“Yeah,” said Lara. “Get some sleep; you’ve been on the road.” She smiled, hoping to lighten up the conversation.

He walked toward the door and didn’t look back, not even bothering to shut it behind him.

While Jason had asked why it was Lara who got the message, she didn’t question this. He’d never known about her magic. Like a strange rite of passage, Lara felt as though Todd’s disappearance had set certain events in motion and she was now a conduit to strange happenings. Things were swirling around her and she couldn’t connect them yet, but she had a feeling that nothing was a coincidence—her magic, the disappearances of Todd and Peter. She just didn’t know how all these pieces fit together.

Rattled, she went home and took a long, hot bath, then slid into her sheets. Perched on the edge of her nightstand was Cecile Cabot’s journal, almost beckoning to her. Instinctively, she knew that this diary wasn’t just a random gift. Maybe it held some answers. She reached for it and flipped it open to page one.

Chapter 12: The Journal of Cecile Cabot—Book One

The Journal of Cecile Cabot—Book One

April 3, 1925

Had our mother lived, I know things would have been different. A photo of her sits in the circus’s wardrobe office. It’s a side profile of her, a stage still, but I can tell from it that she has blue eyes like Esmé and me. Her coiled platinum hair resembles mine—a mixture of snow and silver. I cannot tell you how much I cling to this small detail that I resemble our precious mother more than Esmé does. Other than Father, Madame Plutard, Mother’s former costumer, is the only person at the circus who knew her when she was alive. Yet despite her knowledge, Madame Plutard is silent.

The story is that our mother died giving birth to us. Everyone who was there is quite sober about the circumstances, so I fear we were a gruesome birth. Whenever I ask, Madame Plutard looks down at the floor or changes the subject and begins furiously ripping seams from costumes, her wrist flicking as her lips draw a line so firm that words dare not escape. Esmé has never asked. That we are twins shocks most people since there is such a sharp contrast between us. I’m the quiet one. The pensive one. Madame Plutard calls me the shadow twin.

I think she means that I am always following Esmé like a silhouette.

Yesterday after the performance, Esmé and I sat side by side at our matching ivory vanities. She was putting on and taking off makeup. “Who is older?” I asked. “You or me?”

It’s one of those things I’ve always wondered but never asked. There is no doubt in my mind that she knows the answer.