“That fucking painting isn’t my only concern, and neither is that circus. That is all I’m saying.” Gaston folded his arms, the veins in his neck prominent. “That was your dream that you’ve chased all these years.”

Barrow looked like he was about to speak, but Ben interrupted. “Maybe it was a deranged killer—a real physical person and not some otherworldly circus run by a devil. Have either of you considered that?” He was trying to cool the situation down. In his experience, you only pieced things together when you were coolheaded. For Lara’s sake, he needed to be that now. “You have them here in Paris, too, don’t you? We need to call the police. She was chased by someone the other day—from her account it was a physical person. You can’t just assume that she’s gone and joined a daemonic circus.”

Barrow narrowed his eyes. “We have psychopaths here in Paris as well, monsieur. But the concierge saw her leave around ten forty-five.”

“So?”

“So,” said Barrow slowly, like he was trying to remain patient with a child. “From everything we know about Le Cirque Secret, performances began promptly at eleven. Always.” Barrow had given up his desk chair to Ben, who was sipping his espresso. “The empty envelope and the time being so close to eleven is a good indicator that she had a ticket.”

“This isn’t the doing of a madman or an art thief, Ben,” said Gaston. “If we went to the police, we would sound crazy. Anyway, we did call the police. We called you.”

“What did she say when you talked to her last?” Barrow directed his question to Ben.

“She assured me she wouldn’t be wandering around Paris without you both. That she wouldn’t take any chances—” As he recalled the conversation, Ben’s body felt heavy; he couldn’t speak for a moment. What if Lara disappeared as well? He was furious with her for taking chances. He nodded toward the composition books and couldn’t believe what he was about to ask next. “So this circus, if it is real, it has no physical location?”