“Thank you, Lara. I appreciate that,” said Marla. “Soon after the incident, he decided, against the advice of everyone, to cut us in two. It was a terrible thing to endure, Cecile. The pain was unbearable.” Marla closed her eyes as her body tremored. “Even with magic, we barely survived. You were the worst. Your screams were so loud that Madame Plutard begged Father to take your pain away. So he did. The problem was that the enchantment required fealty, so one of us had to remember to keep the spell up. From then on, I had to keep the illusion of us inside Le Cirque Secret going. But even I made the grave mistake of forgetting that it was all an enchantment.” Her voice trailed. “Remember when he sent me to the White Forest, Cecile? Oh, of course you do, you tattled on me like some spoiled brat. Do you know what they do to you in the White Forest? There are no illusions there. Dumped off there and separated from you, I crawled on my belly for three days across the forest floor. Defenseless, I had to fend for myself against all kinds of creatures. I ate twigs and sucked on leaves. I recall wondering what I had done to have our Father hate me so much.

“Finally, I got to the gate at Le Palace Noir, thinking I would be safe. I didn’t know then that the other daemons look down on cambions like us, so I was tortured. I endured unspeakable things, until Lucifer found out and put a stop to it. No matter what anyone says about him, I’ll always be grateful to Lucifer. He sent me back to the circus and rebuked Father horribly. Until I’d heard the gossip in the palace, I didn’t know that the other daemons loathe our father.”

“I never forgave myself for what happened to you.” Lara could feel Cecile’s sobs, causing her own heart to race.

“Well, we’re even. I never forgave you, either.” Marla’s voice was hollow. The story had taken its toll on everyone, yet it hadn’t made Cecile more empathetic to her sister.

Lara could feel Cecile’s anger, mixed with shame, heating up inside her. “It wasn’t my fault, Esmé,” spat Cecile. “I didn’t know. It wasn’t my fault that Father placed that unfair burden on you. You cannot blame me for something I didn’t know. And you’re wrong about Émile. Father enchanted the painting so you’d love him. I gave him up for you.”

“You’re wrong,” said Marla. “He would have chosen me, if not for you being pregnant with Margot.”

Marla had walked around behind Ben, and Lara instinctively knew what she was maneuvering to do. She was about to hit him over the head with the shovel. Ben knew it, too, and squirmed and twisted, but inside that hole he was a sitting duck.