Cinderella Six Feet Under (26 page)

His back was to the footman automaton. The footman had somehow turned around on its wheels so it was just behind Penrose, holding its champagne bottle high.

Ophelia screamed. It came out like a rasp.

The bottle came down with a sickening crunch on Penrose's skull. He collapsed.

Ophelia staggered forward, away from that sickly puffing smoke, around the clawing, snapping bear. But she reeled too close to the bear and its claws sliced into her shoulder. Pain sang out like a soprano. “Get off, you monster!” she yelled. She shoved the bear over and it crashed to the floor. She crouched down beside the professor.

He was half upright already, blinking and coughing, with some kind of parcel clasped against his chest. He gave her a crooked smile. “I sincerely regret unveiling this lot,” he said.

“The stomacher. You've found it!” Ophelia said. The smoke was dissipating. She could think more clearly now.

“Put that down,” someone said behind her, “or I shall shoot.”

Penrose sprang to his feet. Ophelia twisted around.

A slim form was silhouetted in the workshop doorway: legs bowed, back hunched, a large revolver aimed at Penrose.

The figure prowled closer. The hand holding the gun shook a little.

“Colifichet,” Ophelia whispered.

“Don't be foolish, Colifichet,” Penrose called. “Put the gun aside.”

“I am quite aware, Lord Harrington, that you are accustomed to giving orders. But the Revolution has come and gone in France, and I need not do as you say. And, in point of fact, you must do what
I
say.” Colifichet adjusted his grip on the gun. “The police are already on their way. Pierre told me you would be here, you see. He is a loyal lad. Now just put that parcel aside like a good boy—
oui
?—and no one will be shot.”

Penrose looked at Colifichet. He looked down at the parcel in his hands and tore off the paper.

“Stop!” Colifichet cried.

“What in hell?” Penrose muttered. He held up, not a diamond stomacher, but a white, rectangular piece of cloth. One of the diapers from the clothesline in the courtyard. Penrose threw it aside.

“Fitting, given your childish meddling,
non
?” Colifichet said. “I shall shoot the girl, first, mmn?” He took aim.

Penrose lunged in front of Ophelia.

BANG
.

Ophelia screamed. Penrose was sprawled facedown on the floor.

“Professor!” Ophelia cried.

Penrose rose to his knees, but something dark was streaming down his cheek. He reached inside his jacket. He stood.

“
Pardonnez-moi
,” Colifichet said. “I had meant to get the girl—who is she, anyway?” He aimed again.

Penrose aimed the revolver he'd drawn from his jacket. “Put it down, Colifichet.”

“I told you that I do not take orders fr—”

In four long strides Penrose had crossed the room and collared Colifichet with one hand. With his other hand, he pressed his revolver to Colifichet's temple. He shoved him against a workbench. Table legs screeched and tools clattered to the floor. “Where is the marquise's daughter, Colifichet?”

“You will not get away with this, you—”

“Where is she?”
Penrose twisted his collar.

Colifichet choked for air.

Ophelia's mouth hung open. She had never seen or heard Penrose like this.

“I told you,” Colifichet said, “I do not know of the gi—”

“And the stomacher?”

“The police will—”

“The stomacher
.”
Penrose pressed the pistol barrel deeper into Colifichet's temple.

“I know not! I know not! I only came here tonight because Pierre said you meant to break in and steal my work.”

“Why would I wish to steal your work?” Penrose growled. “Toys and trinkets are not to my taste.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Miss Flax. Go, by way of the courtyard.”

“But I—”

“Go!”

Ophelia decided it was best, for once, not to argue with the professor. Some fellows transformed into frogs, but he had somehow transformed into a beast.

G
abriel wished for nothing more than to extract a full and detailed report from Colifichet. The little weasel knew more about the stomacher. He
had
to know more; he'd dressed that frightful little music box doll in a tiny stomacher.

But there was no time.

Penrose swiped Colifichet's pistol from his trembling hand, removed his own pistol from Colifichet's temple, and dashed after Miss Flax.

“You will not get away with this!” Colifichet screamed.

Gabriel and Miss Flax's hired carriage raced past the darkened front of Colifichet & Fils. A police wagon was just rolling to a stop, two horses prancing, and four gendarmes piled out.

And then their carriage had passed.

*   *   *

Ophelia glanced out
of the corner of her eye at the professor, bumping along on the carriage seat beside her. She felt a little wary of him after his beastly performance with Colifichet.

Penrose touched the side of his head and winced.

“Oh!” she said. “I'd clean forgotten he'd shot you. Allow me to look.”

“It's only my ear.” Penrose dug his handkerchief from his jacket and held it over his ear.

“But it's bleeding all
over
—look at your collar! Are you certain it's only your ear? We ought to find a doctor—did you say they'd call a doctor to your hotel? Come on, turn your head so I might see.”

