what I want them to see, that’s not all I did.”

  “What did you do?” My nostrils flared and my voice rose, echoing in the cavern. He had a habit of cruel tricks. Instantly I thought of the bargain that Émile had made with him to secure the commission. Had it included Émile’s soul?

  “It’s been dull around here this summer, so I cast a little spell.” He dismissed me with his hand. “It was really nothing. I simply let Émile choose three subjects for his paintings. Each subject would fall in love with him. He painted you; you fell in love with him… Esmé, Sylvie…”

  “That’s cruel,” I gasped. “How could you?” Again, my hand fell to my baby. The dates were important. Had my feelings for Émile been enchantments? Had anything about him been real except for the child I was now carrying? “When… when did you do this?” I was sick.

  He shrugged. “When I commissioned him, of course.”

  I sank back into my chair, recalling the day at the market at Rue Mouffetard when Émile had bought me an apple. That was the very moment that I fell in love with him, before Father had hired him. My feelings for Émile—and his for me—had been genuine.

  August 9, 1925

  Doro has informed me that Esmé gave Émile a ticket to the circus. To his surprise, the tickets have allowed Émile an unprecedented third visit. I’d prepared myself to see him, but I hadn’t anticipated the scream from her dressing room. At Father’s insistence, Madame Plutard told my sister about my pregnancy. The sound that came from the room was like the wailings of a sick animal.

  August 15, 1925

  Émile sat in the front row at Saturday’s performance, looking miserable.

  After the show, I avoided him. As I walked back to change from my costume, I could hear Esmé’s voice coming from her dressing room. Her tone was sharp. “Get out!”

  He opened the door, and I saw his face. “What has happened?”

  “She is angry,” he said. “She persists that she loves me. It’s like a madness. Finally, I wrote her a letter telling her that I could not be with her and to go away. She sent me a ticket anyway, then sent the two clowns to summon me back here. I just told her to leave me alone. She is angry, as you can hear.” He motioned to the room. “She says we will regret what we’ve done.”

  “What we’ve done?” I cocked my head and pulled my collar tight around my neck.

  His face softened, and I knew that she’d told him about our baby. I inhaled sharply. While he should have heard it from me, the fact that my sister had felt it was her place to tell Émile my news was a betrayal. Her door was shut tight and likely locked. I thought what I would do to her if it weren’t. “I didn’t intend for you to find out this way.”

  “I’m not sure you intended to tell me at all.” He winced and held his hand.

  “Are you okay?” I noticed a steady stream of blood falling to the floor from his sleeve.

  “Oh, I’ve cut myself, that’s all.” He motioned to Esmé’s dressing room. “There was a shard of glass near her door. I picked it up.”

  I led him to my dressing room, which was two doors down, so I could tend to his hand. The cut was a small gash in his palm. I cleaned the wound and wrapped it, but I feared it was far deeper in the center. “You should have a doctor look at that.”

  “Do not worry about me.” He touched me briefly on the cheek. “I should be worrying about you.”

  “I’m fine.” I moved my cheek away from his hand.

  “If you recall, I had suspected as much when you were sick.”

  I gave a small snort.

  “We can live in my apartment. It’s not big, but it will be fine for a few years.”

  “I’ve told you.” I sank into my seat. “We can’t be together.”

  “You need to stop thinking of Esmé and begin to think of our child,” he said. “What is your plan—to raise our child here?” He looked around the walls. “This is a place of horror. I’d been warned of the darkness here, but it seeps into your bones.”

  “This is my home,” I said.

  “But it will not be our child’s home.”

  “Oh, Émile,” I said. There has been a growing sense of dread that I have about this pregnancy. I know that I cannot live with Émile outside the circus. I don’t know if that includes my child as well, but even if I could exist out there, with him, I know the artist’s life is solitary. I see how Hadley and Ernest Hemingway struggle with their son, Bumby. Ernest is always writing by himself at the cafés while Hadley walks Bumby alone through the Jardin du Luxembourg, the child toddling beside her. My life at the circus has been vibrant and I’ve been surrounded by performers all my life. I cannot imagine another life, even if it is with Émile.

  But he looked at me so expectantly, so in love. “Cecile?”

  “It sounds wonderful,” I lied.

  August 23, 1925

  It is hard to write this, but I need to capture every detail.

  After my performance a week ago, I stopped at Montparnasse and was alarmed to see that Émile looked much as he did when I saw him on the street that one night. Once again he was pale, with the dark hollows under his eyes, but this time they were even more pronounced.

