At Esmé’s request, we now have separate dressing rooms and most of the space is empty, but I’ve kept the old velvet daybed, my vanity, and the rug. A new mirror arrived for me a few weeks ago. While I assumed it was from an admirer, there was no note attached. It was rather beautiful, a heavy gold, baroque full-length thing, but I’ve begun to fear it’s enchanted. As I stare into it, I almost don’t recognize the vengeful creature staring back at me. It isn’t just my reflection in the glass that disturbs me, but the mirror itself. There are angles where I’ve caught a reflection of myself that is not possible. I’ve asked Doro if there was a fun-house mirror missing from the arcade with some poor spirit trapped in it, but he gestured no. At times, the image that has peered back at me is one of a young girl with only one arm and one leg—her left limbs missing entirely. Knowing it must be my head playing tricks on me, I’ve taken to covering it with my robe and I’ve asked for it to be removed, but no one has bothered with it, claiming it’s too heavy and bulky.

Father was back today. Moving the circus always required him, so I figured that we will be leaving the Bois de Boulogne. I broached the topic of the mirror and how no one had moved it, but he brushed me off like I was a silly girl. “Turn it around, for goodness’ sake,” he said dismissively. So I did. Still, it has made me hate my dressing room, so I’ve begun staying in Sylvie’s.

June 10, 1925

Today Émile sketched more of Esmé’s face detail, so she was sitting close to him. He’d tried to catch me earlier, but I retreated to Sylvie’s dressing room. The sight of them together sent me into a fury. “You cannot just hand him over to her,” said Sylvie, her face sympathetic. “Get out there and fight for him. It is you that he wants, Cecile.”

While I’ve thrown things in my own room and ripped up my own costumes, I don’t know how to fight Esmé. I’m afraid of her. Sylvie was wrong. Everyone wanted Esmé, so there wasn’t much point to fighting for Émile when I’d surely lose.

As I entered the big top, Father was observing Esmé telling Émile a joke that had them both roaring with laughter. “You’re distracted?”

“Non.” I didn’t want Father to know that I cared about Émile or that I was bothered by the camaraderie between them.

“Tell me. Has Esmé gone and stolen your candy?” He motioned over at the painter and his subject, so close they were almost touching.