He shrugged. “You also have a fragile mortal shell, like an egg. Inside you have magic, that is true, but you are not immortal, sadly.”

I considered his words. “Émile does not know about the baby.”

“That is for the best.”

“If he knew, he’d insist that we be together.”

“I’m afraid,” he said wearily, “that is not possible.”

He continued gazing out at the Styx below. The river and its coal-black waters were the source of his power. This was my world. While I came and went from the circus, I was, in fact, like Doro. A creature of Hell. That I could not be with Émile was the answer that I was expecting, the one that I had known deep inside.

“It is my fault entirely that I brought this painter into the circus. I’m just sorry that you were the unfortunate pawn.”

“What do you mean?” I stared off at the white sandy banks that led to the White Forest.

“I enchanted the paintings.”

“I knew that.”

“While I enchanted them so that anyone who gazes on the three paintings will see what I want them to see, that’s not all I did.”

“What did you do?” My nostrils flared and my voice rose, echoing in the cavern. He had a habit of cruel tricks. Instantly I thought of the bargain that Émile had made with him to secure the commission. Had it included Émile’s soul?

“It’s been dull around here this summer, so I cast a little spell.” He dismissed me with his hand. “It was really nothing. I simply let Émile choose three subjects for his paintings. Each subject would fall in love with him. He painted you; you fell in love with him… Esmé, Sylvie…”

“That’s cruel,” I gasped. “How could you?” Again, my hand fell to my baby. The dates were important. Had my feelings for Émile been enchantments? Had anything about him been real except for the child I was now carrying? “When… when did you do this?” I was sick.

He shrugged. “When I commissioned him, of course.”

I sank back into my chair, recalling the day at the market at Rue Mouffetard when Émile had bought me an apple. That was the very moment that I fell in love with him, before Father had hired him. My feelings for Émile—and his for me—had been genuine.

August 9, 1925

Doro has informed me that Esmé gave Émile a ticket to the circus. To his surprise, the tickets have allowed Émile an unprecedented third visit. I’d prepared myself to see him, but I hadn’t anticipated the scream from her dressing room. At Father’s insistence, Madame Plutard told my sister about my pregnancy. The sound that came from the room was like the wailings of a sick animal.

August 15, 1925

Émile sat in the front row at Saturday’s performance, looking miserable.