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

“Honestly, Mr. Archer, there are things that I remember as clear as day. Him dragging that old Fender guitar with him everywhere, knocking it against doorframes and car doors. He had an old strap, never a case for it, and just slung it over his shoulder. An old boyfriend of mine had given it to him—the thing was already battered when he’d gotten it and it didn’t get any better. Beautiful guitar, too; it’s a shame. Peter hated getting his hair cut, hated wearing shoes as a kid, and until he left us…” The last word hung on her. “… well, he was always barefoot. He had beautiful feet. I know that’s a strange memory, but it’s one of the things I remember about him that final summer, tan and running around barefoot, getting stung by bees with that beautiful tumble of long, shaggy dirty-blond hair, just like his father. Every week, I recall me telling him to get a haircut, even giving him money for it, which of course he pocketed, but then he and Jason Barnes would spend it on records. I also remember trying to look young enough to be his sister and never being a good enough mother to him. Those are things I remember, Mr. Archer.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

“He had a harem.” She laughed and it turned into coughing, the deep, wet cough from unhealthy lungs. “Even my girlfriends liked him. I think one even dated him, but they kept that kind of thing away from me.” Her voice was straining at the end, and she erupted into another series of coughs.

“Anyone special?”

“Not that I recall, Mr. Archer,” she said, clearing her throat. “Maybe. Certainly no one came to my door after he went missing claiming to be the love of his life or anything like that. I even wished at one point that someone would. It was sad he’d died with no one. Only Jason Barnes.” She laughed. “Those two boys loved each other like brothers. I’m not sure there was room in Peter’s life for anything other than his dream. And sweet Jesus could my boy play that guitar.”

“The band.”

“The band. Always the band. And they’d have made it, too.” She paused. “Had he lived long enough.” With that, the phone clicked and the line went dead.

Paris

July 3, 2005

At the foot of the grand Palais Brongniart at the corner of Rue Vivienne and Rue Réaumur, Lara looked down at her watch. Five minutes until eleven. The imposing building in front of her was too large to be so quiet. Moonlight illuminated the fronts of the pillars. The waiter at the bistro across the street was stacking chairs in an effort to close. During the day, this part of Paris was buzzing with offices and businesses, but at night, it was nearly abandoned. Other than the waiters and the occasional couple on their way home, there was nothing here. She looked down at the ticket and confirmed the streets. The courtyard in front of her was empty and dark.

She paced, her heels clicking on the cement. Turning, she thought she heard something behind her. Footsteps. She kept pacing. If anyone was watching her, she’d pretend like she was waiting for someone—she was waiting for someone. She regretted not telling Gaston what she was doing tonight, but she didn’t want to worry him or Barrow. After the woman had chased her, she should have been more careful, though she’d cast the protection spell again tonight before she left the hotel. She looked down at her watch again. Three minutes until eleven. All she had to do was hold this woman off for three minutes. Althacazur would find her.

The night air in Paris was sticky and warm, giving little relief. Feeling the need to dress for the occasion, she’d worn a black dress with strappy sandals like she was going to dinner or a concert. Slung over her arm was a denim jacket.

And she heard it again, the clicking of heels—a woman’s heels.

Lara spun. The noise was coming from the corner near Rue Vivienne where the streetlight was out. She felt a chill run up her neck. “Come on… come on.” She looked around for something to change. Silently, she began the chant.

Bracatus losieus tegretatto.

From a distance, she heard a church bell begin to clang. It was eleven. As if her vision were bending, she saw the pillars in front of her warp. At first it was small, like a ripple when you throw a small stone in the water. Within seconds, the smooth waves became more pronounced, like something was trying to tear through the scene. The streetlights dimmed, making a charged noise as the scene in front of her—the massive building with pillars—gave way. In its place emerged a giant round arena with an opulent gold entrance complete with a Devil’s open mouth.

Lara gasped. The Devil’s mouth. It was just as Cecile and Barrow had described. Looking back toward Rue Vivienne, she thought she saw the outline of a woman standing under the dead streetlamp, waiting. She stared in that direction, letting the woman know she wasn’t backing down. Straining her eyes in the dark, Lara couldn’t make out if this was the same woman from the Père Lachaise.

There was a steady hum, as if a fluorescent light had just been turned on after a lengthy recess. Four sets of pillars led the way to a door, gaslights illuminating the path. Like a picture coming into focus, the circus with its MATINEE sign became clear. Lara looked down at her ticket. If she threw the ticket down now and ran, would this scene disappear? Tempting though it was to flee, she stared out at the figure of the woman standing in the shadows. If she didn’t go through the doors to Le Cirque Secret, then she had to face whoever was out there, knowing it was the woman. No, it was safer to