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

Our legs touched, and I felt the heat of him. When he kissed me, I tasted cognac on his breath.

“In the morning will you disappear?”

“Non.” My hand touched his lightly.

“Promise?” He slid on top of me and his kisses were erratic, frantic, both short and long, like he would devour me if he could. I unbuttoned his shirt and felt the beads of sweat on his chest from the sweltering apartment. He pulled me up and unfastened my dress. It pooled around my feet. I unbuttoned his trousers and slipped my hands between his shirt and shoulders and let the shirt fall into a pile next to my dress; then I returned to his trousers, which he had already begun to lower. We spun against the wall next to the open window and the breeze hit me. I didn’t tell him as he entered me that I had not done this before with anyone, but his face changed when he realized there had been no one before him. As he moved, I also saw the realization alter him. He took my face in his hands and kissed me until he came with rough, erratic thrusts. When we were done, our sweat combined and we were dripping.

“You are not like the other girls I have known.” He caught his breath so this came out in short bursts, so much so that I struggled to hear him.

I was not sure what this meant, nor was I sure that I wanted to be reminded of other girls he has known.

The church bells clanged and reminded us that, outside, life would start again soon.

“We could go to Jardin du Luxembourg today. I could paint you.”

I frowned.

“I know.” He looked down. “But I could change a detail so it wouldn’t be you exactly. It would stay; I know it would.”

“I need to get back to the circus.” I met his eyes and saw they were hungry for more. I scrambled, gathering my clothes. His shirt was open as I left, and I looked back at him with such longing. Realizing now how light my life was before him—how easily I moved through each arrondissement in Paris with Esmé and Sylvie each weekend, drinking champagne with socialites, musicians, and writers until we caught the door at Le Cirque Secret. But now it is as though I have caught an illness that will addle my brain and weigh on my heart until it bursts.

It is sad that in this moment of what should be carnal joy, I am aware that we are already doomed.

Paris

July 3, 2005

You should have called me,” said Gaston, first adjusting his sunglasses, then his cane chair, his hair still wet from the shower. “You have no idea who might have been lurking in the hallways. Audrey would kill me if something happened to you.”

Lara smiled; that was definitely the reason he was in such a panic. She took a first sip of her cappuccino. “I’m sure you got a bunch of safety instructions for me before you left.”

He rolled his eyes and sipped his espresso but didn’t disagree.

“Ha.” She pointed her finger at him. “I knew it.”

Gaston made a face as he watched the morning commuters rush past dressed in their sneakers and business clothes. “Let’s just say if anything happened to you, I would not be going back to Kerrigan Falls, so please help me to go home again. Just stay with Barrow and me today so we know you will be safe.”

“I agree.” Barrow’s spoon clinked against the porcelain cappuccino cup.

The three of them were seated outside the café at Métro Quatre Septembre, named for the day the Third Republic was announced upon the death of Napoleon III. The trio faced Rue Réaumur. Although it was only ten, Gaston was alternating between a glass of champagne and his second cup of espresso. As she recounted the story of her day, both men were speechless.

Pulling the two composition books from her messenger bag, she began to tell them about Émile and Cecile. She’d spent all night translating the second journal and had made a copy of her English translation for Barrow, indicating where she couldn’t decipher the manuscript. Also tucked away in her bag was an actual ticket to Le Cirque Secret. While the ticket had appeared to bleed last night when she’d torn it, this morning the paper was perfectly mended as though it was a living thing that had healed itself overnight.

She was undecided whether she was going to tell them about the invitation but was leaning toward not. From a purely academic standpoint, it made sense to show them, so they could lay their lands on an authentic ticket from Le Cirque Secret. Yet if she told Gaston and Barrow, they’d never let her show up tonight. She couldn’t risk them trying to stop her. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. Looking at them both, she knew if they had tickets in their pockets, they would go.

“I cannot believe another Giroux painting has been hanging in the office of Le Cirque de Fragonard for years?” Barrow’s hands were on his face in disbelief, his eyes wild. “I need to see it. Today if possible.”

“Oh, Teddy, it’s so beautiful. Even more beautiful than my painting.” Lara cut a piece of her duck confit as Barrow skimmed the notebook. “It’s in the owner’s private collection. And I do mean private; there is some creepy stuff in there.”

“I’ll call someone at the institute to see if I can get Fragonard to let us see it.” Barrow was distracted, furiously scanning through his phone contacts. After leaving two voicemails, he settled back into his seat and focused on the journal, smoothing the pages. “The writing is so faded. We should be wearing gloves.”

“I’ve only managed to translate the second journal.” She met his eyes. “It tells the story of two of the paintings—Cecile’s and Sylvie’s. I’m convinced