Light Fantastique (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Théâtre Bohème, 5 December 1870

Marie found herself the subject of curious gazes when she reached the backstage area.

“Are you going to be able to perform?” Leigh Sellers asked. “I know all the lines if you're not comfortable.”

Marie allowed the
premiere femme
role to overtake her, but she felt that she held it rather than it grasping her. “Your attempt to sound helpful shows that you're trying to be a good actress, but I'm not going to take you up on your most kind and
generous
offer.”

Leigh humphed and stalked off. Marie glanced around, and the other actors looked away.

“It is good to see you back,” Janelle whispered. “Leigh was sure she would be able to steal your role.”

“She can try, but she won't succeed.”

Throughout rehearsal, Marie felt like the role she played reflected facets of her own personality and experiences. It still tried to overtake her, and she let it to a certain extent, but she did not allow it full control. The only problem—when she struggled with the balance, she forgot her lines. By lunchtime, she was frustrated enough to feel relief when Lucille called for an end to their work for the day.

“Be sure you are prepared tomorrow,” she told Marie.

Marie went to her dressing room to see if the ghost was still lurking about. If not, she would sneak into his lair. She was studying her script when a knock startled her.

“
Entree!
”

The door opened, and Doctor Chadwick Radcliffe walked in.

“They said I would find you here. How are you settling in to the life of the
premiere femme
of the Théâtre Bohème?”

It took a moment for her to process his words. She was startled to see him there, and he just didn't fit in those surroundings. Her mind placed him in the infirmary, not the actors' hall.

“Fine, I suppose. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Although she wasn't sure it was a pleasure. “If you're concerned as to my mental state, I'm fine.”
I think.

“I'll get right to the point so I don't disturb you further.” He gestured to the chair in front of the dressing table, and she nodded for him to take a seat. He settled in and placed his hat on his lap. She noted how precise his movements were, no motion wasted.

“Does this have something to do with Amelie Lafitte?”

He smiled, his teeth white against his skin. “Yes, and we need your help and your talent to move us along.”

Marie shifted to hide the shock of anxiety his words produced, both from the fact she was having difficulty managing her talent and because the way he looked at her and his words at the townhouse made her wonder if he suspected what she could do.

“I'm not sure I follow, Doctor.”

“Maestro Bledsoe and I spoke with Mademoiselle Lafitte. She is quite mad, or seems to be, but her mother said she admires you. We hoped you might be able to reach her mind, find out what happened to her.”

A draught came through the room from somewhere, and Marie pulled her shawl around her shoulders.

“I can go tomorrow. I need to work on my script.”
And find the ghost's lair.

“I would caution you not to wait too long lest the young lady go further into her hysterical state before you can speak with her.”

“And you're sure I can help?”

He gave her a measured look that made her wonder what he really wanted to say. Finally, he told her, “You have certain charms that make you very convincing. I've heard of your talent as an actress, and I look forward to seeing it in the upcoming production.”

“You overestimate my ability. I'm not finding this one as easy.”

The skeptical lift to his eyebrows told her he didn't believe her, and she tilted her head. The motion brought on the sense of a mask molding her face from the inside out, and she found herself back in the character of Marguerite the Spy.

No, no, no, I don't want this right now.

“Are you all right, Mademoiselle?”

“I'm well enough.” Even her voice took on a smoother, huskier tone. “Continue.”

“You know how Inspector Davidson is interested in the theatre, even more now that he is involved in the murder investigations and is curious about what we were doing for Cobb.”

“Yes.”

“You don't want him to poke around too much, however.”

“No, I don't. I don't trust him.”

“Then help us solve this, and perhaps you can also help clear Bledsoe's name.”

The thought intrigued Marie, but she wasn't sure if it was because she truly wanted to find out or if she acted from the impulses of the spy character who seemed determined to inhabit her body at the moment. However, she felt more in control of whatever it was, like she could push it away if she needed.

Perhaps the spirit's concoction or training or whatever is working.

“Very well, I will help you.”

“Good. Please let me know when you think you'll be able to visit her.”

“I'll have a messenger bring a request over today.”

He stood and bowed slightly. “Thank you for your assistance, Mademoiselle.”

She inclined her head, and just before he closed the door, she heard him say, “Uncanny.”

Once he left, she closed her eyes and focused on letting go of the part, visualizing it peeling away from her from her head downward.

“You are improving, Mademoiselle.” The spirit's voice flowed around her, but she thought she could pinpoint the source from—of course—the direction of the mirror.

“Oh, you're still here?”

“Only just returned to check in on you.”

“Then I will bid you
au revoir
. I cannot concentrate on my lines knowing that someone watches me.”

She rose and moved toward the door. The low laugh that followed her made her shoulders tighten.

“You mock me, Monsieur?”

“Try as you might to escape me, you will find that our futures are more intertwined than you may think.”

“I'm not in the habit of responding to vague threats, especially from men who try to manipulate me.”

With that, she exited the room and closed the door behind her. Once in the hallway, she realized she'd for
gotten her script.

I'm not going back in there. This may be a good time to send that message.

The feeling of being watched followed her until she left that floor and ascended to the auditorium level. She only hoped that meant she drew the spirit away from her dressing room and his hideout.

* * * * *

Johann saw Marie skirt along the edge of the auditorium and disappear into the administrative wing, her expression determined. Maestro Fouré inclined his head in that direction. Johann nodded, and when the conductor called a break, he placed his violin in its case and went to search for Marie.

He found her in Lucille's theatre office giving a message to a young man.

“And bring me the reply when you get one,” she told him. He jerked his chin to his chest once and was off.

