Light Fantastique (6 page)

Chapter Six

Théâtre Bohème, 2 December 1870

Johann and the other violinist eyed each other. Johann still held his violin and glanced at the sky to see if it would, indeed, rain.

“What is your relationship to Mademoiselle St. Jean?” the other man asked.

Johann allowed his astonishment to show. “Perhaps we should start with our names and move on to more personal questions after. Proper etiquette and all.”

“I am Frederic LeClerc.” He didn't hold a hand out to shake. “And I am going to marry Mademoiselle. And I know who you are, English swine.”

Johann gestured for LeClerc to follow him so they stood under the canopy of the portico by the side entrance to the theatre. “No sense in getting our instruments wet as we sort this out. How do you know of me?”
I've made it a point not to be known here.

LeClerc shrugged as only the French do. Johann reminded himself to stay patient. “Word gets around, Maestro. Especially when someone with money is curious.”

Now the iciness in Johann's lungs had nothing to do with the chill breeze that heralded the start of a deluge. The sound of sleet mixed with rain made him glad he was under cover, but a sense of being exposed caused him to step behind one of the pillars and out of view of the street.

LeClerc studied him with a shrewd look. “Oh yes,
Monsieur Bledsoe
, someone has been very interested in knowing where to find you.”

“And who would that be?”

Another man ran from the rain and joined them, and Johann prepared to defend himself if necessary.

“Luc,” LeClerc greeted the newcomer with a handshake and spoke in French, which Johann knew well enough to follow. “Where is Martin?”

The new man pulled a clarinet case from under his oilskin cloak. His hair and mustache dripped in spite of his attempt to dress for the weather. “He's on his way. Why are we standing out here?”

“Madame.”

“Ah.” He seemed to accept that as sufficient explanation. “And who is this?”

“Maestro Johann Bledsoe, our new concertmaster.”

Johann cringed against his given name. He'd been using the pseudonym of Harry Sable.

Martin held a hand out, and Johann took it, bracing himself for Martin to say he'd heard of him or reveal some other sign he continued to be in danger of discovery from the Clockwork Guild. But Martin only introduced himself, as did the two men who joined them. When a knot of six or seven of them crowded under the portico, Madame St. Jean emerged and looked them over.

“
Bien,
” she said. “The theatre is clean. Practice can start.”

Johann held back as the others filed in ahead of him. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.

“
Non
, but I'm sure I will soon. Just be careful. And watch out for Frederic.” With that cryptic warning, she disappeared back inside the theatre.

“Oh, I most certainly shall,” Johann murmured. “We have a conversation to finish.”

* * * * *

Iris and Marie walked through the front door of the townhouse just before the rain started. Marie frowned as she shut the door. “I think I see sleet mixed with the rain.”

“Perhaps winter is finally here.” Iris stripped her gloves from her hands.

“You're not leaving those on?”

Iris glanced up at her with an inquisitive look. “Why should I? I've been here long enough that the objects around us don't ask to be touched or read, and I've gotten much better at controlling my…well, whatever it is.”

Lucky girl.
“It's chilly in here.”

“The dining room will be warm enough, and I do believe it's lunchtime. By the way, you should talk to your mother. She might be able to help you.”

Marie followed Iris through the hall and up the stairs to the first level, where the dining room and kitchen were located. “What do you mean? I don't need her help.”

And her help will come with a price, like my staying here and taking the stage for the rest of my life.

“You were talking in your sleep, something about a mask that will consume you from within. It was very poetic, but you sounded frightened.”

“I have nightmares.”
Some of them more real than others.
“It was probably nothing.”

They reached the dining room, and Iris exclaimed, “Edward, you've emerged!”

When Marie entered, she saw Iris embrace Edward, who held her stiffly before melting into her. She looked away and was glad to see she wouldn't be alone with the hopefully reconciling lovebirds. Doctor Chadwick Radcliffe and his friend Patrick O'Connell stood by the sideboard and helped themselves to a light lunch of salted meats, cheeses, bread and pickled vegetables—standard fare since commerce from farms outside the city had slowed to a trickle, and the growing season was long over. Although Marie thought her mother's cellar held plenty of food, she knew many pantries around the city bordered on bare, and soon there would be riots.

“Gentlemen,” Marie said with a nod. Que sera sera
—enjoy the moment while you have it.

