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

reached into her pocket to find another treat. She held out her hand, and the lion, who now stood before her, took it gently.

“Snap your fingers, Miss Barnes.”

Lara looked at Althacazur, who made a snapping motion like she was an idiot. She snapped her fingers, and just like in an episode of Bewitched, the panther and lion sat perched in front of her as two small cats, their tails flicking back and forth. She reached into her pocket again and found two more treats. She bent over and gave each cat one more.

“You liked that one, didn’t you?”

Lara smiled and petted the animals.

The bearded lady came by and swatted them lightly, sensing their reluctance to go to their cages.

The show continued as two clowns entered and began to screw off their limbs.

Lara watched in horror as they exchanged left arms and right legs, then one took the other by the head and rotated until his head came off; in turn, the headless body held on while the other clown rotated around him until his own head came off. They tossed the heads back and forth as the heads continued to chatter to each other. Then each took the opposite head, placed it on top of his neck, and rotated it back on.

Althacazur clapped as the clowns bowed and exited. “I just love that one. You’d never guess who that was in a million years. The irony of the heads coming off… you just can’t design this stuff any better.” Althacazur circled in front of her, still clapping. “Now, this one is just for you.”

The door opened and a figure came out—a large one—a towering figure with eight fucking legs. Jesus. Lara had a thing about spiders. A bad thing. Ever since Peter Brady had the tarantula on his chest on The Brady Bunch vacation episode in Hawaii, Lara had hated spiders. Worst thing about buying an old house? Spiders. Now bounding toward her was one that stood at least eight feet tall.

“Seven,” corrected Althacazur, his eyebrow raised. “Seven feet tall. Your inner voice exaggerates.”

Lara felt sweat beading on her lip. “I suppose this little guy is actually the size of a postage stamp, too?”

Althacazur leaned against the bandstand and lit a cigarette. “Nope. She’s fucking huge. Am I right?”

The spider slowly approached and then lifted her front legs, exposing giant furry fangs. From the countless books Lara had read about spiders—from the Sydney funnel-web spider that chased down your ass to the black widow that lurked in woodpiles—she knew this was bad, very bad. But underneath the arachnid was—a woman. Was a woman pinned to the thorax?

Lara felt bile rise in her throat. She was definitely going to vomit.

On second glance, the woman was not attached to the spider so much as she was the thorax—her arms and legs transformed to spider legs. When the spider got close, she could see that the woman looked just like her. Lara felt her blood drain, then her body became heavy.

The next thing she felt was Tisdale’s leathery fingers touching her. She had passed out in the ring.

“Did I faint?”

The monkey nodded. The arena was now empty, and Althacazur was chuckling.

“That is my biggest nightmare,” Lara said, gulping.

“You should have seen your face.” His eyes were wide with excitement. “Wasn’t it groovy, though, staring down your fear.” He peered down her. “I mean, you literally stared it down.”

She looked toward her left at Tisdale, who seemed sympathetic.

“Get her up, Tisdale, shake her off a bit.”

The monkey patted Lara, who got to her feet and looked behind her to make sure her giant spider-self wasn’t lurking in the entrance.

“I’ll stop toying with you now, Lara,” said Althacazur. “You can take your seat.”

Lara returned to the giant throne in the front row, checking her watch to see what time it was, but the display still showed one minute after eleven—the exact time she’d come through the doors. At this point it could have been minutes or days.

The pin spotlights came on, and the orchestra roared to life. Althacazur sashayed out from the pit. “Mesdames et messieurs, welcome to Le Cirque Secret—where nothing is as it seems.” He cocked his top hat and the lights came up, revealing a full house of people—actual patrons.

Men and women dressed in their finest—dresses and coats and hats from another time. She saw top hats resting on laps; in front of her where it had not been a few moments ago was a silver plate with a glass of champagne.

“Popcorn?” Lara turned to find a small black bear wearing a tulle collar of aquamarine with bronze sequined beading and carrying a tray.

“I know,” said the bear, moving his neck uncomfortably in his collar. “It’s a bit much. Itchy, too.”

“Thank you.” Lara slid the popcorn bag from his outstretched hand. He scanned the rest of the rows like a flight attendant with a beverage cart.

Lara looked at the man next to her. Was he real? He appeared to be real, but his coat was wool and it was July. The women wore their hair up or severely bobbed. If she had to guess, the clothing placed them in the early 1920s. Lara caught the man’s eye, and he winked at her. Immediately she turned and looked forward, sinking into her seat. He looked so familiar, and it took Lara a moment to realize that he was the man in the audience from the Sylvie on the Steed painting, the one who was pointing. Quickly she turned her head to sneak a confirming look. Yes, it was definitely him.

A steady beat came from the bass drum, followed by strings. It was a familiar opening—Gustav Mahler’s “Vampire Song.” Everyone in the ring scrambled.

In the center, women in white skirts and top hats over Raggedy-Ann-red hair juggled. The jugglers parted and two women were spun on separate wheels while jesters in matching blue, red, and gold costumes threw knives at them.

The act was familiar to anyone who had attended a simple street carnival. In