Light Fantastique (11 page)

The knife disappeared, but she knew it was there somewhere. She sought back through the roles she had played. Surely there must be one she could draw on for this situation. Ah, there, Marguerite the Spy from one of her early plays. Never mind that Marguerite was also a femme fatale—Marie didn't need to seduce anyone at the moment, just to escape.

“You have my attention,” she said with a resigned sigh a la Marguerite. “And I am bored with these games. What do you want?”

The seat behind her drew back a couple of inches, and she suspected her new attitude made her captor wary. “Cobb has something of yours that you want back. You know what kind of man he is, or you will soon. I'm looking for something he stole from me as well.”

“That is not my concern, Monsieur. If you want help retrieving an object, then you're better off hiring a thief than an actress.”

A low chuckle. “The rumors about you are true. Let me guess, Marguerite the Spy? The way you speak, it's as if you're her.”

Marie would have been shocked if she hadn't taken on Marguerite to the degree she had. Part of her screamed at her to do anything she could to escape from the man in the carriage, not only because of the knife but because he knew what she could do.

He spoke like a gentleman even though he acted like a thug, and she latched on to that. If she could appeal to his nobler nature… “You have me at a disadvantage, Monsieur. Who are
they
and what have they said about me that makes you think I can help you?”

“That you are capable of not only playing a role but becoming that role even more than the best actress to cross the stage in decades. That you bring crowds to their feet and make men fall in love with you on sight. That you can make anyone believe anything about you.”

“This still doesn't tell me how you think I can aid you or why I should.”

“If you help me retrieve what I've lost, I will aid you with your quest to get what you want from Cobb. Remember, I know what you are, and I might be able to help.”

Marie kept her breathing even over the excitement that warred with caution in her chest. Someone outside the theatre did know who she was and what she could do. And as she'd feared, they wanted her to use her talent in a way she wasn't comfortable with, at least that was what she suspected. Right now she needed it to get out of this situation. What would Marguerite do? Right, get more information for something she could use against her captor.

“How can you help me? It seems you're more in need of me than I am of you. Why else would you hide in the carriage and threaten me?”

“It was the only way to get to you between your mother's watchful eyes—and she has them all over the city—and Cobb's guards. This is the coachman's last day in Cobb's employ, and he owed me a favor. I know these things about Cobb's household and servants. That's how I can help you.”

“I will consider your offer.”

“Then I will leave you with this one caution—you think you're clever enough to avoid becoming ensnared by Cobb, but he collects beautiful and unusual things that he feels he can turn to his purposes. He has no intention of letting you go.”

The carriage slowed, and the strange man slipped out at a corner. Marie leaned back against the seat, but her shoulders wouldn't relax. She knew to sift through the man's words for the grain of truth in what he said, but she was afraid that he'd been accurate in one thing—she was playing a deadly game with Cobb, and her freedom was the prize. It remained to be seen who would hold it in the end.

Chapter Twelve

Théâtre Bohème Townhouse, 3 December 1870

Marie woke to Lucille's cool hand on her forehead and sat upright.

The man in the carriage—I've heard his voice again. Or have I?

The memory faded like fog, and the wisps slipped through her mental fingers. Plus she had other pressing matters to deal with, like where was she? She found herself disrobed and in her bed at the townhouse, although she couldn't recall how she got there or what had happened to her clothing.

Iris stood just behind her mother, and shadows highlighted the dark blue of Iris's eyes.

“What happened?” Marie asked.

Lucille moved her hand from Marie's forehead to under her chin so she could look into Marie's eyes. “It looks like you were drugged with something. Do you remember anything?”

“I was in the dressing room looking for a secret passage, and…” She pulled her head back from her mother's hand. “I just remember dreaming after that. Did I fall asleep? How did I get here?”

Lucille looked at Iris, who shrugged and said, “You came in mumbling about something and went to bed. We couldn't wake you.”

“‘We?'”

“Yes, Doctor Radcliffe and Maestro Bledsoe came to my assistance.”

“Did they help you…?” Marie gestured to her corsetless torso, now only covered by a shift that was thin enough for her aureoles and the dark patch of hair between her thighs to be visible.

“Yes, but I made sure you stayed covered as best I could.”

The thought of the maestro's hands on her made Marie blush and remember their kiss in the theatre.

Too bad I wasn't awake for my disrobing.

“What did you dream?” Lucille asked.

Marie couldn't take the hurt in her mother's eyes that would come if she told her she dreamed of the shame of years ago. Why were these things coming back now? She'd been back at the theatre for months. She also couldn't tell Lucille she'd been to see Zokar.

