The Ladies of the Secret Circus by Constance Sayers (the little red hen ebook TXT) 📕

just hours before Saturday’s performance, I smelled them before I saw them. Minotaurs. A swirling stench of filthy fur and rot wafted down the Grand Promenade even before they materialized. Two beasts each held one of an unconscious Esmé’s arms around their necks, her feet dragging behind her. Tailing the minotaurs were two enormous, growling hellhounds, giant inky curs with coats so shiny they resembled glass figurines. Nipping at the air around them, the beasts snarled at nothing and then began clawing at each other until the head minotaur grabbed one by the scruff of the neck to settle the animal.

In the hallway, I stood speechless. Their entire entrance was designed to be pure spectacle. They could have easily carried her back without the added histrionics, but the show was for the rest of us and it was pure Father. That he was away was also no accident. As the duo turned a sharp corner with Esmé’s limp body, her leg snapped against the wall, nearly breaking as the hounds bit at her bare feet. Esmé, drooling with her head resting on her chest, never stirred.

I put my hand to my mouth in horror. Never had I imagined that this would be Esmé’s fate.

Following behind them was Madame Plutard like a priest trailing an executioner. From outside her room, you could hear Esmé’s body hitting the bed with force. Then the door opened and shut again. Hoofbeats pounded back down the hall as the lot headed to their next assignment. Our costumer entered my sister’s room and shut the door.

Quietly, I crept down the hall and put my ear to the wall. I could only make out the sound of Madame Plutard sobbing.

April 15, 1925

Her door remained shut for several days.

I had time to contemplate my actions.

I wasn’t alone in my hatred. Since Esmé’s disappearance, the performers nearly fled when they saw me coming or when I attempted to sit next to them—a silent allegiance to her that I understood. It was yesterday—the fourth day—before Doro allowed me to sit next to him.

“I know I did a terrible thing,” I admitted to Doro.

He placed his hand over mine. Whatever path had led him here, Doro was always kind to me. There were rumors he’d once been an opera singer who was quite the lothario in life, leaving a string of broken hearts throughout Paris and Rome. This version of Hell, our circus, had re-created him as a mute clown. Father’s punishments stung. In Father’s version of Hell, a great beauty in life was reimagined as a monstrosity. If his story is true, Doro, once a vain and proud tenor, would never hear the sound of his voice again. Doro’s white face paint and red smile are like a permanent mask. Often I’ve wondered what he looked like in his life, but the performers here were always in costume now as though they were dolls that could be removed from a shelf.

Doro did, in fact, have a doll. It was a miniature Doro that never left his side. The two were exact replicas—and I can’t say that I knew which version was the original. Our circus was dizzying that way. Perched on his lap, the miniature Doro puppet seemed to wake from his sleep to speak.

“You didn’t know,” said Doro’s puppet. He said these words carefully, like he was giving me the benefit of the doubt.

I hung my head. I had hoped that Esmé would be punished. I just didn’t expect it to be this extreme. “What happened to her?”

Doro’s puppet sighed. “She was taken to the White Forest.”

“How bad is that?” There were always threats of banishment to the White Forest, but I’d never seen one carried out.

“It is the worst possible fate, Cecile.” Doro the clown looked down. The puppet continued, his voice smooth and bright like he was speaking from somewhere far away. “She may never recover. Many people do not.” At this, Doro the clown began to cry. “Your father sent us there once.” I realized it was there that his tongue had been cut out.

“My father sent you there?”

The puppet bobbed his head.

Squeezing the big clown’s hand, I did not blame the other performers for hating me.

I hated me.

April 16, 1925

Yesterday I tried to see her, but Madame Plutard refused to let me through the door. “She has nothing to say to you.” From Madame Plutard’s manner, I could tell that she preferred not to talk to me, either.

To witness the scorn on their faces is almost unbearable. I took to my room, not bothering with the fireplace, wanting to feel the discomfort and pain that I deserved. A dampness set in, causing my bones to ache, particularly my leg. After a few hours, Sylvie came and brought me soup. I knew that she had to smuggle it because no one sought to feed me right now. As she handed me the bowl, she glanced over her shoulder and I knew that she didn’t wish to be seen with me. I took the soup and despised myself for needing to eat it. I’d considered wasting away here, but I found that I could not do it. I closed my eyes as the spoon touched my mouth and the broth warmed me.

There was a show that evening. Even without Esmé, it went on. My role in the circus was to help the performers get into their different costumes. I stood at the side door, holding props for the performers while they shot me looks of contempt or, as usual, ignored me.

After the Wheel of Death, I rotated the bull’s-eye back to its original spot. I thought that I could stand on the bull’s-eye while Louis threw knives. As I filled the water for the horses, I wondered what it would be like to stand astride them, like Sylvie.

In the past, I’d tried to learn to ride, but Father has not permitted it for fear that