“And I prefer it that way,” she said, yet the pain in her face was evident. Émile was both the bond between us and the very wedge that divided us.
“Because you knew you’d lose.” I had never hated her the way she’d hated me, but for once, I finally understood and matched her contempt. I didn’t think that this emotion had existed in me until now. “He was never yours, Esmé.”
She seemed wooden and turned rather stiffly before heading back to her room. “And he’ll never be yours again, dear sister.”
July 24, 1926
I haven’t written much. I guess I don’t care to tell my story anymore. My story—my life—has little meaning without him. Tonight is my first night back performing. I know that I don’t look good, but everyone insists that I do.
The last week in February, I went into labor. I languished for two days. From the looks of Madame Plutard, who did her best for me, and even Father, I could tell this was not a good thing. I could see everyone gathered in corners and speaking in hushed tones. At this point, I didn’t care if I died. In fact, I think I preferred it. The pain was unlike anything before, as though I were splitting in two. There was something about giving birth to this child. As the child grew inside me, I could feel my own essence draining. This baby is powerful, but it has weakened me. Through my haze, I asked for Sylvie. She looked fresh and crisp, in her white outfit. By contrast, I was soaked through with sweat and sitting in my own urine.
“Promise me that if I die, you will take my child away from here.”
“You aren’t—”
But I could read her. I saw the tightening around her eyes and I knew she was lying. I had just told the same lies to Émile months ago. I knew them well. I don’t fear death. I don’t know where our kind, cambions, go, but my hope is that it is near him. I’d love to see him again. “If I die and my baby lives you must promise me that you won’t let her raise my child. Promise me, Sylvie. She will not raise his baby!”
“I promise.”
But I lived. And so did my daughter. I named her Margot, which was Émile’s mother’s name. She was perfect: wiggly, pink, healthy, and screaming.
So that brings me to tonight. Sylvie has just left my dressing room, fretting again. I assured her that flying for me is like breathing, but I didn’t tell her that even that has become more difficult lately since giving birth. Sometimes I have to sit on the way to the carousel. Doro has put a bench there for me. He hasn’t said that it is for me, but a bench arrived at just the location where he saw me leaning against the wall.
Last week, before Sylvie left my dressing room, she turned back from the door. “I lied to you.”
“About what?”
“You asked me when I fell in love with you. I told you that it was when you were sketching me, but that wasn’t true. It was the first day when you crawled up the ladder to the trapeze. You kept falling and you had such determination. I hadn’t seen that from you and something changed. I don’t know… it doesn’t matter, I guess.”
But it did. Her love for me was real, yet I didn’t love her in that way, and it broke my heart.
I am so weary tonight and a little distracted. It has been this way since Margot’s birth, but I anticipate that old tingle that comes from flying again. My costume hangs waiting for me, draped on the covered mirror. I want to pull off the cover, but the pitiful creature whom Father has trapped in there will be peering out at me. Hesitantly, I pull back the drape. To my astonishment, I don’t see one creature—but two—and they are familiar.
As I walk down into the center ring, I wonder who Father has invited tonight in the audience. He has begun sending out tickets again, thinking things will go back to the way they used to be.
But that, I fear, will never be.
Paris / Eighth Layer of Hell
July 3, 2005
After reading the final journals, it was taking Lara a moment to adjust to the fact that Althacazur—the daemon of really cool shit—was her… what? Great-great-grandfather? Oh dear. Lara felt herself sink.
Oblivious to everyone, Althacazur had his leg over the arm of the chair and was sitting like a petulant teenager, swinging his leg. “So,” he began. “Let me tell you a story. Once there was this really cool gent.”
“Gent?” Lara couldn’t help but mock his word choice.
“Short for ‘gentleman,’” said Althacazur, his eyes widening, like she was stupid.
Lara rolled her eyes. “I know that.”
“Anyway,” he said, annoyed at the interruption. “This gent who might have had some really great powers met this mortal actress—Juno Wagner. Such a beautiful name. Well, he fell head over heels for her—which for a major daemon is not something that happens every day.”
“Father,” said Cecile sharply. She was standing in the center of the ring with her hands on her hips. “Do we really have to get into all this?”
“She’s family, Cecile. I promised her that she would have all the answers to her tiny, stupid, human questions if she came to Paris.”
Cecile rolled her eyes.
“And so back to my story,” said Althacazur, striking a different tone to please Cecile. “Where was I?”
“That I’m family,” said Lara, trying to hide her distaste at the idea.
“Oh yes.” He put his finger up. “Nine months later… I think you know where this story is going. My dear Juno gives birth to…” He stopped and seemed to consider something. “… a
