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

No one would have guessed that Hercules, himself, was resting after his own performance. Along with his feline partner, Dante, a sleek black shorthair, they were the entertainers in Esmé’s cat act. Instead of the majestic lion and hungry black panther they saw bounding around in the center ring, the audience never suspected that what they were actually witnessing were these two fat, pathetic house cats. On Esmé’s command, the two pounced and roared about the stage, dangerously close to their tamer. But like a magician sliding a card into a jacket sleeve, she conjured this illusion entirely. Each night, the audience held their breath as she maneuvered around the ring, never realizing that the thing that she manipulated was them.

And now the thing she manipulated was me. “Esmé? Answer me.”

She frowned, like it pained her to speak. “Because he felt the truth was too horrible for you to bear.”

“What truth?”

There was a knock. Sylvie, our trick rider and Madame Plutard’s daughter, stood in the doorway, clutching her purse. Since she’d been young, Sylvie had tagged around with us, acting as the glue between us as well as the occasional buffer. An expert at reading us, Sylvie knew that she’d stepped into another spat. With Sylvie standing there, I knew that Esmé would never finish the story. While we were all friends, she considered the costumer’s daughter “the help” and never discussed family matters in front of outsiders.

“We’re going to be late. I don’t want to miss Le Dôme tonight,” said Sylvie, tapping her foot. Normally, she preferred the Ritz, but this week the circus had moved to the Bois de Boulogne, so Montparnasse was now closer.

Esmé’s words ringing in my head, I wearily stood up from my chair and began to change into a silk aqua-colored, drop-waisted dress with platinum piping and beading at the hem that I’d draped across the chair. I spied my T-strap heels under Hercules.

“What about you?” Sylvie turned to Esmé, who was making no move toward getting dressed.

“What about me?” My sister’s voice had a raised tone. She was irritated; the coward remark had stung her. I smiled at the thought that my words could affect her as well. How could a shadow hurt anyone?

Sylvie and I exchanged looks, but we knew that despite her petulance, Esmé wouldn’t miss a night out in Montparnasse. This was all an act. She would make us wait, but she would be at the gate when the door opened. “Are you coming?” Sylvie folded her arms.

Esmé stood and pulled on her stockings and then slid on a black lace dress with a bow at the shoulder. She frowned and pulled the entire thing off, rolling it into a ball on the chair, and grabbed a blush dress with an aqua bow at the hip. Turning, she frowned and slid the dress off, kicking it under the chair. Next she grabbed a plain beige-and-black lace dress. Sylvie and I held our breaths, hoping this one would stay, but soon it was discarded for an elaborate tulle and gold-beaded dress with a small train that brushed the back of her calves. It was a new creation that Madame Plutard had made especially for Esmé, her muse.

Madame Plutard loved contrast and texture, and often our performers resembled desserts. Last night, Esmé was dressed in her newest costume—a gold military jacket with tails. Her wardrobe featured bold shades of gold and red. As Esmé rushed around the room, she passed the dressmaker’s form that had been fitted with her newest costume: a blood-red brocade jacket with gold-and-black shoulder epaulets made of peacock feathers. I had no costumes because, as my sister rightly pointed out, I was the only person in this circus without an act.

All of the performers in our circus were once famous. They’ve chosen to be here to serve out their punishment. While this circus is a prison for them, from the looks on their faces, they are still grateful, so some prisons must be better than others.

As we approached the door, I spotted Doro, the clown. It was always heartbreaking when he stood so near the entrance, so I hung back to wave to him. It wasn’t a chance meeting: He always seemed to know when we were about to leave for the evening and positioned himself near the door for one glimpse at the world beyond these walls. None of the performers could leave. This was a peculiarity of our circus. As we are full or part mortal, Esmé, Sylvie, and I can come and go freely. Oddly, Madame Plutard, although living, shows no interest in leaving.

“I have no need for the outside world,” she often says, irritated at us as we prod her to go to the markets or the gardens.

Knowing it’s futile, we’ve stopped inviting her, leaving her to her sewing.

As the entrance opened—its shape resembling the large mouth of the Devil—Sylvie and Esmé started through, but I stood at the mouth. Despite the fact that I could see Esmé’s hands folded in disgust on the other side, I held the door open just a beat longer.

“Come on, Cecile.” That she made Sylvie and me wait while she dressed then undressed into four outfits was now a distant memory to my sister.

Sylvie’s face looked tense, always concerned that someone would see us deposited out of thin air into the Bois de Boulogne. From the mist outside, her blond bob had begun to curl. “Cecile,” she called, motioning. “Dépêche-toi!”

I turned back to see Doro, straining for one last peek at the world beyond the gate. Before I emerged on the other side, I saw Sylvie’s breath and knew the April night in Paris would be cold even before I’d stepped onto the grass. I always felt the entrance close before I heard it. And always I’m amazed when I turn to find the door—and the circus—gone, replaced with the stillness of night.

April 6, 1925

Today the performers were buzzing because Father had