“What was that about?” Johann asked.

“Doctor Radcliffe asked that I help you with Amelie Lafitte.”

In the watery sunlight coming through the window, her face looked pinched and pale.

“You don't have to. I'm sure the inspector will manage to blunder his way into the relevant information.”

Her laugh brought some color to her cheeks and loosened the tension in his chest.

“He's not so bad. He only wants to do his job, as we all do. Speaking of which…” She stood. “I must go back to my script.”

“Which isn't in here.”

“No, it's not. It's in my dressing room.”

“I'll walk you down.”

She pressed her lips together, but she nodded. “Thank you.”

When they reached the dressing room, she opened the door and said, “Goodbye for now, then.”

“
Au revoir
.” He followed his impulse to lean in and kiss her on the cheek. “Happy studying.”

She shut the door in his face.

He rubbed his nose and shook his head. There was something odd—odder than usual—about her behavior. He walked away but waited at the end of the hall behind a lintel where he could watch for her without her seeing him. After a few minutes, she opened her door, looked around, and went the other way toward the stairs to the basement. He followed her and caught up to her just as she reached the two old set pieces she had paused between on their trip down to the Roma camp.

“Wait,” he said.

She whirled around. “What are you doing here?”

Johann looked at the dark rectangle and the pale determination on Marie's face. There was a spark in her eyes, of the excitement at being on the cusp of an adventure, and he knew there was an answering one in his. “You're not going down there alone. I'm coming too.”

She opened her mouth as though to protest, and he clenched his jaw, ready to argue. She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Johann tried to take the lantern and lead, but Marie held it from him. “I'll go first. I know how these corridors typically go, and this way I can see if it connects to any of the paths I already know. Move quietly, don't speak and listen for the sound of anyone following us.”

“Aye, captain.”

She rolled her eyes but didn't say anything. He followed her into the gloom, which seemed to swallow the lantern light such that they could only see a few feet in front of them.

“Are you sure that light is bright enough?”

“Hush! We mustn't talk lest he hear us. I have no doubt he has ways of listening even though he's supposed to be observing the musicians.”

Johann wanted to ask who
he
was, but he complied with her instructions and kept alert for the sound of anyone following them. After a few twists and turns and a slight climb, the lantern light bounced off a wall of glass.

“Aha,” Marie breathed, then turned to her right. She gestured for him to follow her, and they went through another labyrinth of passages until they came to a dead end and a trap door.

“Help me open it,” she mouthed.

“Are you sure about this?”

She nodded and set the lantern on the floor. They pulled at the door, and it opened slowly. Instead of descending the ladder, Marie shone the lantern into what looked like a workshop. Various mechanical and clockwork parts lay strewn on a table, and Johann caught his breath when he saw two of the steam-powered ravens.

Who is this, and why has he been spying on me?

They looked at each other with astonished expressions that turned to panicked ones when a voice behind them said, “And how do you like my toy shop, Mademoiselle? I warned you to stay away from this man.”

Merde,
he tricke
d me. He wasn't interested in the musicians.

Marie straightened and stood, as did Johann. Now that she could see him more clearly in the lamplight, she took note of the spirit and saw he was solid and not at all ghost-like. Not that this came as a surprise—she'd known he was human. But she was glad to directly confront him directly even if it was at the wrong end of a gun.

A metal mask covered the man's face, but it was topped with a mane of curly dark hair. He wore evening dress and a cape, but instead of black, it was of a material of the sort of color that blended into the shadows. Marie recalled Radcliffe's saying that there had been an inventor Patrick worked with who was working on such a substance but who had gone mad from the chemicals and grief over his lost love and disappeared. Could this be the insane inventor of the Union? And had she met him before with Cobb?

“So you've found the entrance to my workshop,” he said. “And therefore of my humble quarters. You know I cannot allow you to leave now that you know my secrets.”

“You're not a very good ghost if you're going to confirm all the rumors about you. Spirits like you are supposed to be more subtle,” Johann said.

“Ah, and as for you, Maestro, I did tell you to stay away from Mademoiselle.” He gestured with the steam pistol, and the red indicator on the butt made the shadows appear to whirl around him. “You first, Maestro. And don't try anything funny in the workshop.”

Johann preceded Marie down the ladder and then helped her when her dress caught. The spirit climbed down it with the nimbleness of an arachnid, always keeping the gun trained on them.

“As for what to do with the two of you, I shall have to ponder that. Into the chamber with you.”

“The chamber?” Marie asked.

“Yes, I had it built for just such an occasion.” He opened a door on the other side of the workshop and ushered them through before locking it behind them. A chain hung from the ceiling, and Marie pulled it. A bulb illuminated the chamber and gave her the feeling of being in the midst of a crowd, for the room was paneled with mirrors that reflected their images in each direction.

Everywhere Marie turned, she saw her face, but it seemed to her that in each panel, she looked slightly different. In one she appeared confused. In another, angry. In a third, frightened. And in the final one, she swallowed against the paleness, the sense of stark truth that with everything reflected to her externally, she was empty inside.

“Are you all right?” Johann asked.

“It's the mirrors. There's something strange about them.”

“Yes, but look at the bulbs. Or bulb. I think there's just one.” He pointed to it, and Marie recognized the three-tube structure of the ones Cobb used on his train and what he'd had installed in the theatre when he pretended to try to make nice with her mother.

“They're Cobb's,” she whispered into Johann's ear. “The spirit must be his inventor, the one Radcliffe talked about.”

“Now, now, no secrets, Mademoiselle. That's not very entertaining for me.”