The Ladies of the Secret Circus Page 11

  The room was quiet as they both waited to hear.

  Lara didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t know if she wanted the song to be there as proof that she hadn’t—hadn’t what? Made it up? But a part of her didn’t want it to be there, either. That would mean a dead man was speaking through an album.

  The familiar sound of warbled, heavy chords came through the speakers. Jason stared at the turntable, blinking.

  Something stirred in Lara. She got up, placed the Fender on her desk, and walked over to the turntable. Jason moved away to let her at the controls. Touching the vinyl disk at the twelve o’clock position, Lara began to spin it counterclockwise. Before she even heard the first chord strum, she knew the song was there, beneath her fingers. Unwinding the record, spinning it, she found what she knew was the proper tempo. The melody flowed through her as if she were weaving it from the fabric of memory and history. She stopped, knowing what she had was not a full song, but a tasting of something, clipped from time.

  She turned to find her father looking at her like he’d seen a ghost.

  He stood and walked over to his collection of guitars that were hung on walls and scattered around displayed on stands. Leaning down, he carefully selected the oldest, most battered maple-neck Fender Sunburst in his collection. Pulling a cord from another guitar, he plugged the Fender into the small amp. Jason quickly tuned the battered Sunburst by ear, adjusting old strings that sounded to Lara like they hadn’t been played for thirty years.

  “It should be played on this,” said Jason. He started on the first chord but shook his head, stopped, and started the first few chords again. Knowing the confidence that her father had when combining chords and notes for his songs and set, Lara could tell this song was one he hadn’t played in a very long time. His fingers fumbled chord changes, and his voice broke. Shivers ran up her arms and the back of her neck as Lara recognized it as the song she’d heard haunting the Tending album.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after she’d finished.

  “After all these years, I waited for a sign—anything from him.”

  “Why now?”

  “I’ll be damned if I have any idea.” He avoided her eyes. “And why you?” Jason walked over and put the Sunburst back on the wall.

  Lara felt terrible. He’d been so animated fifteen minutes ago, excited about the show. And now he had that look, like he was seeing her for the first time. It unnerved her. She shouldn’t have said anything. This revealed something magical, and Audrey had always cautioned her to hide it. Now she understood. Her father looked at her like she was a stranger.

  “I’m going to go,” he said, nodding toward the door and grabbing his keys.

  “Yeah,” said Lara. “Get some sleep; you’ve been on the road.” She smiled, hoping to lighten up the conversation.

  He walked toward the door and didn’t look back, not even bothering to shut it behind him.

  While Jason had asked why it was Lara who got the message, she didn’t question this. He’d never known about her magic. Like a strange rite of passage, Lara felt as though Todd’s disappearance had set certain events in motion and she was now a conduit to strange happenings. Things were swirling around her and she couldn’t connect them yet, but she had a feeling that nothing was a coincidence—her magic, the disappearances of Todd and Peter. She just didn’t know how all these pieces fit together.

  Rattled, she went home and took a long, hot bath, then slid into her sheets. Perched on the edge of her nightstand was Cecile Cabot’s journal, almost beckoning to her. Instinctively, she knew that this diary wasn’t just a random gift. Maybe it held some answers. She reached for it and flipped it open to page one.

  The Journal of Cecile Cabot—Book One

  April 3, 1925

  Had our mother lived, I know things would have been different. A photo of her sits in the circus’s wardrobe office. It’s a side profile of her, a stage still, but I can tell from it that she has blue eyes like Esmé and me. Her coiled platinum hair resembles mine—a mixture of snow and silver. I cannot tell you how much I cling to this small detail that I resemble our precious mother more than Esmé does. Other than Father, Madame Plutard, Mother’s former costumer, is the only person at the circus who knew her when she was alive. Yet despite her knowledge, Madame Plutard is silent.

  The story is that our mother died giving birth to us. Everyone who was there is quite sober about the circumstances, so I fear we were a gruesome birth. Whenever I ask, Madame Plutard looks down at the floor or changes the subject and begins furiously ripping seams from costumes, her wrist flicking as her lips draw a line so firm that words dare not escape. Esmé has never asked. That we are twins shocks most people since there is such a sharp contrast between us. I’m the quiet one. The pensive one. Madame Plutard calls me the shadow twin.

  I think she means that I am always following Esmé like a silhouette.

  Yesterday after the performance, Esmé and I sat side by side at our matching ivory vanities. She was putting on and taking off makeup. “Who is older?” I asked. “You or me?”

  It’s one of those things I’ve always wondered but never asked. There is no doubt in my mind that she knows the answer.

  Esmé turned to me with a coy smile then sharply inhaled, like she was honing her reply. “I am. Why on earth would you ever think that you would be older?” Through her mirror she glared at me, a measure of disbelief at my apparent stupidity. Immediately she began busying herself, opening gold tops on ornate crystal bottles, dabbing things at her neck and face with a fury before finally emerging from this frenzy to steadily apply her lipstick—a garnet shade, nearly black—to her small, full lips. She smacked them and ground them together, then cocked her head and ran a nail along her upper lip to correct the errant border.

  “I don’t know why you’re always so mean,” I said, sighing and pulling my long hair from its pins, then pulling it forward and picking at it before brushing the long silver strands.

