Finally, Émile cracked open the door, just a hair. From the look of horror on his face, it was clear that he had not been expecting me. His face had a conflicted look, like I had interrupted something that he’d wanted in the moment but now was ashamed of.

At least he looked sorry, that was something. A real cad wouldn’t have shown even that much emotion.

“Qu’est-ce?” I heard Esmé call from the bed. I couldn’t see her, but from my angle on the steps, I could see the tangle of bedsheets through the crack in the door.

My eyes met Émile’s. I’m sure I looked frightening with my red, swollen face, but I didn’t care.

“Cecile.” He moved toward me, but I shook my head and placed my finger to my lips.

I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that I’d caught them together. Turning, I continued back down the stairway.

June 24, 1925

Émile never returned to the circus.

I have no idea if Esmé’s painting was ever completed or if they took to working on it at his apartment, away from me.

After last night’s performance, Sylvie and I stopped by the Closerie des Lilas. We’d ceased going to Le Dôme, to avoid seeing him. As we were leaving the café, I heard his voice calling to me from across the street.

“Ignore him.” Sylvie touched my hand protectively. There has been a change in her recently. She was always the third person in our mortal trio, but she has taken greater care with my feelings over my sister’s. This hasn’t always been the case. When we were younger, Sylvie vacillated between Esmé and me, choosing sides and tipping the scales as it suited her. From the memories I have, I know that Sylvie could be fickle. Often, I’d be left out of the maze while she and Esmé played, deciding that I couldn’t follow them for silly reasons. But like her mother, Sylvie was also a political creature. While she has been a friend to me, she is not unaware of my increasing stature within the troupe, and it has tipped her loyalties a bit.

“Cecile.” Émile’s voice was pleading. I heard cars honk as he crossed to me. When he finally caught up to us, he was out of breath from running down the street.

I was stunned by what I saw in front of me. In the two weeks since I had found Esmé in his room, there had been a startling change in him. Dark circles hollowed the area under his eyes. Normally thin, his frame was now skeletal and his clothes hung on him. “Émile? What has happened to you?”

“I have been looking for you,” he said, breathless. “You are not easy to find.”