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

day went much like the first. It was yesterday, the third day, when I finally felt comfortable enough with the swing that I could focus on my legs. On the fourth attempt, I hooked them. I remember the sheer fear I felt in letting my arms go, net below me or not, but also the delight. I had done it. And if I’d done it once, I could do it again. As I came up to meet Hugo, who was waiting for me on the other bar with outstretched hands, I’d never felt so free. And the look on Hugo’s face—and the faces of everyone—was something that I’d never seen directed at me—the look of admiration.

As Hugo patted me on the arm encouragingly, the crowd parted, and I heard the tapping of the cane before he materialized. Father had gotten word of what was happening and was furious. There was always a commotion around him, people trailing after him, seeking favor, like he was a king. Immediately he focused on Hugo, threatening him with all kinds of dreadful things, including the White Forest. A hush fell about the circus, and I could see the troupe looking to me. I wasn’t sure what had happened with Curio, but I felt that I was the cause. I would not let this same fate befall Hugo.

“I wanted to do this,” I said, stepping in front of Hugo protectively. “I am not a doll.”

“You are too weak.” I could see his face shift, the varnish giving way to the real him.

“Let her try, Althacazur,” Hugo said, wiping his hands on a cloth. He held firm, calling Father by his real name. Everyone kept their heads down, hoping Father’s wrath wouldn’t extend to them after he’d finished with Hugo. “I’ll be responsible for her. It will keep her out of your hair. Yours and Esmé’s.”

His comment stung: I needed to be kept out of people’s hair. To my dismay, it seemed to be the exact thing that Father needed to hear. His face softened and I knew he was working up a proper response in his head. Father sized up Hugo a moment.

“Let me do this. Please,” I said. That I was being treated like a nuisance who needed a babysitter was hurtful, but I would prove them all wrong.

To my relief, sweet Hugo remained in one piece and Father went back to his office shouting to my catcher behind him, “If anything happens to her, you won’t have any arms or legs to swing from that trapeze. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

And I could see that Hugo was visibly frightened.

May 9, 1925

Over the weeks, I became stronger. My arms went from skin and bone to a delicate curve below the muscle.

Beyond my body, I felt I finally had a place here at the circus. Hugo and Michel, the other aerialist, took me under their wings, allowing me to play croquet with them in the gardens when we weren’t practicing. Until this point, I hadn’t realized how much I’d been an outsider in my own home. I had no mother, an absent father, and a sister who detested me, and so Hugo and Michel quickly became my family. Given the nature of what we did, I found that I grew to trust them, and they, me.

After weeks of being locked away in her room, Esmé emerged and stood with her hands on her hips, watching my entire practice. The rest appeared to have restored her. Her shiny black bob had been newly trimmed against the jawline, her skin glowed again, and those bright, round blue eyes took note of every connection that I made with Hugo. I could see that as the small audience clapped for me, she was shocked.

Later, I got up the courage to make several attempts at a knock on her door. After wiping my sweaty hands on my skirt, I rapped on the wood. She cracked it open a bit, but she kept her arm braced across the door, the sleeves of her purple kimono fanned dramatically in front of me like a shield. “What do you want?”

“I’ve heard you don’t want to speak to me.” My face was feverish. The words came tumbling out and I grabbed my throat, waiting for her reply.

“You’ve heard correctly.” She cocked her head.

Flustered, I didn’t know how to respond. I’d prepared for her to shout out at me, even strike me, but she was defiant and showed no emotion at all. “I’m so sorry. I never thought he would send you to the White Forest.” I burst into tears. “I didn’t know.”

“You knew he would punish me.” Her voice raised; an accusing tone hung on it. “You wanted it.”

I balked. She was right. I had known—hoped—that Father would make her stay home for a Saturday night—some childish punishment wished for by a child. My head lowered in shame.

She laughed. It was a biting cackle. “Of course you did. You’re spoiled.”

“I was so tired of the comments, the constant barbs, but…” I couldn’t finish my words and began to shake and snuffle, finally wiping my eyes on my dress. “I’m so sorry, you have to believe me.”

She sighed and looked out in the hall, like the act of speaking to me taxed her. The White Forest had changed her. At first glance, I thought that she had returned to normal, but up close, I could see that she was thinner, gaunter. The Esmé standing in front of me was now hardened and hollow, a shell of my sister, not the real thing.

“What’s happened to you?” I yelped, placing my hand over my mouth. From inside her room, I could smell sweet, fragrant flowers, like linden blooms. The scent was strong, as though it was needed to mask a rot forming within.

“You happened to me, Cecile. With your childish tantrum, you made Father choose between us.”

“Doro said—”

“Doro shouldn’t speak of the White Forest to someone who hasn’t been there. Surely