Light Fantastique (9 page)

Radcliffe's next words cooled him.

“I saw you speaking with the inspector. Do you know him?”

“Not very well,” Johann said. “We encountered each other last summer after the incident at the Louvre.”

“Right, the belladonna poisoning.” Radcliffe had figured out the means, but the culprit was still at large as far as anyone knew. They all had determined it had something to do with the neo-Pythagoreans, a slippery cult. “He recognized you?”

Johann allowed his frustration to tighten his lips into a frown. “Apparently my new coiffure and beard are not enough to deter the observant.”

“You're good at deluding yourself.” Again, that neutral tone, but Radcliffe's words stung.

“Yes, I know you pride yourself on your expertise on all things mind-related. You could have said something before. I could have gone to a barber and had my hair dyed.”

Radcliffe rubbed his own beard. “Short of surgery to change your facial features, I don't know that any disguise would have worked for you. You have a certain way of carrying yourself that makes you easy to pick out.”

“You're not helping.”

“What do you know of the victim of today's stabbing?” Radcliffe asked.

“That's a random change of subject. Nothing, other than it was a man.”

“It was a man of about your height with your coloring and light-colored hair and beard. He also had a certain swagger to him according to the witnesses who had walked behind him for a few blocks. They said he managed to block the sidewalk with his lady friend no matter how hard they tried to get around him, but it wasn't intentional.”

“You're saying that I block sidewalks and am an inconsiderate ass?” But he knew it was partially true—he tended to walk as though he was the only one on the path, and he expected others to get out of the way.

Radcliffe spoke slowly as if laying out the pieces of a puzzle on a table between them. “I'm saying that the murder victim resembled you in some uncanny ways, and your disguise isn't terribly effective, not for those who know you. We also know the Clockwork Guild and the neo-Pythagoreans are not above violence in their means.”

Now the stove couldn't dispel the chill that slithered between Johann's shoulder blades. “So you're thinking the target was me.”

Radcliffe nodded. “And I wonder how comfortable you'd be with bringing this knowledge to the inspector.”

“Not terribly. Madame St. Jean seems to feel he'll cause trouble for her because of her Romany background even though she's a law-abiding citizen.” He shook his head. “Why would she be afraid if she's done nothing wrong?”

“Those who are different become scapegoats in troubling times such as these. So far the city is limping along with what the airships can bring in, but resources will run out eventually, and the people will turn on each other starting with those who they perceive as other. She probably doesn't want to draw attention to herself beyond what she already does.”

Radcliffe stared into space as he talked, and Johann wondered if he spoke from experience.

“Then we should look into things on our own and see if there is another explanation, bring that to the inspector and deter him from looking into those of us at the theatre.”

The doctor produced a piece of paper from his pocket. “I recorded all the witness names I overheard once the gendarmes left as well as what I could remember of their addresses.”

Johann raised his eyebrows and scanned the list. “You have a good memory. There's a lot of detail here.”

Radcliffe shrugged. “It's helpful, but sometimes it's good to forget.”

The water in the kettle boiled, and Radcliffe made the tea. “I'm aware that you have had some liaisons since coming to Paris. Did Madame Cinsault happen to be one of them?”

Johann sighed. “Would you believe me if I told you I didn't know because there have been so many?”

The look Radcliffe gave him said he did believe him although he didn't want to. “Perhaps you should make a list of the ones you can remember dallying with, and we can see if there are any areas of intersection.”

Johann opened his mouth, but he didn't expect the words that came out on a tide of an unfamiliar emotion—regret? “Just please don't tell Mademoiselle St. Jean.”

“For your safety, you probably should, but I will leave that up to your discretion. Now, where do you want to start?”

Johann gazed into his tea. “Do I truly have to reveal all this to you?”

“Do you want to endanger Madame after all she's done for us? And Mademoiselle? There are consequences for not being careful, you know.”

It's because of Mademoiselle that I don't want others to know how wanton I've been.
It was a new experience for him, considering the potential results of his actions. But as reluctant as he was, he knew it was necessary. “Madame LeFleur first caught my eye when she walked by the theatre one rainy Sunday afternoon…”

He thought he heard Radcliffe mumble something like, “And here we go.”

“But it was her daughter, Mademoiselle Elise, who
truly
caught my eye.”

Chapter Ten

Théâtre Bohème, 2 December 1870

Once back in the theatre, Marie shut the door of the dressing room behind her and lit one of the lamps. Someone had cleaned Corinne's things out of there, and so the furniture and dressing table stood bare except for a few lamps and pillows, similar to how it had looked when Marie was the primary occupant of the star's dressing room.

That was long ago, and I have more pressing things to think about.

She lit the other two lamps so that the small room blazed with light. After placing her cloak on a hook by the door, she rolled up her sleeves and walked to the wall of the room that was a mirror.

