“Émile,” she said, cutting me off. “You have everything.” When she turned to face me, it was not the usual veneer. Her face was gaunt; her eyes glassy and dead. “Why him, too?” Those few words seem to have drained her. Spent, she turned and pushed through the front doors of the circus and into the night.

After Father had sent her away to the White Forest, I’d sworn that I would never harm my sister again. Whether she accepted it or not, we were connected in body and spirt. To see my twin so broken has made my decision easier. I will not be the cause of her suffering any longer.

June 28, 1925

I went to Émile’s apartment. Thankfully, the place was cleaner. He looked at me standing outside the door and pulled me in. “What is wrong?”

From his face, I saw that Émile had hoped that we were reunited so he could focus on things like his canvases again. In the corner there was a new painting, a nude of a woman. While she was not a beautiful woman, he had discovered the spark inside of her and drawn it out and onto his paintbrush. I could only wonder how he had achieved this. He was an artist, after all. If he seduced his models, it was only part of his craft, perfecting it as he did his brushstrokes. While I had come here with the sole intent of saying goodbye to him, it was at this precise moment that I knew for certain my decision was the correct one. Though I’d longed to be, I would never be the woman for him. I could see clearly that, as the years passed, I would become a shell, measuring myself against each model. Without malice, his talent and passion along with their consequences would chisel away at me.

He was wiping brushes, his clothes spotted with errant paint strokes, but he placed them on the table and took my head in his hands, kissing me deeply.

I pulled back. “It’s Esmé.” I found that I could not take my eyes off the painting, the woman’s eyes staring at me in pity.

“What about her?” He believed that he had won me again, making her irrelevant.

“She loves you.” My breath was shallow. As I spoke the words, I knew that I was doing the right thing, yet in my heart, I had never wanted anything more than this man.

“That is ridiculous,” he said, laughing, and yet there was a flicker across his face, perhaps some part of him flattered. To be adored by a beautiful woman such as Esmé was a conquest, whether he loved her or not.

“It’s not possible for us to be together, Émile.”