  I insisted he join Sylvie and me for dinn
er. He ate very little, assuring me he was just distracted. Worried about him, I spent the night at his apartment. He woke, feverish. Fearing that he had caught something, he sent me back to the circus so he wouldn’t pass it on to me and the baby; the horrors of the Spanish flu still lived large in the minds of soldiers like him. While I didn’t tell him so, I was glad to be back on the other side. My leg and arm had been aching. I felt like I was coming apart; this pregnancy was already taking a toll on my body.

  When I didn’t hear from Émile after three days, I insisted that Sylvie accompany me to his apartment. She was hesitant at first, but she reluctantly agreed to go. That Esmé is now shattered over him has caused Sylvie to hate him even more.

  The taxi left us off about two blocks from his apartment. The summer air was stifling. At cafés, women fanned themselves and angled for chairs in the shade, the sound of jazz flowing out onto the streets. “You do not like him.”

  Her hands plunged deep into her dress. “I don’t know how you could possibly like him, let alone love him. He slept with Esmé.”

  “He didn’t sleep with her.” This was what Émile told me, and I believed him.

  She snorted and spun in front of me in the street. “Do you really think Esmé would be this angry and possessive of him if she hadn’t slept with him?” Sighing in disgust, she walked the block in silence.

  The truth of this statement made me defensive. “You haven’t been shy about conveying your opinion of him.”

  We turned toward the side street near Émile’s apartment. She stopped and faced me again. “What do you want from me?”

  “You are my friend. I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Are you blind?” She shook her head and I saw tears in her eyes. She grabbed at her chin-length curls before taking my face in her hands and kissing me hard on the lips. When she pulled away, she had tears flowing down her face. “I am in love with you, Cecile. Do you not see that? He is wrong for you.”

  I was so taken aback by her words—and her kiss—that I felt faint. “Since when have you been in love with me, Sylvie?”

  She dismissed me with a wave of her hand and began to walk ahead. “It has been for several months now. I was as surprised by it as you. I’ve been sick just watching you fawn all over him these last few months, especially after what he did to you.”

  “Several months?” I stopped dead. “Since the painting?”

  She considered this and shrugged, her blond curls bouncing as she moved. “I guess so.”

  “Think.” I pointed my finger at her. “When?”

  She looked down at the ground. “I suppose it was then. I remember noticing things about you—things that I had seen for years, but they became pronounced. Every time you walked in the room to check on the painting, I found myself holding my breath. At first, I thought it was crazy; we’ve been friends since we were girls. But as you helped him sketch my face on the canvas…” She paused and looked out at the street. “I don’t know; something in me stirred.”

  I’d known that Sylvie had a brief dalliance with a socialite she’d met at the Ritz. We’d stopped going there when the woman’s husband relocated to Paris, although the woman had very much wanted to continue to see Sylvie. At that moment, I became aware of everything. The cars going down Boulevard du Montparnasse, the clink of glasses, the smell of men’s sweat as they passed by too close, and Sylvie, the outline of her dress against the sun and the freckles that formed on her full checks as she stood outside. She had the most perfect heart-shaped face, like a cupid’s. Then I recalled that I had signed Sylvie’s painting with the EG. Father’s curse had the subject falling in love with the painter. As far as the enchantment was concerned, the painting was attributed to me.

  I closed my eyes. “It isn’t real, Sylvie. It was a curse that Father placed on the paintings.”

  Her beautiful face twisted and her gray eyes went wide. “How dare you, Cecile,” she said. “What a horrible thing to say to me. Are you the only one who can feel things?”

  Instantly I regretted the callousness of my remark, but it didn’t make it any less true. The enchantment that Father had cast had the subject falling in love with “the painter.” He hadn’t been more specific.

  As we ascended the stairs, we met the landlady coming down, her face grave. “I did not know where to find you,” she said. “The doctor is with him now.”

  I ran up the stairs to his room. It was dark and the smell—a putrid mixture of sweat and vomit—filled my nostrils. The doctor was opening the two windows, but the stifling summer air didn’t help.

  “He says the breeze is too cold for him.” I looked over to see the outlines of Émile’s body. He appeared tiny even though he was covered in thick blankets.