The doctor and his friend greeted her, and she moved to join them. A certain energy trembled in the air, of expectation and hope. Marie glanced between the two of them but also took in the details of the room—the damask wallpaper, the sideboard with its chipped corner from where it had been moved clumsily after serving as a piece of a set. And the cocktail server, which had been converted to a tea server due to their English guests, trundled around the room on its little track inlaid in the wooden floor. Marie paused to allow it to pass before standing beside Radcliffe and O'Connell.

“What's new?” O'Connell asked. He held a bottle of some sort of alcohol.

“Looks like something got through on last night's airship.” She gestured to his beverage. “Where's it from? And how did you get it?”

“Stu swore it's from Ireland, but the brew isn't black enough,” O'Connell said. “As for how I got it, don't worry about it.”

Radcliffe snorted. He rarely imbibed but held a snifter with some sort of honey-colored liquid.

“Perhaps I should ask what's new with you.” Marie gestured to Edward, who spoke with Iris in hushed but excited words and then to the two men with their beverages. “This feels like a celebration.”

“We made a breakthrough,” O'Connell told her. “Well, the professor did. We got the mock lighting system to work with the aether. It was disappearing when we tried to inject it in the hydrogen, but he made an adjustment and it worked. Lit up the atelier like a bonfire all morning.”

“Oh, that's incredible!” Marie clapped her hands. Now she stopped the tea server, which had come around again, and opened a side door, where her mother always kept a small bottle of rum. She poured some in a teacup, which she then raised. “Here's to you, then, and the new era for the Théâtre Bohème.”

They raised their glasses to hers, and Edward and Iris joined them. The professor appeared tired and worn, but there was a light in his eyes that had been dulled since the death of Jeremy Scott in Rome. From the look on Iris's face, she noticed it too, and a relieved happiness emanated from her through the special connection she and Marie shared.

Marie's shoulders relaxed a hair, but jealousy braided her lower guts. Not for Edward—goodness, she had no room in her life for neurotic scientists—but that Iris was one step closer to the chance for a normal life with a husband and family.

Marie gazed at the brown liquid in her glass, hating her friendship-betraying thoughts and the circumstances they originated from. She should be happy for Iris and not begrudge her the moment, for she knew there were still challenges ahead.

“Where's Johann?” Edward asked and startled Marie from the dark spiral of her emotions. “He should be here to celebrate with us.”

“Why?” Marie asked. “He's busy. Working. He can celebrate with us later.” She pushed away the sense of relief she'd had that morning when she heard him outside the dressing room, like he could pull her from her strange dreams into this world and anchor her in reality.

“Something he said yesterday was responsible for the breakthrough. His words bounced around in my head and made me see things in a new way.” Edward smiled at Iris. “And then I knew what had to be done, what adjustments to make.”

“He's a good friend,” Iris said.

“Even if he has his faults,” Marie added.

Like being irresponsible and a gambler and putting us all at risk from the Clockwork Guild.
Her mind tripped through her reasons for not liking Bledsoe as smoothly as the tea server moved along its track.

“Right,” Radcliffe said. “So let's toast to Edward and Patrick.”

“And to Marie and Maestro Bledsoe, who will be taking part in the upcoming production,” Iris added.

Marie reluctantly clinked her teacup to the others'.

“So Fantastique is taking the stage again?” Radcliffe asked.

“Not enthusiastically.” Marie tried to ignore the impulse to step into the expected role of
premiere femme
, but her shoulders straightened, and her chin tried to move into a haughty angle.

Her appetite fled.
No, no, no!
She took a gulp of rum and ended up coughing.

“Are you all right?” O'Connell thumped her on the back.

“Uncanny,” Radcliffe said. “You seemed to transform for a moment.”

“And you've been working too hard. Perhaps you should take a break from your makeshift clinic, Doctor.” Marie set her teacup on the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have lines to memorize.”

“Wait,” Edward said. “I wanted to show you the system so you can tell me if you think the quality of the light will work for the stage.”

“Very well.” Marie allowed the others to file out ahead of her and grabbed a couple of cornichons and a piece of rolled-up ham with a thin block of cheese in the center. She ate them on the way up to the atelier and repeated her litany.

My name is Marie St. Jean. I am twenty years old, and I am not going to allow my mother to make me feel badly about my size.

Maestro Bledsoe certainly hadn't seemed to find fault with her shape, not the way his eyes roved over her like—

I am Marie St. Jean, I am not going to allow the way a man looks at me to define me.

Thankfully she reached the top of the stairs before she got in a serious argument with herself. That was the problem with her little sayings—sometimes they conflicted. She didn't want anyone defining her but her, but it was hard to fight through all the messages and expectations, particularly with the strange talent she didn't want to acknowledge.

