Until I’m warmed up, however, it’s dangerous for me to be distracted. Lack of concentration is the only dangerous part of my magic. If I’m caught unawares, my flying powers might not be there exactly when I need them. While I’m good, my flying powers are not yet perfect.

To know that I am a magical creature like Esmé has filled me with purpose here. The other performers, like Doro, have begun to treat me as an equal. It’s still tense when Esmé is in the room, as she demands loyalty from our troupe. Any act of kindness toward me is taken as an affront to her. Yet I see how this act of choosing between us has weighed everyone down and a silent resentment toward her has formed. We’re already existing in Hell; why make it worse?

Walking back to my room, Doro passed me and nodded to Esmé. “Looks like she’s got a fly in the web,” said Doro’s puppet. He raised his eyebrows in what he thought was a private joke between us, yet he couldn’t have known how this comment would affect me. I stormed back to my dressing room in a jealous rage, leaving Esmé and Émile to themselves. I hadn’t felt this way when he’d painted Sylvie, but then I hadn’t been to his apartment when he was painting her. Some part of me feared he would make a fool of me.

Back in my room, I peeled off my leotard and dress, deciding to head into Montparnasse instead. If I stayed, I feared I might storm out there and rip the canvas in two. Where was this anger coming from? Placing the back of my hand on my forehead, I didn’t think I was feverish, but I’ve been in a constant state of agitation lately.