  She turned her body toward me, the nude bodysuit with black webbed piping she wore doing little to hide what was underneath. “No one wants to tell you, so I will. You shouldn’t even exist, you know. You are like an extra arm. Unnecessary.” She reached over to her vanity and handed me a tube of lipstick. “Here,” she said, holding the exquisite piped metal case out in her hand. “You need it.” Turning back to her mirror, she dabbed at her brows with a lace handkerchief. “I don’t even know why you have a vanity in my dressing room. It’s not like you have an act.”

  Stung by her comment, I had no retort, so I leaned into my own mirror, busying my hands and studying my pale face. She wasn’t wrong. I was the only person in the circus without something to do, other than being “his” daughter. All my life—well, all of the life that I can remember—my sister has been tossing these barbs at me, hinting she knows more. In my heart, I have come to believe what she says: I am nothing. No wonder I lurk in the shadows.

  “You still don’t remember, do you?” She brushed her silky hair, making the dark bob line up with her chin.

  I didn’t answer, which was answer enough. The great shame of my life is that I’ve retained no memories of my childhood. It had never occurred to me that everyone didn’t suffer from this form of amnesia. A few years ago, I learned that even the performers serving out their sentences here recalled their childhoods quite fondly, even when it was obvious those memories were washed over and revised in their minds. I’d love to have this type of nostalgia, but it is as though I emerged from a clamshell at the age of eleven. The first memory etched in my mind is of a birthday cake, a pink tiered monstrosity with the words ONZE ANS written between layers. I was bewildered that day, not recognizing the celebrants around the table. Like a muscle memory, I knew to blow the candles out after the verse of “Joyeux Anniversaire” was sung, but I did not immediately answer to the name Cecile, as though it were foreign to me. Worse yet, I had no memory of the girl with the chin-length black hair who sat beside me.

  This sam
e girl sat beside me. Her words had a way of twisting around me and cutting off the circulation around my neck, causing me to feel breathless. In my head, I’ve kept a ledger of each insult. Without memories to anchor me, her accusations have begun to define me. She was beautiful, confident, and talented, yet I was nothing—a creature with no past and no purpose. I swallowed hard, having nothing to lose. “Quit hinting like a coward. Just tell me, for once. Why do you remember, but I don’t?” I faced her, ready for the confrontation. Or at least I thought I was, but her knowing smile struck fear in me.

  The smile didn’t last long before her face twisted. I could tell calling her a coward had emboldened her, just as I knew it would. “He didn’t think you were strong enough, so he took your memories.”

  I felt my world tilt. This comment was pure madness and yet it made all the sense in the world. Illness or injury was not the cause of my emptiness. My memories—my life—had been taken from me. That they’d been stolen was the only answer that made sense. And the he was most definitely our father. Gripping the vanity, I processed the knowledge for a moment. “Why?”

  She was about to speak when we were interrupted by the sound of a loud yawn coming from the velvet chaise, where a fat tabby named Hercules watched Esmé’s movements intently. As though I were an afterthought, she focused on the cat and began to pet him. 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 returned. The best place to find Father was in the gardens. Our circus patrons also love the gardens. They would enter our doors at night and were shocked to find an outdoor setting within the walls, wondering what trick has allowed the sun to still shine. Father says that pacing through the Great Maze gives him clarity, so he can spend days traversing the hedges. As a result of his devotion, the garden was quite fragrant at his request—fresh sprigs of lavender and rosemary mixing with perpetually blooming magnolias and linden trees. As I raced through the meticulously tended shrubberies, I discovered Doro drinking tea with the Crimson Sisters, their red curls shaped into geometric shapes like the surrounding greenery. As if he instinctively knew who I was looking for, he pointed inside to the Grand Promenade, where I could see Father was surveying something intently.

  Deep in conversation with Curio, the mortal who serves as the Architect of Rides, he considered the newest creation—a Ferris wheel that went underneath the circus. He frowned and folded up the plans, tossing them back at Curio. Backward and upside down were two concepts that fascinated Father; this ride accomplished both according to Curio, w
ho was hurriedly explaining the features of the ride now being built below us. Neither noticed me standing there.

  “It doesn’t travel deep enough,” barked Father, stroking his chin.

  Curio’s face twisted like he was sitting on a pin. “But I can’t make it go any deeper, my lord.”

  “I can’t see Styx,” said Father through gritted teeth at the mention of his beloved river. “You promised me that I would see Styx. That was the purpose of this ride, Curio.”

  “I’ve tried, my lord.” Curio’s face was reddening. “There isn’t enough magic to get that far and hold the circus together. You need to give me more magic.” Just then, Curio did a peculiar thing. As though he’d just discovered me, his gaze traveled to where I stood as if something brilliant had just occurred to him. “Of course,” he exclaimed. “We can use Cecile, too. Why didn’t I think of it sooner. Perhaps there is a way—”

  The architect never finished his thought. With his left hand, Father silenced him with a clenched fist. Curio’s face appeared to pucker, like he was chewing on something unpleasant, his eyes wide. His rounded body traveled to the floor, convulsing.

  “Never,” said Father, leaning over him. “That will never happen, Curio. Find another way.” The architect’s head rotated and he writhed in pain. With his boot, Father gave him a little tap, then held out his hand. “Now give it to me. This is what happens when you speak before thinking.”

  “Curio.” I fell to my knees, holding his fleshy head in my hands, and looked up at Father. “What have you done to him? Make it stop, Father!” Frantically, I tugged at the man’s suit, trying to find a reason for his distress. The portly architect’s head shook back and forth furiously, pushing away from me like my touch burned him.