Marie hadn't been in the atelier since her mother's former renter, an artist who painted portraits of the gargoyles on top of the theatre but with his former lovers' faces, moved out. She saw it had been transformed into a laboratory of sorts, and a replica of part of the theatre's gas lighting system stood in one corner. It looked like a tangle of metal and glass tubes, and Edward started the little steam engine that powered it all.

“Typically a theatre uses hydrogen gas injected with some other gas to control the brightness of the lighting,” he explained.

Marie nodded. Of course she knew that, but she also recognized he spoke for the others' benefit.

“Instead of oxygen, for example, we're injecting aether into the part of the system that illuminates the stage. At this frequency, which I only thought to apply this morning, it spreads quickly and seems to pull more aether out of the existing gas in the tubes.”

Indeed, Marie could barely stand to look at the device, it shone so brightly. “Is there some way to control the brightness?” she asked.

“Yes. This method is much more reliable than the tuning forks I used in—”

The word hung in the air—Rome. A spike of fear and concern stabbed through Marie from Iris, who stood near Edward. Her hand hovered by his shoulder, and confusion showed on her face.

“Than I used before,” he said. The dark stubble on his cheeks gave them an extra haggard appearance, and Marie glanced at Iris, who clasped her hands together.

“Don't worry about me,” Edward said and pried Iris's hands apart before taking them in his.

“But I do.” The tears in her eyes fragmented the reflection of the aether light into sparks.

O'Connell cleared his throat. “The demonstration?”

“Right. If you will assist me, Engineer O'Connell?”

The Irishman increased the amount of coal in the engine, and when he nodded, Edward flipped some switches. The engine sounded like it ran faster, and the hue of the aether changed to a peach-rose color. Now everyone in the room looked younger and less tired, even Radcliffe with his dark skin and Edward with his sun-starved sallowness.

A flapping noise outside the window drew Marie's gaze away from the mesmerizing model, and Edward ran to the windows and pulled the curtains.

“What…?” Iris started to ask, but her question was cut off by a scream from outside.

Chapter Seven

Théâtre Bohème, 2 December 1870

Johann found himself in the role of concertmaster, conductor and cat herder during the rehearsal. Every time he suggested something, Frederic would argue with him about it, and by the end of the first hour, he was sure he'd lost clumps of hair due to pulling on it in frustration. Even worse, Frederic was his stand-mate, which put the Frenchman in an even better position to sabotage him.

“Let's try that passage again,” he said and willed his jaw to unclench. He wouldn't show the little snot how much he'd allowed him to bother him.

He lifted his arm, but an ear-splitting scream punctuated the air before he could draw his bow across the strings.

“What the hell was that?”

“It's a theatre, you idiot.” Frederic's accent didn't make his insult any more charming. “It is expected during rehearsals,
non
? Someone is merely practicing their lines.”

“I'm certain all the women here know how to scream without having to practice.” Johann put his instrument down, and his irritation allowed his tongue to get away with him with, “I've made certain of that myself.”

“I am too much of a gentleman to boast of my conquests,” Frederic replied with a sniff.

“Or you haven't had any,” someone else in the orchestra put in, and the rest of them snickered.

Are sounds of terror so common that no one cares?

Johann left them to their chatting and made his way out of the auditorium to the front hall, where Madame St. Jean stood and peered out of one of the windows. Seeing her relieved him somewhat, for if Marie had been the one to scream, wouldn't she have rushed out there?

“That wasn't part of the show, was it?”

“
Non
, but it sounded like Corinne when she saw the ghost yesterday. There is a certain note to a woman's shriek when she encounters her worst fear in an unexpected place.”

“Is that who you searched for earlier, the ghost?” He joined her at the window. A knot of people gathered around a body on the sidewalk, and a dark figure darted through the crowd. “That's Radcliffe. Someone's hurt.”

“Go see who it is. I dare not show myself.”

Johann frowned, but he didn't argue.

The rain had brought in colder air, and although nothing fell from the sky at that moment, he wished he'd thought to grab his cloak. He rubbed his hands together and approached the gathering crowd on the sidewalk.

“What happened?” he asked in French. The woman next to him gave him a haughty look and moved away, but a small man in dark clothing stepped toward him and spoke eagerly.

“Such a tragedy! Madame and Monsieur were walking along when the man in front of them turned, just there by the gate, and stuck a knife in Monsieur.”

