The Ladies of the Secret Circus by Constance Sayers (ebook reader with internet browser TXT) 📗

“A creature?” Lara wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be asking questions. She knew a bit of this story from reading the entry on Althacazur in The New Demonpedia.com. Juno Wagner and her child died in childbirth.

He ignored her. “Perhaps I failed to fully explain the rules to Juno, so enraptured with her was I. You see, my love was a human and I, a daemon. There are laws against this type of coupling. It’s frankly forbidden. I mean, I didn’t create the laws, but I was never much of a rule follower anyway. Well, Juno died in childbirth. All the women who bear my children die—it’s too much for a human to carry a daemon’s baby, no matter what Mia Farrow does on-screen. In fact, the offspring die, too. Except in this case, they didn’t. Before she died, my dear Juno gave birth to an imperfectly perfect creature—a rare cambion. It was the perfect amalgamation of good… Juno… and evil… well… me.

“Cambions tend not to survive for a reason. Given I’m not just a daemon but a major daemon, this particular cambion didn’t blend the mortal and daemon things as well as one would have hoped. It was all a bit messy. It’s hard to explain to a mortal, but Esmé and Cecile were fused.” Like a magician, he conjured a picture, then jumped up from his throne and presented it to Lara—a grainy, old-timey photo.

Lara studied the old photograph mounted on thick paper like heavily sepia-toned Victorian images tended to be. In this one, an otherworldly, half-daemon child with two little heads was dressed in a single black lace gown. The girls, who appeared to be about four years old, were lovingly arranged on a chair, like dolls. Keeping with Victorian style, an oversize satin bow was perched on each of their heads, positioned carefully over tended curls—one blond set and one dark.

Whoever had commissioned this photo—likely Madame Plutard—had loved these girls and wanted them to be captured as she saw them. Studying the girls’ hopeful faces, Lara saw them that way as well. “They’re beautiful,” said Lara. Both of their small, heart-shaped mouths were slightly slack, as though something was distracting them beyond the camera. The photo was the most heartbreaking thing Lara had ever seen—no, felt was a better word—because she felt this photo pulling her in from another time. From their faces, she could feel the suffering of these poor children. Lara counted the tiny satin slippers that dangled down from the chair—three. Closing her eyes, Lara imagined them struggling to walk. Then she knew. A protective feeling overcame her. This child belonged to her—was imprinted on her as the origin of her family. She looked over at Cecile, whose hands were folded in front of her and whose face showed no emotion, like she had hardened herself to the story.

“I didn’t know what to do with my little creature… I wondered who would take care of it for me. I looked at my damned souls and thought, Well, Althacazur, that’s a pretty groovy idea. So I grabbed a group of performers and assembled them with the idea that they would care for it, along with Madame Plutard, who had proven herself so loyal to Juno.” He spun on his heels. “That worked until they began to grow up.” He looked at his nails. “I hate things that aren’t fun, Lara, really I do. So I cut them in half, creating two of them—liberating them from each other. Now, mind you, there were some issues. It wasn’t clean, but inside the circus, I created a place of illusion.”

Cecile looked down, like this part of the tale was painful for her to hear. Lara couldn’t imagine having to endure this story.

As if on cue, he said, “Cecile, my love, perhaps you’d rather not hear this.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Continue. For years, I longed for these answers and you refused me.”

Contrite, he motioned for Lara to join him. Cecile followed.

“Tisdale, Tisdale. It’s safe now,” said Althacazur as he left the center ring. “The monsters are all in their cages.”

As they walked, Lara couldn’t help but glance over at Cecile. She was beautiful, ethereal. “I read your diaries.” Lara wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not, and she sounded like some fan or groupie.

“I know,” Cecile said, smiling. “I had him send them to you. All along, I was writing them for you. I just didn’t know it at the time.” In person, Cecile was shorter and slighter than Lara, but their faces had a similarity—the strong jaw, the upturned nose, the green eyes.

Cecile took her hands. The woman’s long silver-white hair hung in ringlets down her back. “Let me look at you.”

“I look like you.”

The woman put her hand to her mouth. “You do.”

“Touching though this little reunion is, ladies.” Althacazur was standing with Tisdale beside him, looking like Mr. Roarke and Tattoo. He motioned toward a door with a sign that read FERRIS WHEEL.

Lara stopped and turned to Cecile, remembering the entry from Cecile’s diary when Althacazur had built the Ferris wheel. “I recall this ride from your diary.”

Cecile looked down. “I don’t care for any of Father’s rides.”

“Oh, come now,” said Althacazur. “If you’re going to pout during this tour, young lady, then you should stay back.”

Cecile folded her hands and smiled, a little too warmly to be believed.

“Much better.”

As Lara contemplated getting on the ride, she couldn’t imagine what she was actually riding. You could call it a Ferris wheel, except it didn’t go up. The ceiling was quite low, almost like a basement, and as you got on the car it traveled beneath the underworld. It was as though the world were flipped.

The little monkey pulled a lever and jumped on the cart. Althacazur looked at Lara.

“It has a delay, but I wouldn’t stand there, girl. Get in. You do dawdle.”

Lara thought that somewhere in here was a bottle labeled DRINK ME. She heard the engine lurch and