The Ladies of the Secret Circus

by Constance Sayers

  Had Todd shown up that day two years ago, she would have been a different person. She thought back to her naive, silly self, standing before a mirror, enchanting a wedding dress. She’d been oblivious to everything—her family and its magic. Her mother had not done either of them a favor by hiding from it in a desire to make them ordinary. Audrey had clung too tightly to the idea of a mortal life, but Lara wasn’t sure that she’d asked for that. She’d pursued the answers that Audrey hadn’t wanted to know, but they weren’t worth her mother’s ultimate sacrifice. And oh, how she had missed her mother. More than Todd, the loss of her mother threatened to topple her.

  Grief must have been contagious, because she received an email from Barrow that morning.

  Lara:

  I hope you are well, my friend. Yesterday afternoon, I visited the Musée d’Orsay. They’ve moved our two paintings to the second floor, overlooking the sculptures. I will always be grateful to you for displaying Sylvie on the Steed as part of the special exhibition and for your generous donation to the museum after the Sotheby’s sale.

  Sometimes during lunch, I sit with our paintings. I know that they hang on the wall due, in large part, to our conviction and the sacrifices we both made.

  I confess that I am forced to recall why I was first drawn to the mystery of Jacques Mourier and Émile Giroux and this wild tale of a circus fantastique. You had asked once, and I told you, that I had been drawn to it for the scholarship. At the time, I believed that answer to be truthful. Now, in the art world, I am famous and you are rich, but I fear the cost for us was far too steep. It was the mystery that I’d loved. But the mystery—the lore—of Le Cirque Secret is gone for me now. Everything we went through has led here—to a beige wall.

  How I’d hoped that people would care about these paintings! Yesterday afternoon as I ate my sandwich, bored teenagers shuffled by like ducks with earpieces, corralled by sour tour guides. One group nodded at the duo of our paintings, then had the audacity to ask where the Monets were displayed.

  The reason that I write, however, is that after my foul mood at the musée, yesterday I caught a cab back to the institute with the sole purpose of seeing the journals again. As I opened the vault, I found my hands shaking so hard that it took me two attempts before I could enter the correct code. It had been months since I’d seen them, so I went into the vault and pulled the box where they were stored. I’d longed to hold the composition books in my hands. The real story had been contained here—it had completed the works for me—made the paintings come alive!

  Once in the vault, I flipped open the lid and breathed easy. The three composition books were still there, sitting in their plastic. It is here that I don’t know how to begin. I picked them up, so desperate to touch them that I didn’t use gloves. I held the first one in my hands, the cover so old it was like thin fabric. I flipped open the first page and it took me a moment to realize what I was seeing—or not seeing. I was turning page after page of dull, faded, blank paper.

  Cecile’s words are gone. The loss of them has made me wonder if they were ever there at all. I doubt myself so much now. The pages are blank and my heart is broken.

  In all this time, I’ve begun to reflect. Much of the real story of the loss and the love between Émile and Cecile was not entirely told on the three enchanted canvases. In fact, the paintings and the journals complement each other—Émile and Cecile—their art combining to tell the most fantastical story that Paris has never known existed. The fact that the fucking circus was created so that one of the most powerful daemons in history could find a babysitter for his twin daughters is a tale so absurd that, in the end, no one would believe it.

  Giroux is back in fashion these days, so I was asked to update my biography on him. At the end, I found myself struggling yet again on the Ladies of the Secret Circus chapter. The three paintings only proved that Giroux had painted a circus; they failed to validate Le Cirque Secret’s existence. Nothing will ever prove that something so truly fantastic and surreal was once a part of Paris’s fabric. How do you really prove magic? And in the end, do you really want to?

  I confess that, for me, something was lost in the quest. Some mystery about the world has been answered, but the solution has dulled something deep in me. Solving mysteries didn’t get me closer to anything. For you, I know it was the loss of your mother. I think of her so often. How she came to Paris to rescue you.

  And now the journals are lost, too. I cannot help but feel it was for nothing. I miss the man I once was.

  I apologize. I know that I sound dreadful. I wanted you to know. You are, perhaps, the only person who would feel their loss as profoundly as I do.

  Your friend, Teddy Barrow

  Tonight she was working the night shift at the station. As she sat back in the chair, she cued up “Venus in Furs” and Sam Gopal’s “Escalator,” then let Lou Reed’s wave of discordant strings take her back to that glorious moment on the trapeze. She could feel the beaded costume and the flow of the pent-up magic running through her veins. That heady power had infected her.