From where she stood, it looked like an ordinary mirror, somewhat tarnished in places because of its age. She held one of the lamps up close to it, but she didn't see any evidence that it could be a one-way window. Cobb had had one on his airship between his office and the dining room, from where he could watch and listen to his guests after they thought he had retired to his suite, which was directly below his office and accessible via a secret passage behind the closet. He never trusted the Clockwork Guild's listening devices and preferred what he heard with his own ears over inscribed information.

Marie shook her head to dislodge the memory, which highlighted to her that she knew many of Cobb's secrets. It was strange that he'd left her alone, even stranger he'd let her go from his employ, but the oddness of the circumstances hadn't occurred to her before now. She'd been too focused on evading her mother's attempts to force her back on the stage.

“And now I am back on the stage in more ways than one,” she murmured. She examined the edges of the mirror and the wall around it for wood dust, scratches, gaps or any other sign it could be moved and had been recently. There was nothing.

“
Bien
. I was dreaming, then. Zokar's automaton must have wandered off on its own.”

Perturbed at the idea that an automaton could come to life and move on its own but comforted that the mirror couldn't possibly be a door to a secret passage, Marie reached into the pocket of her cloak and extracted the paper that had fallen from the balcony earlier. She saw it was a newspaper clipping with the headline,
“Scientist, Musician Disappear on Continent Under Mysterious Circumstances.”

It was dated two months earlier in October and detailed how brilliant scientist Professor Edward Bailey and talented musician Johann Bledsoe had gone on an expedition funded by an American but hadn't returned. The only connection to their whereabouts, a Miss Iris McTavish, had reappeared briefly for her father's funeral but had remained close-lipped regarding where the young men were, only meeting privately with their families to assure the concerned parents of their sons' safety. Still, the reporter said, some sort of foul play was suspected, and if Miss McTavish were to return without the young men, she would face questioning from the authorities about them and the mysterious death of Lord Jeremy Scott, who had met a tragic end in Italy that summer.

Hiding from Cobb means hiding from everyone. It hardly seems fair.

The sense of entrapment Marie felt when she really considered her circumstances cinched further and made for a too-tight belt around her spirit. Suddenly weak, she sank to the chaise lounge and clutched her stomach, where the invisible belt felt real. She blinked to clear her vision, which had gone foggy, but it only continued to cloud, and the mirror shimmered to her left. She twisted sideways to look at it, but her head lolled back, the muscles in her neck collapsing as the familiar smell filled the room again.

Cobb's tobacco.

She struggled to move, to escape.

“Come now, darlin' don't hurt yourself.” Gentle hands repositioned Marie's head and smoothed her hair back.

“You're no ghost,” she whispered. All she could see was a shadowy form above her. Light gleamed off his face, a metal mask. “Who are you? Zokar's automaton?”

“I'm whoever you need me to be. You were telling me an interesting story earlier today. What happened the next night when you went to meet Cobb for dinner at his hotel?”

Marie's tongue tripped out the story as if it moved on its own accord.

* * * * *

17 May 1868

Marie put her heart into the performance that night because in spite of the complication of having lost her traveling papers—and she suspected she had help in losing them because she knew she'd kept them hidden in a safe place—she intended it to be her last.

It was the closing night of the play as well, which leant a certain energy to the performance. At the end of the play, the audience rose to its feet, stamping and applauding, and she bowed and snatched a rose out of the air on the way up. She held hands with her costar, an older actor named Maurice, who had played the man Marie's character had fallen in love with and become obsessed with, and bowed again. After five curtain calls, she said goodbye to the rest of the cast and made her way to her dressing room, where her mother waited for her.

Instead of looking pleased at the record receipts from the performance, Lucille glowered at the large bouquet of flowers on Marie's dressing table. Mostly hothouse flowers, the bouquet was obviously expensive but still tasteful. Her heart fluttered as her eyes analyzed the contained extravagance of the flowers and design of the vase. Even after only a brief encounter, she recognized Parnaby Cobb's style.

“Who is this from?” Lucille demanded.

“I don't know,
Maman
. They must have arrived during the final act after my last costume change.” Marie hated to disturb the bouquet, but she dug through it until she found a small envelope that contained a card. “It must have slipped down when it was delivered.”

“Or someone didn't want it to be found by anyone but you.”

Marie tried to buy some time by reassembling the bouquet so it looked mostly like it had before. The fragrance of the flowers filled the room with sweetness and a sharp green odor from the crushed leaves. Not able to put it off anymore, Marie opened the card and found only a number—the room where she was to meet Cobb?

“It's from an admirer.”

Lucille held out her hand.

“A secret admirer,” Marie told her and held the card away from her.

Before Lucille could demand anything further, the other actresses from the play rushed into the room
en masse
.