Penrose turned his head to the side. Ophelia leaned close and peered through the dim light. “Merciful heavens. It
is
only your ear—but the bullet has removed a bit at the top.”

“One doesn't really have need for a complete ear.” Penrose turned his head. Now their faces were merely inches apart. His eyes shone, dark and liquid. “Does one?”

“Well, that depends upon lots of things.” Ophelia swallowed. “On the style of hats one favors, to begin with.”

“I have never owned, and never shall own, one of those fur monstrosities with the ear flaps.”

“Well then, there is also the consideration of music.”

“Music?” Penrose touched Ophelia's cheek with a gentle pressure that seemed, more than anything else, curious. He left his fingertips there.

“Well, yes, because if one were inclined to attend the symphony, perhaps having one's ear not all of a piece might interfere with the quality of the sound.”

“I have attended the symphony on occasion, but I am not so much a connoisseur that a missing bit of ear would make a difference. In fact, I once had a piano instructor, as a small boy, who informed me that I have a tin ear.”

“If you had a tin ear, this would not have happened.”

“I am rather glad that it has.” Penrose's hand slid to the back of Ophelia's neck.

Time seemed to float. The knocking and clatter of the carriage receded. Here they were at the center of things, with every detail sharpened into more-than-real: the half-hidden glow of the professor's eyes, the white of the handkerchief still pressed against his ear, the weight of his hand at Ophelia's neck, her own breathing, his curved mouth so very close to her own. And the peculiar urge—no,
longing
—to simply get closer to him in order to understand what exactly made him, well . . .
himself
.

So Ophelia did what she fancied she'd never, ever do. She leaned in the last couple of inches and touched her lips to his.

When that snoozing Beauty of the fairy story was roused by the kiss of Prince Charming, his lips broke through all the languor, dreaming, stiff joints, and crusted eyes of one hundred years. Ophelia had never liked that tale. It had seemed laughable to think that a simple kiss could carry so much weight. But then, she'd never had a kiss. Not a
real
one, anyway, one not rehearsed with greasepainted and booming actors who, as they kissed her, were surely pondering what to eat for supper.

In the brief moment—three seconds at the most—during which their lips touched, understanding gleamed.
This
was what everyone was always going on about! This—what was it?

Penrose drew away. “I must not,” he murmured.

“Oh. Right.”
Miss Ivy Banks
. “I—well, I beg your pardon, Professor Penrose.” Ophelia edged away down the carriage seat.

“No, I beg
your
pardon. The blame falls entirely upon my shoulders. I should not have taken such liberties, and I assure you it shan't happen again.” Penrose turned away to look out the window.

The few minutes it took to reach the hotel were just about the longest of Ophelia's life.

*   *   *

Later, Ophelia lay
curled in a tight ball on the grand four-poster bed. On the floor beside the bed, the turtle swam gently in the washbasin of water Ophelia had set down for him. She'd propped the Baedeker and a cushion against the washbasin as a sort of stairway for the turtle to get in and out.

The smooth bed linens smelled of laundry soap, starch, and geraniums. Ophelia's toe throbbed quietly. The deep scratches the mechanical bear had made on her shoulder were red and stingy, but nothing serious. She'd washed them with soap and water and applied calendula flower salve.

If one could not be on speaking terms with one's self, well, that's what she was right now. She'd kissed another lady's betrothed. And now she lay in this impossibly plushy hotel suite that had been paid for by that same man, which made her . . . what?

Well, it made her one more actress kept in luxury like a pampered cat.

They were looking for Prue, she kept reminding herself. Prue and Henrietta. But the reminding didn't help, because there was that confounded kiss. Her mind wished to roost on the memory, to nestle into it, to return to it again and again like a bird flying home.

It took hours to fall asleep.

*   *   *

The whole caboodle
of nuns walked two blocks to mass every morning. Prue had no choice but to go along with them. They walked in a line like ants, eyes cast down to the paving stones. Prue was accustomed to having fellers stare at her on the street. Staying invisible in her borrowed nun's habit was a relief.

The church was big and blocky, with huge red doors. Inside, incense swirled through air stained red by the windows. Sad-eyed Mary statues gazed down, oversized baby Jesuses on their hips. Off to one side, hundreds of candles flickered on brass stands.

The nuns silently filed into pews. At the back, Prue copied what the other nuns did and knelt, but she wasn't sure what came next. She'd never really been to church before.

“
Psst
,” someone said behind her, just as she was folding her hands.

She tried to ignore it.

“Miss Prudence.”

Prue swiveled around. Dalziel stood halfway behind a huge marble pillar to the back of the pews. He crooked a finger.

Prue glanced around at the nuns. All busy praying. She hoisted herself off the kneeler and tiptoed over to Dalziel. “What in tarnation are you doing here?” she whispered. “How did you find me?”

“You forget that I was present when Sister Alphonsine told you of the pensionnat.”

“Oh. Right. Well I can't talk now. We're churching.”

“You must come with me.”

“Not on your nelly!”

