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

tracks when I saw them together. He was smiling, and it felt like a small betrayal. But what was I expecting? That he’d dread spending time with my sister? Surely I wasn’t that naive.

As I walked to the trapeze, a sly smile crossed Esmé’s lips. For the painting she was posed dressed in a black-and-gold-striped jacket with a short front and long tails, gold shorts, and stockings with a light netting. To indicate the pattern of her stockings, Émile sketched a crosshatch pattern over her thighs. Despite trying not to watch them, I felt the attention to my sister’s stockings had dragged on quite long.

Grabbing the Spanish Web, I began to climb but thought better of it and came back down. I’d perfected the corkscrew move to where I could float in midair for several minutes. It all began innocently enough. Fatigued after practice, I didn’t want to climb the ladder again. Standing at its foot, I closed my eyes and wondered what it would be like to move through the air, landing at the top. It was effortless, really, the lifting. My body felt light, as though it had longed to take flight.

Now I can take to the air at will—the ladder and rope are quite unnecessary. Yet for my audience, props are required. To simply soar to the top would have felt like I was performing some cheap magic trick with mirrors. Instead I lured them into an act they recognized and then slowly I pulled the rug out from under them, challenging everything they thought they knew about circus acts. I loved the sound of the gasps in the audience when I shed the ropes and bars and it was just me and the air. Those moments have provided me with the greatest sense of peace I have ever known, like a mermaid returning to water.

Until I’m warmed up, however, it’s dangerous for me to be distracted. Lack of concentration is the only dangerous part of my magic. If I’m caught unawares, my flying powers might not be there exactly when I need them. While I’m good, my flying powers are not yet perfect.

To know that I am a magical creature like Esmé has filled me with purpose here. The other performers, like Doro, have begun to treat me as an equal. It’s still tense when Esmé is in the room, as she demands loyalty from our troupe. Any act of kindness toward me is taken as an affront to her. Yet I see how this act of choosing between us has weighed everyone down and a silent resentment toward her has formed. We’re already existing in Hell; why make it worse?

Walking back to my room, Doro passed me and nodded to Esmé. “Looks like she’s got a fly in the web,” said Doro’s puppet. He raised his eyebrows in what he thought was a private joke between us, yet he couldn’t have known how this comment would affect me. I stormed back to my dressing room in a jealous rage, leaving Esmé and Émile to themselves. I hadn’t felt this way when he’d painted Sylvie, but then I hadn’t been to his apartment when he was painting her. Some part of me feared he would make a fool of me.

Back in my room, I peeled off my leotard and dress, deciding to head into Montparnasse instead. If I stayed, I feared I might storm out there and rip the canvas in two. Where was this anger coming from? Placing the back of my hand on my forehead, I didn’t think I was feverish, but I’ve been in a constant state of agitation lately.

At Esmé’s request, we now have separate dressing rooms and most of the space is empty, but I’ve kept the old velvet daybed, my vanity, and the rug. A new mirror arrived for me a few weeks ago. While I assumed it was from an admirer, there was no note attached. It was rather beautiful, a heavy gold, baroque full-length thing, but I’ve begun to fear it’s enchanted. As I stare into it, I almost don’t recognize the vengeful creature staring back at me. It isn’t just my reflection in the glass that disturbs me, but the mirror itself. There are angles where I’ve caught a reflection of myself that is not possible. I’ve asked Doro if there was a fun-house mirror missing from the arcade with some poor spirit trapped in it, but he gestured no. At times, the image that has peered back at me is one of a young girl with only one arm and one leg—her left limbs missing entirely. Knowing it must be my head playing tricks on me, I’ve taken to covering it with my robe and I’ve asked for it to be removed, but no one has bothered with it, claiming it’s too heavy and bulky.

Father was back today. Moving the circus always required him, so I figured that we will be leaving the Bois de Boulogne. I broached the topic of the mirror and how no one had moved it, but he brushed me off like I was a silly girl. “Turn it around, for goodness’ sake,” he said dismissively. So I did. Still, it has made me hate my dressing room, so I’ve begun staying in Sylvie’s.

June 10, 1925

Today Émile sketched more of Esmé’s face detail, so she was sitting close to him. He’d tried to catch me earlier, but I retreated to Sylvie’s dressing room. The sight of them together sent me into a fury. “You cannot just hand him over to her,” said Sylvie, her face sympathetic. “Get out there and fight for him. It is you that he wants, Cecile.”

While I’ve thrown things in my own room and ripped up my own costumes, I don’t know how to fight Esmé. I’m afraid of her. Sylvie was wrong. Everyone wanted Esmé, so there wasn’t much point to fighting for Émile when I’d surely lose.

As I entered the