“Marie, you were brilliant!” Janelle, who had played the maid who facilitated the meetings between Marie's ingénue and Maurice's dirty old man, gushed. “You may have to fend off old Maurice's advances after that performance. I think he believes you are truly in love with him. Oh, are those from him?”

Marie snuck a look at Lucille. During the play, Marie had become the ingénue—or she felt like she had—and the words of love she spoke were real in the moment. She was glad the performances were at an end because she could avoid Maurice until everything got back to normal, as it always did except for her feeling like she missed a sliver of her soul.

Corinne, who had played the betrayed wife, sniffed. “They're lovely, but if Maurice could afford those, you need to be paying the rest of us more, Madame.”

She didn't offer a compliment, but she never did. Playing a character jealous of Marie's wouldn't have been too much of a stretch for her. Every time she came into Marie's dressing room, Corinne had some sort of backhanded or sly remark and looked around the room with the air of one who surveyed a piece of property she intended to own. Tonight Marie didn't mind. She didn't care if Corinne moved in the following day because she fully intended not to need the dressing room again. But now she needed to get rid of all of them so she could retrieve her papers and complete her disappearance.

“Thank you all for your kind words,” she said, avoiding looking at Corinne, “but I am exhausted and developing a headache.” And she would soon with all of them whizzing around the flowers like bees or a clockwork butterfly she had once seen. It had moved with more purpose than its natural brethren.

The girls filed out after offering final words of congratulations, leaving Marie with Lucille.

“You are not getting a headache,” Lucille said.

“Is that a command or an observation?”

“Let me see the card that came with the flowers. I doubt Maurice sent them, and there were men in the audience who looked at you like they wanted to be next in line for seduction.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Marie told her. “I was acting. They know that.”

“There is a thin border between acting and perceived intention. I am your mother. It is my duty to protect you.”

“There isn't a name on the card.” There, that wasn't a lie.

“I can see if I recognize the handwriting. Men frequently send letters requesting to meet you.”

“They…what?” This was news to Marie. Were any of them potential suitors? Had Lucille kept her daughter from the possibility of settling into a normal life so she could exploit Marie's talent on the stage?

“You have a wonderful talent, to make people believe what you are, beyond any actress I have ever seen. It's marvelous but could put you in danger.”

More than you know.
“What do the men write to you,
Maman
?”

“I have known others with abilities like yours,” Lucille said. “I have tried to raise you as a normal Parisian girl, but you are different. You need to speak to me of such things.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Again, an evasion. She certainly never felt like she had a normal upbringing. Most girls her age were being trotted out for potential husbands. She was being put on stage, although she had never objected, only wondered. But as for confiding in her mother—absolutely not. Lucille would only want Marie to develop her talents further at the cost of her sanity. That was why she needed to get away, to spend time in an unfamiliar place among people who didn't know her so she could figure out who she was. As young as she was, she was mature enough to know she needed to determine her own identity before she could think about loving someone.

“You can deny all you want, but I know what I see. And you need to give me the card.”

“No.” Marie held it over the flame of one of the lamps until the heat made her drop it. The paper burned and shriveled, but not before the ink ignited and the number stood out in glowing lines like a scrawled address in hell.

“What did it say?” The lamp flames flared, but the rest of the room darkened except for Lucille's eyes, which gathered and reflected the flames.

“I hate it when you do that,” Marie snapped. “Stop trying your witch tricks—you know your illusions don't work on me.”

“You think you are clever, but you're just a stupid headstrong girl.” The lamps and the light returned to normal, and Lucille looked old and tired for the first time Marie could remember.

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Oh, do you? Do you think I don't know what it's like to be young and passionate, to be driven by your desires? It takes more effort than you know to construct your life to minimize the mistakes of the past. I don't want you to suffer like I have.”

“Now you are being dramatic.” Marie grabbed her cloak off the hook. “I'm going for a walk.”

“Don't insult me with your lies. You are going to meet someone.”

“If I am, it's none of your business. I have the right to a normal life,
Maman
.”

Feeling exhilarated with a twinge of guilt at having finally told her mother what she truly wanted, even in a roundabout way, Marie made her way through the theatre and to the side door. She was and wasn't surprised to see a coach waiting there with two matched beautiful gray horses harnessed to it.

“You're Mademoiselle St. Jean?” the coachman asked, his flat American accent coming through his clumsy French, a better calling card than a physical token would have been.

“
Oui
.” In the dim light, the brass accents on the coach glinted rather than shone, but it still gave the vehicle an air of controlled extravagance. When the coachman handed her into it, Marie found the interior to be just as elegant with plush seats, but so dim it took her eyes several moments to adjust, and it was difficult to discern object from shadow, particularly as the coach rolled away.

One of the shadows detached itself from the side of the carriage and put its hand over her mouth before she could scream.