The Ladies of the Secret Circus Constance Sayers (e books free to read .TXT) 📖

things and you have to ask them respectfully, and not too often, for a favor. I simply had to wish him a ticket, as I did the circus door, and one should appear for the next performance. Yet I nodded politely while he made me repeat his street number and address back to him.

May 16, 1925

Today was the unveiling of our new act. The clown Millet delivered a bouquet of blush peonies, cream roses, and green hydrangeas to me before the show, a gift from Émile Giroux, who would be watching me from the second row, center.

After the article, audiences expected the corkscrew, so they got it. While I’d seen Esmé performing her illusions, I didn’t appear to have that same talent. The ability to levitate was my gift, so I threw myself into perfecting my signature move. While Hugo’s act had been a straightforward trapeze performance, it needed to change with the enhancement of magic. Over the next week, Hugo and I began directing several clowns and women in a performance that started on the ground and moved to the air.

Madame Plutard balked when I asked for coordinating leotards in the same striped pattern in hues of aqua, soft pink, and moss green with elaborate gold-and-cream piping. All the performers donned white wigs to look like me. The baroque effect was something similar to the colors you’d imagine of the fashion of Versailles.

The dancers took to the center stage, and their movements resembled a waltz in the court of Louis XVI. The sea of them parted and I appeared in my blush-and-gold version of their outfits, emerging from a troupe of jugglers and synchronized tumblers to ascend the Spanish Web. As I rose above them, the audience was so quiet that I could hear champagne glasses tinkling while the orchestra hushed. Then Niccolò matched his orchestra to my moves, and the song pounded through the hall in a furious, twisting rhythm.

At the end, when I took my final bow, I could see the outlines of him as he rose to his feet.

I was a shadow no more.

Kerrigan Falls, Virginia

June 23, 2005

Lara had a reminder message from Audrey to pick up the tickets and a stern warning that the office was only open for two hours today, from ten in the morning until noon.

Throwing on jeans that were not covered in dust, Lara twisted her ankles into her black Chuck Taylors and raced out the door. She had fifteen minutes until the offices of the historical society closed.

It was Saturday, so she usually slept in a little later, but this was unusual. All night, armed with a French dictionary, she’d been up translating Cecile’s journal. At first, she thought she’d just work on a few pages, but by two in the morning Lara had found that she’d been able to read most of the composition book without the help of her dog-eared and coverless Bantam French dictionary. Some of the handwriting had been faded or stained with what appeared to be a watermark and some phrases had to be looked up, but she managed to finish most of the translation.

As she read, she’d tried to equate the woman with the silver bob and heart-shaped face that she’d known with the young girl trying to learn the trapeze. Something about it didn’t fit, causing Lara to wonder if Cecile had tried her hand at creative writing. Perhaps the journal was just some made-up story.

She ran the last block, sliding through the doors of the historical society offices at eleven fifty. Marla Archer had her back to Lara, and she wondered if she should feel weird about this. Tonight, she was going to the gala with this woman’s ex-husband.

The radio was playing classical music, a baroque piece, likely Bach. Lara had majored in music, so she’d generally spent more time playing classical than anything modern until she’d graduated. The music suited the place. Looking around, Lara realized she’d never come in here before. All around the office were old photos of Main Street and Jefferson Street; “before” and “after” photos of schoolhouses turned into grocery stores, factories into housing developments; and of course the posters of Zoltan’s Spicy Brown Mustard and Le Cirque Margot.

Above the counter was an old circus poster featuring the blond likeness of her grandmother Margot Cabot draped over a white steed, her famous leg clutching the back of the animal. It was an unreal position—anyone normal would have fallen from that angle—but it sure made for a great illustration.

“She was a beauty, wasn’t she?” It was Marla.

Lara looked up, surprised that she’d been so lost in the artwork, she hadn’t seen Marla turn around.

“She really was, but no one can stay on a horse perched like that.”

Marla chuckled. “Well, I think that pose was more to draw the teenage boys to the circus than anything else.”

Lara walked up to the counter, where books like Virginia’s Battlefields and Kerrigan Falls in Photography, which Lara noticed was written by Marla, were stacked in neat piles. “I need to pick up tickets for my mother.” Lara paused. “Audrey Barnes.”

Marla smiled. “I remember you from Gaston’s.” She thumbed through a small box of envelopes, going forward and backward until she found the one she was looking for. “Barnes.” She opened it. “Two tickets?”

Lara nodded.

“I hear you are Ben’s date tonight.” Marla held the tickets out for Lara.

Lara stammered, not sure how to respond.

“It’s okay,” said Marla. “He told me. I warn you, though, he doesn’t dance. I tried for years. Took him to Arthur Murray for salsa lessons and they refunded my money after one session. Said he was hopeless.”

Lara clutched her tickets. “He also has terrible taste in James Bond films.”

Marla leaned against the counter and folded her arms. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” said Lara, a bit wary.

“I have something for you.” She paused. “It’s complicated. It was for Todd, actually. Do you want it?” Marla put her finger