  Teddy Barrow was right. So much had been lost.

  Yet, there had been something bothering her, nicking at her—a theory she had.

  Althacazur had been the ultimate seducer. He’d lured her to the circus, and when he thought she might die after absorbing Cecile, he was so desperate for a patron that he’d traded her for her mother. But in the seduction, he’d made her stronger than any of them. Even after the deal was sealed and Esmé was returned, Lara’s powers had remained. To prove her point, she stared at the clock on the wall. As she mouthed the words to Sam Gopal’s “Escalator,” spinning on the turntable, she noticed that it was ten minutes past midnight. She watched the second arm struggle to move, and she watched her phone hold 12:10 A.M. for more than two minutes. I stopped fucking time.

  She typed a reply to Teddy.

  Teddy.

  Come to Kerrigan Falls. I have an idea. It’s crazy, but it might work.

  —L

  While Lara had stood in this field before trying to summon him, she might have missed the point of his instruction. He was always quick to tell her she missed the point. Perhaps he’d been right all along.

  When she’d been cleaning her old room at Cabot Farms, she’d stumbled on the Rumpelstiltskin book; inside it was the pressed clover.

  Unlike Audrey, she couldn’t lock off an entire part of herself in a desire to be normal. Plus, her mother never would have left her trapped in a circus as the human patron. And so she had resolved to get her mother out. She’d arrange some deal with Althacazur to take the circus. She knew from Esmé that he wasn’t popular with the other daemons. She’d use that to her advantage if she had to. As she’d plotted this, she hoped that maybe Teddy would join her, the three of them sharing the human patronage work, kind of like Hell’s time share. They were powerful half creatures, she and Audrey, and didn’t have to live solely in one world or another. Christ, that sounded dull. She hated dull things. In the past year, she’d painted her whole house with the wave of her hand, just like a combo of Samantha Stephens and Martha Stewart. Is this what she was going to do with her magic? What next? Tiling a wall or installing drapes when she couldn’t reach them?

  No, she was done with all that. It was time to embrace who she was—the Last Lady of the Secret Circus.

  “I don’t know if this is going to work, Teddy.” Lara stared ahead at the field, empty as usual. She could hear his breath as he stood in lockstep beside her.

  “When you were gone in Paris,” said Teddy, “Ben said that all we had to do was get him near you and he’d find you.”

  Lara smiled. If she ended up stuck on the other side, she hoped that Ben would forgive her. He knew her well enough to have suspected that she would do exactly this—and he’d be mad at her, but he knew her better than anyone. “Well, he may have to come and find me all over again. Gaston, too.”

  “That’s quite a love, Lara.” He looked back at the farmhouse. “Are y
ou sure?”

  “It’s because of that love, Teddy. I won’t be half a person anymore. No one can love that for long. He deserves the best version of me. And I’m going to try to give him that.”

  Focusing on the clover, she held the dried sprig in her two fingers, emotion welling up inside her.

  “I can’t promise that we’ll come back. You know that.”

  “I know,” said Teddy, his voice low. “I’ve said my goodbyes.”

  “I also can’t promise what he’ll do to us when we get there. You may be selling your soul.”

  “I agree to the terms,” said Teddy, staring out at the empty field, his chin raised. “Le Cirque Secret has called to me, Lara. Just as it called to you.”

  She smiled. She’d known what his answer would be. Anything for the scholarship.

  “Well, you always wanted a ticket,” said Lara with a chuckle. “Now we just might crash this damned circus.”

  Oddjob groaned. The animal looked up at her, along with his twin, Moneypenny. The hellhounds’ expressive eyes bored through her. Teddy held on to their leashes tightly. Once this thing started, she hoped they’d function like magical battery packs. They were hellhounds, after all. They knew the way home—more important, they always knew the way to Audrey.

  She took Barrow’s hand and gripped it tightly. Spinning the clover in her other hand, she hummed “Escalator.” She wasn’t much for spells; she was a creature of music, and it seemed that songs could pull the other side through for her. As she twirled the flower, she thought of the carousel, of the aqua walls and dark-gold chandeliers along the Grand Promenade. How much she’d longed to see it again, to look out at the hedges and the clowns having tea. It was the most magnificent, otherworldly place she’d ever seen. The images tugged at her like a curiosity that was hardwired inside her, a haunting child’s story that couldn’t be forgotten. She knew that now—that she’d always be searching for it in other places. Was she homesick for it? Homesick. She thought of her mother. She was done being defined by absences. I won’t live without you any longer. So lost in her thoughts and spinning the flower that she almost didn’t hear Teddy.