“Is he badly injured?” Johann tried to move forward to see, but the crowd pushed him back, and a few glanced at him with curiosity. Of course he would draw attention with his lack of cloak, hat and gloves.

“He is dead, Monsieur.” The man spoke in a gleeful tone.

“And the murderer?”

“Ran off. Some men gave chase, but he slipped away.”

The dark blue and red uniforms of the gendarmerie appeared amidst the blacks and grays of winter outerwear, and the crowd thinned as though the appearance of the authorities turned the spectacle into a serious occurrence. Johann turned to report back to Madame, but a heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Maestro?” The young man looked familiar in that his features appeared more English than French, and his accent spoke more of school than street. “What are you doing out here in the cold? Surely a man as clever as you could remember to put on his hat and gloves before coming out to see a poor murdered wretch.”

“I'm sorry, do I know you?” Johann breathed into his cupped hands. Now that he thought about it, it was dastardly cold, and the sky spit snow rather than rain.

“I'm Inspector Davidson,” the young man said. “I met you briefly after an incident at the Louvre last summer. As I recall, you were doing something in the fountain.”

“Right. I'd dropped my spectacles.” Johann edged away from him. He had briefly encountered the man after the inspector questioned Iris about the murder of Monsieur Anctil, curator of the Renaissance collections. As Johann recalled, he'd been fishing out one of the little clockwork butterfly spy devices from where he'd knocked it so the sound of its distress whistle would be dampened, quite literally.

“How is Mademoiselle McTavish? She seemed quite the sensible young lady, not one to be permanently affected by having witnessed such a horrible thing as a man's death from poison in front of her.”

Now Johann was halfway up the walk to the theatre entrance, but the man's words made him pause, although he'd said something similar to her at the time. He'd later regretted his harsh words once he got to know her better. “She is quite well. I'll tell her you asked for her. Well, er, I'm sure you're busy.” He gestured to the tearful woman who gave a statement to one of the gendarmes and the mass of clothing that looked like a fallen crow on the sidewalk just beyond the fence.

“Yes, I'm investigating a crime of a rather random nature.” Davidson inclined his head toward the same scene. “And it's the second one I find you at in rather strange circumstances, so I would say I am doing my job.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” Johann told him. “I was inside rehearsing with the rest of the orchestra when I heard the scream.”

“And so you ran from a rehearsal to see what it was? Was the music that boring?”

“There's nothing wrong with the music.”

Johann didn't want to reveal his concerns to the inspector. Besides, what would he tell him, that a ghost had been sighted at the theatre, and they thought he was up to no good? Or that Mademoiselle St. Jean had experienced something strange, apparently having no recollection of leaving her scripts in a trail from the stage to the star's dressing room or locking herself in…with the key.

“I'm afraid I must return to my rehearsal,” Johann said. “If you want me to come to the station and make a statement later, I can. Isn't this out of your jurisdiction?”

“All of Paris is my jurisdiction, as I am the city's chief inspector. And I've been meaning to return to this place, particularly since I was made aware that you and Mademoiselle McTavish are in residence, so I will call on you later.” He touched the rim of his hat and turned to join his colleagues, who now questioned witnesses.

When Johann walked through the theatre door, the warmth almost felt bruising to his cheeks and fingers, but it was nothing compared to Madame St. Jean's clutching his right biceps.

“What did the inspector want?” she asked. She let him go and smoothed her skirts.

I've never seen her this agitated.
“He wanted to know why I was outside in my shirtsleeves in this weather.”

“As long as he does not return,” she said and moved to the nearest window, but she stood behind a curtain.

“Why?”

“I am Romany, and Marie being half-Romany and without a father is another count against us. I pay my taxes and for their silly licenses, but they always watch us.”

“Unfortunately, he's going to return to ask me about what I saw, and I think he may want to talk to Iris. He was the detective on Anctil's murder case, and I suspect it is still unsolved.”

She drew herself up. “Then when he does stop by, I count on you to get rid of him as soon as you are able.”

“What did you see?” Johann asked.

“Nothing, but I'm sure what happened will be in the papers later today.”

Johann tried to make a joke to calm her. “If I'd known this was such a rough neighborhood—”

“It's not, Maestro. And don't forget what you owe me.” She turned and left.

Ah, well, it's not the first time a woman has walked away from me in a huff.

When Johann returned to the auditorium, he found it empty, the other musicians having gone home. His instrument sat where he'd left it, but underneath was a note—
“Do not concern yourself with Mademoiselle St. Jean. She is quite sane. Trust that her guide is watching out for her and leave her be.”

