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.