Esmé turned to me with a coy smile then sharply inhaled, like she was honing her reply. “I am. Why on earth would you ever think that you would be older?” Through her mirror she glared at me, a measure of disbelief at my apparent stupidity. Immediately she began busying herself, opening gold tops on ornate crystal bottles, dabbing things at her neck and face with a fury before finally emerging from this frenzy to steadily apply her lipstick—a garnet shade, nearly black—to her small, full lips. She smacked them and ground them together, then cocked her head and ran a nail along her upper lip to correct the errant border.

“I don’t know why you’re always so mean,” I said, sighing and pulling my long hair from its pins, then pulling it forward and picking at it before brushing the long silver strands.

She turned her body toward me, the nude bodysuit with black webbed piping she wore doing little to hide what was underneath. “No one wants to tell you, so I will. You shouldn’t even exist, you know. You are like an extra arm. Unnecessary.” She reached over to her vanity and handed me a tube of lipstick. “Here,” she said, holding the exquisite piped metal case out in her hand. “You need it.” Turning back to her mirror, she dabbed at her brows with a lace handkerchief. “I don’t even know why you have a vanity in my dressing room. It’s not like you have an act.”

Stung by her comment, I had no retort, so I leaned into my own mirror, busying my hands and studying my pale face. She wasn’t wrong. I was the only person in the circus without something to do, other than being “his” daughter. All my life—well, all of the life that I can remember—my sister has been tossing these barbs at me, hinting she knows more. In my heart, I have come to believe what she says: I am nothing. No wonder I lurk in the shadows.

“You still don’t remember, do you?” She brushed her silky hair, making the dark bob line up with her chin.