City of Ash (63 page)

And then … Ginny. She was the only one who really knew what had happened, who knew what we’d done, though we never spoke of it, and sometimes it was hard to look at her and see myself in her eyes, and sometimes I couldn’t look away, and the connection to her was so strong it felt as if we’d somehow been woven together, and I was surprised that it wasn’t a feeling I wanted to go away.

Strange, isn’t it, how things come back to haunt you? The
little ironies God or whoever keeps in store to abuse you with when you least expect it? Because I hadn’t liked her and she hadn’t liked me and yet here we were, and it was because of her that I had everything I’d wished for.

Well … didn’t I?

Geneva

S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON
S
TATE
, M
ARCH
1890

I
could not take my eyes from her. Such pure perfection she was; such restrained sorrow and rage as she trod the boards of the rebuilt Phoenix, as she raised her dark eyes to the heavens and swore vengeance for her sister’s death. Every gaze in the house was fixed upon her, rapt, captivated, there was hardly a breath that could be heard. Even the gallery gods were so quiet one barely remembered they were there, and someone hushed the lozenge boy before he could say the first words of his sales patter.

The audiences had been this way every night since
Penelope Justis, or Revenge of the Spirit
had opened, and I had not missed a single performance. I had helped her sew the deep blue gown she wore—the finest velvet we could find—and she had laughed at the gold embroidery I’d paid a dressmaker to embellish it with and said it was fit for a queen rather than the baker’s daughter that was Penelope Justis. But she’d worn it, and I’d seen the lilt of pride that came into her face and was glad to have put it there.

The crowds came because of the notoriety; as they took their seats, I never failed to hear someone comment how closely the play was said to mirror reality, though of course they could not know how deep the resemblance truly went. They came for that, but they stayed because of her. Because she brought Penelope alive, and there was no one still caring about Nathan Langley when it was over, and I took as much satisfaction from that as she did.

I remembered the first time I’d seen her, playing Pure Polly’s sister in
Black Jack, the Bandit King of the Border
. It was the night that had started all the others; the night Nathan had seen her and realized how she could be of use to him. But more than that, it was the night that I recognized her, the night I somehow knew to mark her, and that was what I could not forget. A year ago now, but it seemed a hundred years since I’d known her. I hardly remembered a time when she was not in my life, or when I did not spend the afternoons after rehearsal with her in quiet companionship, or watch her sparkle as she circulated among the friends who came nightly to our house—the company, of course, and whatever artist or writer or actor happened to be in town and one or two members of society—the Readings, of course, and, to my surprise, Mrs. Orion Denny, who’d been drawn by the genius of Sebastian DeWitt’s play and turned out to be rather a kindred spirit. But these were not salons. What need had I of salons, when I had friends to talk and laugh with? When I had Bea?

Tonight, as always, when Barnabus shot Penelope and then himself—and Aloysius Metairie had never met a death scene he didn’t love—the audience exploded in a riot of applause and
Bravos
, leaping to their feet, requiring curtain call after curtain call. I left my seat then, pushing past those still standing, making my way past the salon and down the steps and out into a night heavy with the smell of construction—dirt and brick and stone—even through the rain. I dodged in through the backstage door, pressing myself against the wall to stay out of the way of the stagehands, most of whom gave me a quick smile. I heard the applause still, reverberating to backstage, but there came Susan
down the stairs, and then Brody, both sweating but looking supremely satisfied, and Mrs. Chace red-faced and waddling, and Mr. Galloway with his perpetual limp from the damage done to his back by the fire. Then Aloys, who stopped and smiled at me, raising a dark brow in question, and I said,

“More perfect than any night before. You do know how to die, sir.”

“Did you like the twitch at the end? Or did you think it too much?”

“It could not have been better.”

“You are the perfect patron, Ginny.” He took my hand, bending over it with a deep bow. “Always complimentary.”

“And never stinting on the money,” I teased.

“For God’s sake, move out of the way, Aloys,” came Jack’s voice. “You’ve garnered enough compliments. Now it’s time for mine.” And then he was pushing past Aloysius, swooping me into his arms. “Well, Ginny? Was I not perfection itself?”

“Your head’s too big for me to get around, Jack,” Bea said wryly from behind him. “Will you move or do I have to deflate it?”

He let me go with a smile. “Careful, Bea. You’ll spoil our patroness’s good opinion of me.”

“You needn’t worry over that, Jack, as she has no good opinion to spoil,” she retorted.

I laughed. “We’ll argue about it over absinthe. Where’s Lucius?”

“In his office, I believe, going over receipts,” Jack said.

“Tell him to come tonight, would you please? I’d like to discuss a set change with him.”

The others went off, and Bea came to stand beside me, leaning against the wall. She went quiet, a little too thoughtful, that thoughtfulness I couldn’t bear.

“It was wonderful tonight,” I said fervently.

“You say that every night.”

“It’s always true. It’s a lovely play. And you’re perfect in it.”

“Because it was written for me,” she said, and then, among the chaos of stagehands and dressers and supernumeraries, she said quietly, “It reminds me.”

She surprised me; we did not usually speak of it. “I know. But we’ve made him famous. There isn’t anyone in Seattle who doesn’t know his name.”

She said nothing. Then a sigh, and she squeezed my hand and pushed from the wall. “You know, as much as I love this dress, I’m dying to be out of it. I won’t be long. Don’t let Jack talk you into going ahead. I don’t care if he insists he’ll leave some absinthe for me.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

I watched her as she went down the hall to her dressing room, feeling the race of her heart as if it were my own. Once she was there, she paused, her hand on the door handle, and turned to look into the darkness beyond. I knew better than anyone the ghosts that lurked in this hallway, the ones who called to her, the truths they spoke. I’d heard them myself.

And I was relieved when she turned her head away.

A
s always, I owe a great debt to Suzanne O’Neill at Crown, who managed once again to find the heart of this story, and to Kristin Hannah, who never fails to remind me “it’s about focus.” Also many thanks to Kim Witherspoon and Julie Schilder, and the staff at Inkwell Management, for all their efforts on my behalf, and to Elizabeth DeMatteo, Jena MacPherson, Melinda McRae, Liz Osborne, and Sharon Thomas for their unwavering encouragement and support.

This book could not have been written without the online resources of the Seattle Public Library and the University of Washington Library—both a researcher’s dream.

And of course, I owe the greatest debt of all to my husband, Kany, and to Maggie and Cleo, who put up with a great deal and still manage to love me anyway.

“Nearly impossible to stop reading.”

—SEATTLE TIMES

S
et in the dual worlds of glittering nineteenth-century New York and the rough waterfront of Seattle, a once-celebrated soprano works to conceal a dark secret—until her past returns to offer a terrifying proposition.

P
RIMA
D
ONNA
(A Novel)
$15.00 (Canada: $18.95)
978-0-307-46101-8

“Hypnotic and alluring.”

—HISTORICAL NOVELS REVIEW

W
hen a woman’s husband is found murdered, she herself is the immediate suspect. Ostracized and vulnerable, she knows that to clear her name she must retrace her husband’s last steps, leading her into the seductive and hypnotic world of the occult.

T
HE
S
PIRITUALIST
(A Novel)
$14.95 (Canada: $16.95)
978-0-307-40611-8

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