“And I prefer it that way,” she said, yet the pain in her face was evident. Émile was both the bond between us and the very wedge that divided us.

“Because you knew you’d lose.” I had never hated her the way she’d hated me, but for once, I finally understood and matched her contempt. I didn’t think that this emotion had existed in me until now. “He was never yours, Esmé.”

She seemed wooden and turned rather stiffly before heading back to her room. “And he’ll never be yours again, dear sister.”

July 24, 1926

I haven’t written much. I guess I don’t care to tell my story anymore. My story—my life—has little meaning without him. Tonight is my first night back performing. I know that I don’t look good, but everyone insists that I do.

The last week in February, I went into labor. I languished for two days. From the looks of Madame Plutard, who did her best for me, and even Father, I could tell this was not a good thing. I could see everyone gathered in corners and speaking in hushed tones. At this point, I didn’t care if I died. In fact, I think I preferred it. The pain was unlike anything before, as though I were splitting in two. There was something about giving birth to this child. As the child grew inside me, I could feel my own essence draining. This baby is powerful, but it has weakened me. Through my haze, I asked for Sylvie. She looked fresh and crisp, in her white outfit. By contrast, I was soaked through with sweat and sitting in my own urine.

“Promise me that if I die, you will take my child away from here.”

“You aren’t—”

But I could read her. I saw the tightening around her eyes and I knew she was lying. I had just told the same lies to Émile months ago. I knew them well. I don’t fear death. I don’t know where our kind, cambions, go, but my hope is that it is near him. I’d love to see him again. “If I die and my baby lives you must promise me that you won’t let her raise my child. Promise me, Sylvie. She will not raise his baby!”

“I promise.”

But I lived. And so did my daughter. I named her Margot, which was Émile’s mother’s name. She was perfect: wiggly, pink, healthy, and screaming.