“Her guide?” He looked around, again with that feeling that the skin between his shoulder blades twitched under some sort of scrutiny, but the theatre was empty.

* * * * *

“You did it.” Iris gestured to the fake lighting system, now dark. Edward had hung back when the others ran out to investigate the scream, and she elected to stay with him. “You figured out how to make aether power it.”

“It's not powering it. It's lighting it. Steam is still required to power the motor that directs the gas through the system.” Edward had pleaded exhaustion and now sat at the table and toyed with a small screwdriver. The aether isolation device also stood dark, so the only light came from the flickering gas lamps on the wall. With the curtains drawn, the atelier felt cozy and almost claustrophobic.

“So why can't we open the curtains?” Iris moved toward the window. She half hoped Edward would stand to stop her, at least hold her arm in that gentle way of his.

He's solved his problem, so he can get back to courting me now. Or doesn't he want to?

“This is going to sound crazy. Well, more crazy than usual.” He did stand, and Iris tried not to appear too eager for him to be beside her. He walked past her and peered through a narrow space in the curtains, and she sucked in her stomach to keep her shoulders from obviously slumping around the ache in her chest.

“Is something out there?” She kept her tone neutral.

“A raven, but not a normal one. This one is steam-powered and seems to have some sort of camera inside it. Johann thinks it's a Clockwork Guild invention, but it's not their usual kind of device.”

“You're sure it's steam-powered?”

“We only got a brief glimpse of it. Hopefully we closed the curtains before it took a picture of us or the aether devices, but yes. Johann said it seemed to breathe fire, and I figured it out.”

A year ago, Iris would have dismissed the raven he described as the ravings of a madman who had been working too hard, but that was before she'd become intimately acquainted with the clockwork spy butterflies. She still automatically looked twice at any flash of gold or brass.

With Edward at the window, Iris glanced at the screwdriver he'd been fidgeting with, and the tips of her fingers tingled as it called to her to read it
.
She hesitated. Edward had some sense of what she could do, although she didn't know to what degree he understood what objects told her. Either way, he didn't like it when she invaded his privacy. But he hadn't been talking to her, and she needed to know how he was mentally. The specter of the nervous breakdown he'd had in the past hovered in the back of her mind. She hadn't witnessed it firsthand, but Johann Bledsoe had described it in sufficient detail that she knew she didn't want Edward to have another one.

I'll try one more thing, and if that doesn't work, I'll do it.

“How are you doing?” she asked and joined him at the window. He glanced at her but didn't shift his gaze from outside for more than a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“I've hardly seen you, and I know that's partially my fault—I've been in exams and studying a lot—but I've missed you.” She reminded herself to breathe in the seconds that stretched before his reply.

“I'm all right. Working hard too.”

But have you missed me?
She wasn't going to ask him, lead him along or do all the work for him.
You're such a genius, you figure out how to continue the conversation.

Finally he asked, “And how are you? Do you have your exam results yet?”

All right, that's a start, although I wish he'd said he missed me too.

Lucille's words came back to her—that she would always come second to his work—and she stalked away from the window.

“They went well, I think. They'll post marks at the end of next week.”

Now she stood within reach of the screwdriver.
Has he been thinking of me at all?

He returned to watching for, well, whatever he was worried about. Iris placed a finger on the tool and mentally directed it to tell her what he'd been feeling and thinking. Profound fatigue overlying anxiety—no surprise there—and a resigned feeling of hopelessness and dark expectations.
That's unexpected.
But she couldn't confront him about it, not now that they were talking. Sort of talking. And the only impression of her was of her bright, fake smile. Seeing it from his perspective made her heart collapse into her stomach—she looked like her mother had when humoring her capricious daughter, but Iris could always see the lack of genuineness.

Iris closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. She didn't know what he wanted, what he truly needed.

That's my theme, failing those who love me.

Hands on her upper arms startled her, and she leaned back into him. She tried not to notice that he smelled like he'd been in the laboratory for long hours or to feel the aching tiredness that radiated through his clothing. He must be exhausted if she could feel it from the material, which typically didn't harbor impressions like hard substances did.

“In your studies, have you found anything that might be helpful?”

The frustration in his voice negated the comfort in his hands. “What do you mean?”

He stepped away and gestured to the aether isolation device, which was hooked up to a small engine. “We have the frequency to stabilize it, or rather the range of frequencies and tones in which it will not fade. We're still missing something that will help us convert it to a power source.”