  “Oh my God, Lara. You should see it.” His voice broke, but he held on to her hand tightly. “It’s stunning. I never imagined… I never imagined it would look like this.”

  She opened her eyes to see what she already knew was there—the carousel at Le Cirque Secret. Only instead of pulling it through into her realm, she had another plan.

  Lara pulled Teddy forward with her and the hounds onto the carousel’s platform. As her leg brushed past the stallion, the horse flicked its tail. Beyond the platform, she spied the magnificent Grand Promenade with its gilded walls. The sun shone down through it, and she knew out each window she’d find an elaborate maze or hedge. Just then Lara thought she could see the outlines of that familiar butter-colored bob running toward them. Was that an aqua feathered headdress she was wearing? The thought of it made Lara smile.

  “Oh, Teddy,” she said, sighing. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  Acknowledgments

  I’m still in awe of the magic that goes into making a novel, and I’m quite fortunate to be surrounded by such a magnificent team. I want to thank my brilliant editor, Nivia Evans, for shepherding this book in the midst of a pandemic. Early on, she helped shape it and see its potential. I’m so grateful for the entire Redhook team: Ellen Wright, who is such a lifeline to us writers as these books make their way out in the world; Lisa Marie Pompilio, who has designed yet another hauntingly beautiful cover; and Bryn A. McDonald, who is the grammatic voice in my head and the author of the thoughtful comments in my margins. I always know I’m in good hands with her team’s suggestions, especially Laura Jorstad’s brilliant repair of my French language butchery.

  The early version of this story in particular was championed by my agent, Roz Foster. I will be forever in her debt for seeing something special in my writing, and I am so fortunate to have her by my side in this fantastic journey. I’m so appreciative of the support of both the Frances Goldin Literary Agency and the extraordinary team at Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency, including Andrea Cavallaro and Jennifer Kim.

  As always, my sister, Lois Sayers, is my first and most critical voice. I trust her instincts more than my own, and her influence was especially appreciated with this book when I often felt lost. My friendship and gratitude always to Amin Ahmad for his insight and honesty. He’s a developmental editing genius.

  I’m also so grateful to the support from Dan Joseph, Laverne Murach, Tim Hartman, Hilery Sirpis, Allie DeNicuolo, Anna Pettyjohn, Doug Chilcott, Karin Tanabe, Alma Katsu, Sarah Guan, and Steve Witherspoon. Much thanks to the Spark Point Studio team of Crystal Patriarche, Hanna Pollock Lindsley, and Taylor Brightwell.

  If you write any type of historical novel, I think you do so partly because you enjoy immersing yourself in the research. The “lost generation” of Paris in the 1920s is a particularly rich historical period, and there are a number of source materials that helped shape this book, including: The Circus Book, 1870s–1950s by Linda Granfield, Dominique Jando, and Fred Dahlinger; A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway; When Paris Sizzled: The 1920s Paris of Hemingway, Chanel, Cocteau, Cole Porter, Josephine Baker, and Their Friends by Mary McAuliffe; The Golden Moments of Paris: A Guide to the Paris of the 1920s by John Baxter; The Found Meals of the Lost Generation: Recipes and Anecdotes from 1920s Paris by Suzanne Rodriguez-Hunter; Man Ray’s Montparnasse by Herbert R. Lottman; Do Paris Like Hemingway by Lena Strand; Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation: A History of Literary Paris in the Twenties and Thirties by Noel Riley Fitch; Man Ray: American Artist by Neil Baldwin; Self Portrait by Man Ray; Kiki’s Paris: Artists and Lovers 1900–1930 by Billy Kluver and Julie Martin; and Kiki de Montparnasse by Catel Muller and Jose-Luis Bocquet. This book also owes so much to the HBO show Carnivàle (2003–2005) and the films Trapeze (1956) and The Last Romantic Lover (1978).

  And finally, I want to thank Mark for believing in me, even when I often don’t believe in myself. You’ve made me a better person, but sadly, not a better French speaker. (Le distributeur de billets est cassè!)

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