Esmé stood and pulled on her stockings and then slid on a black lace dress with a bow at the shoulder. She frowned and pulled the entire thing off, rolling it into a ball on the chair, and grabbed a blush dress with an aqua bow at the hip. Turning, she frowned and slid the dress off, kicking it under the chair. Next she grabbed a plain beige-and-black lace dress. Sylvie and I held our breaths, hoping this one would stay, but soon it was discarded for an elaborate tulle and gold-beaded dress with a small train that brushed the back of her calves. It was a new creation that Madame Plutard had made especially for Esmé, her muse.

Madame Plutard loved contrast and texture, and often our performers resembled desserts. Last night, Esmé was dressed in her newest costume—a gold military jacket with tails. Her wardrobe featured bold shades of gold and red. As Esmé rushed around the room, she passed the dressmaker’s form that had been fitted with her newest costume: a blood-red brocade jacket with gold-and-black shoulder epaulets made of peacock feathers. I had no costumes because, as my sister rightly pointed out, I was the only person in this circus without an act.

All of the performers in our circus were once famous. They’ve chosen to be here to serve out their punishment. While this circus is a prison for them, from the looks on their faces, they are still grateful, so some prisons must be better than others.

As we approached the door, I spotted Doro, the clown. It was always heartbreaking when he stood so near the entrance, so I hung back to wave to him. It wasn’t a chance meeting: He always seemed to know when we were about to leave for the evening and positioned himself near the door for one glimpse at the world beyond these walls. None of the performers could leave. This was a peculiarity of our circus. As we are full or part mortal, Esmé, Sylvie, and I can come and go freely. Oddly, Madame Plutard, although living, shows no interest in leaving.

“I have no need for the outside world,” she often says, irritated at us as we prod her to go to the markets or the gardens.

Knowing it’s futile, we’ve stopped inviting her, leaving her to her sewing.

As the entrance opened—its shape resembling the large mouth of the Devil—Sylvie and Esmé started through, but I stood at the mouth. Despite the fact that I could see Esmé’s hands folded in disgust on the other side, I held the door open just a beat longer.

“Come on, Cecile.” That she made Sylvie and me wait while she dressed then undressed into four outfits was now a distant memory to my sister.