Oh, right, the automaton. In the dressing room.

But the thoughts slid away from her, and she couldn't make them connect to her state and her dreams. There was only one tangible thing left, the smell of Cobb's pipe tobacco that clung to her hair and what little clothing she had on, and it made her stomach turn.

“I'm going to be ill,” she said. Lucille handed her a chamber pot, more decorative now since the townhouse had been fully plumbed for several years, but nothing came up, either from her stomach or her memory.

There was something else, a man's voice. Why is that important?

“Rest now,” Lucille said. “I cannot give you anything to make you feel better since I don't know what's been done to you. Sleep as best you can.” She smoothed Marie's hair back from her forehead and left.

Iris didn't, however, and took Lucille's place at the edge of the bed.

“Are you sure that's all you remember?” Iris asked. “You can tell me. I know your relationship with Lucille is complicated.”

Marie turned her face toward the window, now dark from what she could see through the gaps between the curtains. “Old shames. I couldn't tell her because I already hurt her badly when it happened.”

“You mean with Cobb.”

She's quick.
“Yes. What happened all those years ago. She doesn't know the truth, but there's no point bringing it all up again. She didn't believe me when I tried to explain it before.”

“What did happen? You've never told me the whole story.”

Marie looked at Iris, who gazed back at her with tired eyes. Their dark blue depths still had an innocence Marie didn't want to sully, particularly since her own had been taken so violently. “I'm too tired now. We'll have to talk later.”

“I understand.” But her tone said she was disappointed, and Marie wished she could take her words back, but then she would be caught in a lie.

“We'll talk sometime,” she promised.

Iris nodded and left Marie to the darkness and her dark thoughts. The irony of the one detail she needed escaping her memory when the rest of them crowded in made her want to weep. She slipped again into sleep.

* * * * *

At orchestra rehearsal later that morning, Johann tried to catch Frederic alone during the first break, but the French violinist evaded him with slippery persistence. About halfway through the practice, Lucille appeared at the back of the auditorium with a tall man who had deep-set eyes and a wild mane of dark hair tinged with gray. He dwarfed the petite Lucille, although she stood straight at her full height. She signaled it was time to stop, so Johann gave the orchestra a break.

“Maestro Bledsoe, this is Hamish Fouré,” Lucille said with a big smile once Johann joined them. “He is the conductor, just in on last night's airship.”

“I apologize for not coming sooner,” Fouré said. “Getting in and out of Paris is unusually complicated these days.” His deep voice had an interesting burr to it, and Johann recognized his accent as Scottish. Although he couldn't remember meeting the man, there was something familiar about him.

“I appreciate you taking the risk to conduct the performance,” Johann told him. “Your dedication to your commitments is admirable.”

“When Lucille told me earlier this year what she planned in honor of Hector and how she wanted to combine the drama of his music and his life, I couldn't say no. We all suffer for our art.”

The way Lucille looked up at the conductor made Johann wonder if there was another reason he'd risked life and limb to come into Paris. “Your name is French but your accent Scottish.”

Fouré dismissed the contradiction with a shrug. “I've lived abroad for many years, and I'm a half-breed. My father was French, my mother Scottish, and I spent most of my time growing up with her family. I only come to Paris for very special reasons.” He looked down at Lucille, and Johann couldn't believe it, but the indomitable woman blushed.

“Well, then, I'll step back and allow you to take your rightful place at the conductor's podium,” Johann said. He caught sight of Frederic standing at the back of the auditorium alone reading a pamphlet. “Excuse me.”

He tried to edge along the side aisle, but the other violinist looked up, and their eyes met. Frederic's lips drew up into a smirk, and he turned and walked out of the theatre. Johann cursed under his breath and followed him.

Damn him, I'm going to make him tell me what he meant. If the Clockwork Guild is watching me, I need to know.

Johann found the theatre lobby empty, but again, the feeling of eyes following him made him pause. He took a deep breath and looked around for the source of the feeling.

Everything has a logical explanation, as Edward and Radcliffe keep saying.

He walked toward the water closets on the far side of the lobby near the cloak room, and the feeling intensified. A breeze blew the curtains nearest him, and he snatched them aside only to be met by a blast of cold air through a broken windowpane. He looked down to see a rock at his feet along with shards of glass. A note was tied to the rock, the scrawled words legible in spite of melted snow—
“Prussian Gypsy go home.”

“Bastards!” Now Frederic stood beside Johann.

Concern for Marie outweighed Johann's anxiety about the Clockwork Guild. “What do you know of this? And were you watching me?”

