At the end of the night, I told Émile that I could get myself home. Despite the intimacy, the evening with him made me feel as though I could never be anything other than alone. Once in the cab, the driver took me back to the empty space. “Are you sure?” The driver looked puzzled; they all do when we ask to be left off in abandoned spaces. “This part is not so safe.”

“It’s fine,” I said. I waited for the cab to leave and found myself standing at the edge of the woods at Bois de Boulogne. The breeze across the trees felt good against my skin and I closed my eyes and thought of the circus door. The door came first, followed by the grand stone steeds that guarded it; finally the round building appeared. I waited for a moment for everything to assemble, and then I walked through the doors that shut tightly behind me.

May 11, 1925

This morning, Sylvie and I went to the markets on the Rue Mouffetard. I saw Émile Giroux there buying tomatoes and my heart leapt. He looked different in the daytime—or perhaps I had just constructed the image of him in my head all wrong. But my heart beat faster and I found myself at a loss for words.

He smiled when he saw me, but he kept his eyes on the produce. “So you can appear in the daylight.”

“Dracula?” This statement hurt me. Was he comparing me to Bram Stoker’s undead count? I considered that it was closer to the truth than he knew.

“I was thinking Cinderella.”

I blushed and looked down at my shoes.

“Picasso was in quite a state the other morning over your sister.”

“Really?” I feigned surprise. The painters always showed up at the last known address of Le Cirque Secret, expecting it to still be there, holding their blank canvases, claiming it was witchcraft. But by then we’d moved on to another part of the city—north to Saint-Denis or nestled in the trees or the Rue Réaumur.

As he handed me an apple, I could see that his hands were stained with aqua and brown paint. I bit into it and felt some of the errant juice drip down my chin. I wiped it.

“After seeing your face, Cecile Cabot, I believe I am done with landscapes forever.”

It now made sense—the weathered look of him—painting hills and lavender and sunflowers. I was about to respond when Sylvie came to show me something: this morning’s edition of Le Figaro.

“Look.” She pointed to the article. “The reporter Jacques Mourier has written an entire article about you.”

“Me?”

Émile scanned the article. “I know Jacques,” he said. “He’s quite influential.”

Sylvie read and summarized: “He’s never seen more artistry displayed than the smooth way you take to the air and slide down the Spanish Web like a silk snake.” She raised her eyebrow.

“That’s some endorsement,” said Émile, his voice almost musical with excitement.