“We’ve all suffered so much.” Cecile’s jaw clenched and she pulled Margot toward her. Then she took Lara’s hand. As the three of them held on to one another, Lara could feel the powerful magic flowing through the three of them, buoying her for battle.

Chapter 26

They took a cab down the Rue de Rivoli and turned up a narrow street that had a courtyard and an older building. A neon sign read:

Le Cirque de Fragonard Performance Tonight

Ben, Barrow, and Gaston found the employee entrance open, but the box office was shut tight. Inside, a tall man with suspenders leaned against the building smoking a cigarette. Barrow took the lead. “Is the manager in?”

“That depends,” said the man. “What do you want him for?”

“What do you care?” Gaston seemed irritated at the man’s tone.

The man shrugged, seemingly realizing he was outnumbered, and directed them back to a hallway through the open door. The three men heard sounds of horses snorting and a gait of a trot. Two men were shouting “Allez.”

A door was cracked open, and Barrow knocked.

“Entrez,” said a voice.

The three men found their way into a cramped, windowless office with circus memorabilia covering the walls.

“We are looking for the manager?”

“I am the owner,” corrected the man in impeccable English. He was an older man with a shock of graying hair and small reading glasses. A tiny light illuminated the office, which was filled with a smoky gray haze as the owner sat smoking a short brown cigarette.

“I am Edward Barrow of the Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art. These are my colleagues from les États-Unis. A few days ago, another colleague of ours was shown a painting here.”

“That is impossible.” The man leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

“Pourquoi?”

The man shrugged. “I just returned from Rome yesterday. The circus only reopened this morning.” He paused when Barrow didn’t seem to believe him. “It’s expensive to keep a place like this cool in the summer. No one was here.”

“Are you sure?” Gaston was looking around at the paintings. “No one was cleaning?”

“Quite sure,” said the man. “There is no cleaning crew here when we’re not here. The place has been closed tight since April.” The man ran his hand over the bookshelf beside him and held out his hand—a thick layer of dust coated his fingers. “See, no janitor.”

“This painting that our colleague saw,” said Gaston. “It is a painting of Cecile Cabot.”

The man nodded and pointed nonchalantly to the wall. “Oui.”