She was about to speak when we were interrupted by the sound of a loud yawn coming from the velvet chaise, where a fat tabby named Hercules watched Esmé’s movements intently. As though I were an afterthought, she focused on the cat and began to pet him. No one would have guessed that Hercules, himself, was resting after his own performance. Along with his feline partner, Dante, a sleek black shorthair, they were the entertainers in Esmé’s cat act. Instead of the majestic lion and hungry black panther they saw bounding around in the center ring, the audience never suspected that what they were actually witnessing were these two fat, pathetic house cats. On Esmé’s command, the two pounced and roared about the stage, dangerously close to their tamer. But like a magician sliding a card into a jacket sleeve, she conjured this illusion entirely. Each night, the audience held their breath as she maneuvered around the ring, never realizing that the thing that she manipulated was them.

And now the thing she manipulated was me. “Esmé? Answer me.”

She frowned, like it pained her to speak. “Because he felt the truth was too horrible for you to bear.”

“What truth?”

There was a knock. Sylvie, our trick rider and Madame Plutard’s daughter, stood in the doorway, clutching her purse. Since she’d been young, Sylvie had tagged around with us, acting as the glue between us as well as the occasional buffer. An expert at reading us, Sylvie knew that she’d stepped into another spat. With Sylvie standing there, I knew that Esmé would never finish the story. While we were all friends, she considered the costumer’s daughter “the help” and never discussed family matters in front of outsiders.

“We’re going to be late. I don’t want to miss Le Dôme tonight,” said Sylvie, tapping her foot. Normally, she preferred the Ritz, but this week the circus had moved to the Bois de Boulogne, so Montparnasse was now closer.

Esmé’s words ringing in my head, I wearily stood up from my chair and began to change into a silk aqua-colored, drop-waisted dress with platinum piping and beading at the hem that I’d draped across the chair. I spied my T-strap heels under Hercules.

“What about you?” Sylvie turned to Esmé, who was making no move toward getting dressed.

“What about me?” My sister’s voice had a raised tone. She was irritated; the coward remark had stung her. I smiled at the thought that my words could affect her as well. How could a shadow hurt anyone?

Sylvie and I exchanged looks, but we knew that despite her petulance, Esmé wouldn’t miss a night out in Montparnasse. This was all an act. She would make us wait, but she would be at the gate when the door opened. “Are you coming?” Sylvie folded her arms.