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

I get hurt. Even Esmé was not permitted to ride the horses, a rare refusal from him.

So this morning, I walked out to the trapeze ladder for the first time. I don’t know what possessed me to do this, but I believe it was the soup. Sylvie’s small act of kindness exposed my desire to live, but I won’t exist without undergoing a metamorphosis. The old Cecile, the one who tattled on her sister and lived as a shadow, is gone. No longer will I be the object of scorn or pity. I may not know what happened before the pink cake, but I can control what happens now. Weak from lack of eating, I forced myself on as I started up the ladder. A hush fell over the rehearsal. A few snickers and a “What does she think she’s doing?” erupted from the floor below me. Because it moved, the ladder was more difficult to climb than I’d anticipated, but I wasn’t giving anyone the satisfaction of saying that I couldn’t cut it. If I plunged to my death here, it would be an honorable death, so I kept climbing. It was true that I was the weak twin, but I was also light, like a ballerina, which would be to my advantage on the trapeze. When I finally reached the top, I looked down. My knees nearly buckled from fright, but I held the bar in my palms for the first time, determined to change my fate.

It was morning practice, the one no one paid attention to, and half the performers barely showed up for it, but I looked down and all eyes were on me: Arms were on hips, hands over mouths, and Doro was motioning for me to come down. I’d never held the bar before, but I’d longed to feel it in my hands. It was heavier, thicker, and smoother than I’d imagined. From the other side of the trapeze, Hugo, the catcher, tried to shoo me down. I shook my head. “Let me try.”

Hugo did not seem thrilled to have me on his trapeze. I didn’t blame him, but I wasn’t budging. I held on to the bar, pulling it toward me defiantly. Reluctantly, he shouted for me to keep my thumbs tucked under. If I was going over, he appeared to be trying to make it not cost him a limb. I nodded at his direction. With his finger, he drew a net that appeared below us. As it materialized, I breathed a sigh of relief.

There are no words to describe the first time that I swung. It isn’t even the swing, it’s the decision to step off and let go. I recalled my sister’s limp body being dragged through the hall as I jumped, and I left the old me on the platform. Hugo sat on the opposite side, not moving and not trying to catch me.

I fell that first time.

I could hear rumblings around the circus and a few laughs and an “I knew it” from somewhere. Hugo was taking a big risk. The aftereffects of Father’s wrath on Curio were still being felt. I crawled to the edge of the net and twisted myself down like I’d seen them do. I was awkward and got tangled in the net, but I walked right past the performers and up the ladder again. The second time at the top, I faced Hugo and nodded, ready to go again. He sent the bar over to me and I missed it, causing him to have to send it again and a roar of laughter from the performers below. My legs were shaking at the spectacle I was creating but also the fear. This time, I was prepared for the way the bar felt against my hands, and my weight was no longer a surprise. I knew what the leap would feel like and the missing strength I needed to do more than cling to the bar.

I fell again, but I knew how it felt to drop into the net. Landing on a net isn’t soft. It’s rough and scratches you as you crawl across to the edge. My knees were scraped up, but I felt joy for the first time. Even as meager as my attempts had been, I had made myself useful—I had performed. I finally understood that it wasn’t just the applause each night, but a sense of accomplishment from the act itself that drove the performers—the very heart of the circus. Tomorrow I would be better. I made a promise that even if I never got to perform under this big top, I would earn my place.

I climbed the rope again.

Hugo never left his position, instead choosing to swing on the other bar, watching me. We faced each other and I could see it in his face: He was wondering if I had the determination to keep coming back. As if to answer, I grabbed the bar one more time.

Sweat beaded on my face and I wiped it. It was my third attempt and I was getting tired. The lack of strength caused my arms to shake a bit. Sensing this, Hugo shouted.

“Try to get your knees on the bar this time. Your legs are stronger. Let them get you over here if you can.”

I’d seen the move hundreds of times, so I knew what he was talking about, but the strength to hold on to the bar while my legs hooked around it seemed nearly impossible. I took too long to execute the motion and dangled until the trapeze bar came to a stall at the bottom.

“There’s a rhythm to it,” Hugo called. “One swift movement quickly, then turn your body to look up for me. One movement.” He held up a firm finger. “Un.”

He came down and met me at the bottom after I’d fallen. “Come back tomorrow. Now go rest.”

April 19, 1925

My arms ached, but I returned the next day. The second