“Miss Prudence, please listen to me. I am the only soul in all of Paris who knows where you are.”

“That's the notion, clever-boots.”

“But I feel responsible for you. And you must leave this place. You aren't a nun.”

“I could be if I set my mind to it.”

“Miss Prudence!”

“I thought you wished for me to be safe. I'm safe with the nuns, so why would I leave them?”

Dalziel didn't answer at once, but his aching eyes said it all. He wanted to take Prue away from the nuns because he wanted her for himself.

Prue knew what Ma would say:
Splendid work, sugarplum! Now reel him in! Easy does it—don't allow him to slip the hook
.

“If you stay with me, Miss Prudence, I shall take care of you,” Dalziel said. “You require someone to take care of you.”

Prue thought of Hansel.
He
didn't seem to reckon she required care. She stole a glance at the nuns, black domed shapes in rows. “Will you help me go to my friend, Ophelia? Take me in a closed carriage, maybe? I've been trying to figure how to get hold of her without being seen or having some spy of a messenger boy read my note—not that I've got any money for a messenger boy, anyway, and I'm not sure if I could find the Malbert mansion again even if I tried—”

“Yes.”

Prue sighed with relief. “Then let's go.”

*   *   *

Ophelia dressed that
morning in her Mrs. Brand disguise. The bombazine gown was, of course, the only one she had at this point. She'd stitched up the rip the mechanical bear had made the best she could, with a needle and thread from her theatrical case. But she didn't
need
to wear the Mrs. Brand cosmetics. She was no longer camped out at Hôtel Malbert.

“And anyway,” she said to the turtle, “everyone and their grandma seems to have caught on to my disguises.”

The turtle munched lettuce on the rug.

The real reason Ophelia was wearing the complete Mrs. Brand disguise was that she required something to hide behind after that shameful kiss in the carriage last night.

She went down to the front desk in the lobby and somehow made it understood that there was a small turtle occupying her suite, and that neither he nor his washbasin were to be disturbed.

The clerk smiled and nodded, but as Ophelia was marching away he muttered, “
Dame folle
.”

Didn't sound too flattering.

Penrose's eyes widened when Ophelia plopped down in the chair opposite his in the hotel dining room. He set aside the newspaper he'd been reading. He looked clean and pressed and combed, and he had a plaster on the top of one of his ears.

“Seems like we're back to square one again,” Ophelia said.

“Square one? What do you—ah. You refer to the stomacher. To Miss Bright.”

“What else could I be referring to?” Ophelia knew
exactly
what else she could be referring to, but she'd made up her mind to pretend it had never happened. “This is a fine scenario, isn't it? Here we are dining in a hoity-toity hotel while Prue and her mother are who knows where, and a mad velocipede rider might pedal in at any moment, bandying a revolver about, or the police might come rushing in to arrest me, supposing Malbert—or Madame Fayette or that nasty lawyer—told them I'm an impostor, or the police might come for
you
, Professor, after our interlude in Colifichet's workshop last night—”

“We will tend to each obstacle as it arises.”

How could he be so calm?

“I have given it some thought,” Penrose said, “and I feel I must visit the lawyer Cherrien again. Alone. Perhaps at his home.”

“You mean to squeeze something out of him?”

“No one is talking—or if they do, I fancy they're lying. The police are useless. Yet Henrietta and Miss Bright are still missing, and learning the identity of Cherrien's client seems to be the key to it all. By the way . . . Mrs. Brand again?”

“Would you please pass the butter?”

“You needn't keep yourself in such a state of discomfort.”

“One never knows who one might meet.” Ophelia's eyes fell on a large form lumbering towards them. “You see?”

“Lord Harrington!” the Count de Griffe said.

Penrose stood. “Please, join my aunt and me,” he said to Griffe. He threw Ophelia a dark look.

Ophelia took Griffe's proffered hand. “Count! How delightful to meet you again.”

“And you,
madame
.” Griffe kissed her hand. “I trust that you have not met with any more trials
dangereux
since we last met at the exhibition hall, eh?” He pulled up a chair.

“No, thank heavens. When I told my niece, Miss Stonewall—”

Penrose stirred his coffee noisily.

“—how you had rescued me, Count, she was most captivated. She thinks highly of you, very highly indeed.”

“That is flattering,
madame
, for your niece is a sparkling diamond, a rare flower, among women.” Griffe cleared his throat. “What did she say about me?”

“Oh, it has simply flown from my mind. My memory, dear young man, is not what it once was.”

Penrose took a loud sip of coffee.

Griffe studied Ophelia's face. She prayed her cosmetic crinkles were holding up.

“
Madame
,” Griffe said, “they say that when one regards a young lady's elder kinswomen, one peers, as into an enchanted mirror, into the future. It seems that Mademoiselle Stonewall's future is bright.” His voice dropped a half octave. “Even, may I say,
très belle
.”

Penrose's cup clattered in its saucer.