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

The sound of heels on the polished floor caused him to stir. He looked up to see Audrey Barnes passing him. Her face looked tense, almost unrecognizable, and her focus was on the hall in front of her.

It was a curious thing to see. She walked with confident intent down the empty hallway in front of her, past the nurses’ station and to her daughter’s exact room.

As though she’d known precisely where to find her.

For twenty-four hours, Lara teetered between life and death. There was no light, only the dull black behind her closed lids. The pain made everything fuzzy.

There was a voice in the distance, soft but urgent. Lara, get up. Get up.

But that voice didn’t know about the chills. The chills were so severe that the sheets hurt anytime they shifted against her limbs. Her arms were glistening with sweat—a chilling sweat like the dew on a cold glass. She shivered and prayed to be unconscious, temporarily or permanently, it did not matter to her one way or the other.

As they’d left the circus, she’d taken Cecile’s hand. That was all it required for Cecile to fully absorb into her. But then, her body had been carefully crafted to match Cecile’s own.

Except Althacazur had been wrong.

When Lara had stepped back onto the Parisian street, the sun was bright and she found that instantly she felt unwell. Within seconds, a throbbing headache debilitated her, causing her to feel quite dizzy. The café across the street was busy and she made her way over there, staggering, not realizing that she was no longer dressed in her black sundress and denim jacket. Instead, she wore a sequined leotard and her shoes had disappeared. As she approached the café, the waiter shooed her away. Confused, she didn’t understand what he was saying. She was thirsty and so dizzy, but she didn’t have her purse. What had happened to her purse? For a moment she panicked, wondering where her passport was until she remembered it was safely locked in the hotel safe.

She stumbled, which only made the man shoo her away harder, walking out to the sidewalk to stop her there. But Lara found her legs wouldn’t move. There was also now a voice inside her. They think you’re drunk.

“But I’m not drunk,” Lara answered.

Don’t talk to me, Lara. They can’t see me.

“Huh?” This voice was weird. “Cecile?”

Yes. Lara, listen to me. Your body is having a reaction to me being in it. I had feared this. It will take time to adjust, if it can absorb me. If not, then we have bigger problems, but for now, you need to act normal. Do you understand?

Looking across the street, Lara could see that everyone in the restaurant had turned and was staring at her. They had spoonfuls of soup and bitefuls of duck on their utensils, mouths agape—all had stopped mid-bite and mid-conversation to take in the spectacle of her. “I understand.”

Lara heard a groan followed by a sigh of frustration in her head. Obviously, you don’t.

A man in a suit appeared and stepped in front of the waiter. “You need to leave, now.”

Lara couldn’t understand him, but the voice in her head did.

Do you know where you were staying before you came to the circus? I cannot help you, these streets look different to me.

“Hotel Vivienne,” said Lara to the voice.

The man did not budge and pointed to the left. “Rue Vivienne. Hotel Vivienne. Allez.”

Lara knew what allez meant—“go.” But she could feel her legs swaying, which made her think of the chills she was having. Violent chills.

Lara. Lara.

She wasn’t sure she answered, but she could feel the impact of the sidewalk on her knees and knew they had to be bloodied.

Todd was there. Todd? He was overexposed—the too-bright sun, like the scene from the carousel that caused her to squint up at him. She was so relieved to see him. He’d help her. This version of him was glorious—square chin, brown hair that he pulled back into a low ponytail. He sat on the hood of his car, the beloved Mustang. The one he’d been separated from—the same car that had been towed through town. Now he was perched on it as though their wedding day had never happened. This was what it would have been like, Lara thought. He wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt and jeans, black high-top Chuck Taylors. He was peeling a blade of grass in two, and she realized they were parked in a field. She turned and walked up the hill, unsure of what this scene meant—trying to interpret it like a dream. “Where are you going, Lara?” he called. “Stay with me.”

Lara looked down: She was in a leotard and her knees were bloody. “I can’t stay with you,” she said. “You’re dead.” Something told her this vision was a trap or a choice. This scene had never happened between them, and to accept it as real would seal her doom. She saw something peek from behind a tree motioning for her to come. It was Mr. Tisdale. We are your destiny, he said, without speaking words, of course. She ran toward him anyway, away from Todd, never once looking back. Then someone was slapping her lightly and turning her over. She opened her eyes.

Do we know him?

“Lara. It’s Ben.” Ben Archer was crouched down next to her and his wonderful face was racked with worry, but that was impossible. Ben wasn’t in Paris. Oh, how she missed him. Then the chills began and everything clouded over.

Lara. Lara. Wake up.

Lara cracked open her eyes. Something was in her arm. She heard beeping. Gray walls with directions in French on how to safely lower the bed. Then nothing.

You have to stop fighting me or we’ll both die.

“I’m not fighting you.” She laughed at this. It was that voice again. The one that cared if they lived or died. “Poof,” said Lara.

Yes, poof. And poof is bad, trust me. We’ll both