  “What is wrong with him?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Frankly, I don’t know. It seems like malaria with the sweats, but it is as though he is bleeding somewhere. Yet I can’t find the source of it. He is getting weaker. It could be his kidneys.” The man picked up his bag. “There is nothing I can do. You should see him now. Stay with him and give him comfort, if you can.”

  I felt Sylvie’s hand on my back. “I’m so sorry, Cecile.”

  I could hardly breathe. “Can you go back and tell Father?”

  There was a long silence. Sylvie understood what I meant by this request. I wanted a favor from Father. “Are you sure?” Even with his children, Father didn’t dole out favors freely. Something valuable would need to be claimed in return.

  When I didn’t answer, she turned and left the room. She shut the door quietly so as not to disturb him.

  I walked toward Émile’s bed. He was sleeping. As I sat down next to him, he began to heave and shake. His face was the color of stone. “I am here, my love.” I stroked his cheek. It had at least a week’s stubble.

  He looked up at me, but I wasn’t sure he recognized me—his expression remained blank. I could see him ebbing.

  Father arrived within the hour. Well, arrived is an odd choice of words, because he didn’t need to use a door. He just appeared in the room.

  “He is dying.” I felt his presence; I didn’t even have to look up.

  “It is your sister’s doing.” His voice was grave. “For that, I am sorry.”

  Sadly, I knew what his response meant. He wouldn’t undo her spell. Even when we were younger, he wouldn’t reverse our magic against each other, forcing us to come to peace. “Please.” I turned to face him. “This is all your fault. That curse you put on the paintings. You have Sylvie in love with me and Esmé in love with him.” As the words left my mouth, I knew this was the wrong approach with Father. His face changed in front of me to his true form. Had I not been pregnant, I know I would have spent three days in the White Forest.

  “I will not cross your sister’s curse.” His voice rumbled, then echoed in the quiet room like a storm.

  “Can I reverse it?”

  Father looked over at Émile’s form in the bed. “He’s too far gone and your sister is too powerful.” He crossed the room and stood over Émile, studying him intently. “You want him?”

  “I do.” I was sobbing now.

  “Will you accept him on any terms?” I knew what he was doing now, binding me to something. “I cannot give him back to you in the way you want. It is not in my power to do so.”

  I would take Émile on any terms. “I’ll do it.”

  The room was silent except for the curtain rustling against the wall. When I turned to look at him, he was gone.

  I sat next to Émile’s bedside, expecting some improvement. By evening, he began coughing up blood, then defecating blood; blood ran from his nose, his eyes, and his penis. I mopped up sheets soaked with his blood. I took his shirts, knowing that he wouldn’t be needing them, and mopped up more blood. As I wiped every inch of him, I noticed that the cut on his hand remained pristine throughout, never healing even after a week. It was then that I knew what she had done. I held his hand and stared at the cut.

&nb
sp; When the blood stopped flowing, I felt a sense of dread. His breath began to slow, but he gasped. I didn’t understand this. I had bargained with Father, but it appeared he didn’t keep his promise. Before dawn, Émile died in my arms.

  They took his body away and burned the sheets; the landlady didn’t even wait until his body was removed before she began to strip the room in preparation for another artist who needed cheap lodging. In my haze, I’d forgotten to grab the paintings. I ran back upstairs but found them gone already. When I came back down, I found the canvases in the alley, neighbors picking through them. I spied the painting of Sylvie and grabbed it from the pile, snatching it out of another man’s hand with strength that surprised him. I pored through the other paintings, looking for the ones of Esmé and me, but they were gone.

  When I got back to the circus, Doro was at the entrance. “There is a new ride,” said Doro’s puppet. Doro the clown looked excited until he saw my face. The puppet looked up at me. “What is it, dear?”

  “Émile has died.”

  Doro the clown took my hand. “You will want to see this ride, then.” Bloodstained and weary, I was about to protest, but he took me by the hand and led me down the Grand Promenade of the arcade to a carousel. “Your father just created it this this morning around dawn,” said the puppet.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “Doro, what does this carousel do?”

  “I cannot explain it,” said the puppet. “You need to ride it. It’s glorious. It may be his greatest creation.” He helped me onto a horse. Doro pulled the lever and the horse stepped backward. Like it was waking up, the brightly painted carousel horse began to shift in front of me and a real mane sprouted down its neck. The horse put its head down and began an odd backward trot, then finally a gallop. The lion next to me was also waking and running backward. Around the carousel all the animals—the giraffe, the elephant, and the other horses—were running in a strange backward unison.