Sylvie’s face looked tense, always concerned that someone would see us deposited out of thin air into the Bois de Boulogne. From the mist outside, her blond bob had begun to curl. “Cecile,” she called, motioning. “Dépêche-toi!”

I turned back to see Doro, straining for one last peek at the world beyond the gate. Before I emerged on the other side, I saw Sylvie’s breath and knew the April night in Paris would be cold even before I’d stepped onto the grass. I always felt the entrance close before I heard it. And always I’m amazed when I turn to find the door—and the circus—gone, replaced with the stillness of night.

April 6, 1925

Today the performers were buzzing because Father had returned. The best place to find Father was in the gardens. Our circus patrons also love the gardens. They would enter our doors at night and were shocked to find an outdoor setting within the walls, wondering what trick has allowed the sun to still shine. Father says that pacing through the Great Maze gives him clarity, so he can spend days traversing the hedges. As a result of his devotion, the garden was quite fragrant at his request—fresh sprigs of lavender and rosemary mixing with perpetually blooming magnolias and linden trees. As I raced through the meticulously tended shrubberies, I discovered Doro drinking tea with the Crimson Sisters, their red curls shaped into geometric shapes like the surrounding greenery. As if he instinctively knew who I was looking for, he pointed inside to the Grand Promenade, where I could see Father was surveying something intently.

Deep in conversation with Curio, the mortal who serves as the Architect of Rides, he considered the newest creation—a Ferris wheel that went underneath the circus. He frowned and folded up the plans, tossing them back at Curio. Backward and upside down were two concepts that fascinated Father; this ride accomplished both according to Curio, who was hurriedly explaining the features of the ride now being built below us. Neither noticed me standing there.

“It doesn’t travel deep enough,” barked Father, stroking his chin.

Curio’s face twisted like he was sitting on a pin. “But I can’t make it go any deeper, my lord.”

“I can’t see Styx,” said Father through gritted teeth at the mention of his beloved river. “You promised me that I would see Styx. That was the purpose of this ride, Curio.”

“I’ve tried, my lord.” Curio’s face was reddening. “There isn’t enough magic to get that far and hold the circus together. You need to give me more magic.” Just then, Curio did a peculiar thing. As though he’d just discovered me, his gaze traveled to where I stood as if something brilliant had just occurred to him. “Of course,” he exclaimed. “We can use Cecile, too. Why didn’t I think of it sooner. Perhaps there is a way—”