“This happens every so often.” Frederic gestured to the mess and the rock. “Usually when the people in the neighborhood aren't feeling safe. Lucille ignores them or gives the arrondissement free tickets to the performances.”

“So she placates them so she doesn't have to involve the police.”

“She is a powerful woman, but her influence only goes so far. As for whether I was watching you, I suspect you have encountered our theatre spirit.”

“Now you're joking.”

“He is no joke, Maestro. I heard he scared Corinne off. It's best not to get on his bad side. Things happen.”

“What sorts of things?”

“He will leave notes, and if you do not heed them, then he becomes destructive. There are accidents.” Frederic shrugged as if to say he didn't know how
accidental
the accidents were.

Johann shook his head. “And is he behind this vandalism? The note?”

“
Non
. In fact, the last time something like this happened, those who did it found themselves accidentally in the path of a runaway carriage. One of them lost a leg.”

Johann wondered how his fellow violinist could speak of something so horrible in such a casual manner, which then reminded him of why he came out to the lobby in the first place. “How did you hear of me, and who is looking for me?”

With deliberate movements, Frederic opened and looked at his pocket watch. “I'm sure our conductor is ready for us to resume, and we should tell Madame she will need a new window.”

“Who have you told about me?”

“Oh, no one important.” Frederic turned to face him fully. “And I will continue to keep my mouth shut on one condition.”

“You want to be concertmaster. Fine with me.”

“
Non
, that is not it. As much as it pains me to admit, you have talent. No, my condition is that you stay away from Mademoiselle St. Jean. I fully intend to court her and convince her to stay here in Paris.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked back into the auditorium.

“Well,
merde
,” Johann muttered.

A piece of paper fluttered down from the ceiling, and he looked up to see a shadow disappear into a space between the top of the box office and the ceiling. He picked up the missive that had almost landed on his head and read,
“You have now been warned away from Mademoiselle twice. You had best heed the warnings, lest a fate worse than death befall you.”

He crumpled the note up and put it in his pocket before returning to the auditorium. Again, the feeling of being watched followed him until he passed through the door.

* * * * *

Marie woke to the feeling one has when it has snowed, and the light coming through the window is extra bright, promising that the drab and dreary scenery of yesterday would be smothered in a fresh new layer of beauty. She'd slept soundly and dreamlessly, for which she was thankful. Her head didn't ache, exactly, but the inside of her skull had a strange hollowed-out feeling like something had been scooped from her brain.

When Marie opened her eyes, she saw Iris, who sat at the desk surrounded by piles of paper, a plate with the tail end of a croissant perched atop one of them and a mug beside her. She didn't look bright and fresh. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Are you all right?” Marie asked.

Iris raised her shadowed eyes to Marie and propped her head on one hand. “I should ask you. Do you remember anything?”

“No? Fragments, maybe. You saying you kept me covered while I undressed.” She felt the heat spread over her face, neck and chest at the vague memory of a man's gentle but strong hands supporting her.

A slight smile, which didn't do much to liven Iris's pale face, appeared. “Something like that.”

“Did you sleep at all?” Marie sat and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet found her slippers, and someone had put her robe over the end of the bed. The air had a crisp, cold feeling.
Yes, it must have snowed.
But the window was frosted over, and she couldn't see outside.

“A little here and there. I kept waking to make sure you were breathing.”

“I'm sorry.” Marie couldn't think of what else to say. She felt even less in control of her reality than when a role took over her person.

“You would do the same for me.” A slight lift of Iris's tone on
me
made her statement into a hint of a question.

“I would. I have. In Rome. That morning when I woke, the first thing I noticed was that I couldn't hear you breathing. I thought something horrible had happened to you.”

Marie turned from the distress on Iris's face.

I shouldn't have brought up that morning. But she asked.

She walked to the other window, the one with the window seat, and looked outside. Yes, there was a layer of sparkling white over everything, and she drank in the beauty. Even the gargoyles on the theatre wore little white berets and appeared less fierce.

“Are you hungry?” Iris asked. “It's almost lunchtime.”

Dread pierced Marie's gut. “And then this afternoon, a read-through.”

“Lucille may not make you.”

Marie shook her head. “No, she will. She'll know I'm feeling better. I can't hide anything from her.”

“Then I'll help you dress. Pick out something warm. We're conserving coal.”

Marie looked out of the window again. Less smoke from chimneys than she would have expected streaked the sky. That was the downside of the snow—the cold weather would stretch the city's coal reserves. The beauty of winter might hasten the inevitable rioting in the streets, and then what?

We might all be Prussian by Christmas.