“We’re waiting.” Althacazur was sitting back on the purple throne, chomping popcorn. The scent of burnt oil and fake butter wafted up toward the ceiling. She recalled the entry in Cecile’s diary about the first time she’d leapt. Not exactly knowing what to do next, she pulled down the bar from overhead and jumped from the perch. About ten seconds in, the weight of her body and gravity kicked in and she felt her arms strain. It was not unlike swinging on the monkey bars as a kid. She swung back and caught the perch awkwardly but managed to find her footing. Hoping that would be the end of it, she did a little raise with her hands like figure skaters do to illustrate a finished movement.

“That’s it?” Althacazur had draped himself over the velvet throne. “Tisdale, Cecile… do something before I kill her.”

Lara wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, but she had little doubt that if he wanted to kill her, he could.

The monkey sighed and climbed the ladder easily. He grabbed the bar from her and shook it, then placed it back in her hands. The bar felt warm, like it was now enchanted. What had he just done? Magic? He chirped something, and oddly, Lara understood him.

Don’t fuck this up. He chirp-pointed to the other side and spun with his finger. We’ll all pay. Get over there.

She searched the ring but did not see Cecile. Again, Lara leapt off the perch and saw that another bar was being sent down from the other side. As if her body knew what to do, she left the first bar and somersaulted—yes, somersaulted—into the waiting hands of a man wearing a pink leotard. She swung again back toward the perch and saw that another man was now on the other side. She somersaulted back to his waiting hands. She landed back on the perch and found she was out of breath.

“Well, that didn’t suck.” Althacazur shrugged like some theater director or fucked-up Bob Fosse critiquing her from the front row. He twirled his finger. “Again. Niccolò, give me Villa-Lobos’s Bachianas Brasileiras Number Five. And I don’t care if you don’t like it and it’s not your composition. Play it.” From the orchestra pit came the sounds of strings.