Light Fantastique (5 page)

“No, thank you,” she said, both to the invitation in his eyes and the drink, but she did move close enough to him to speak to him privately. She grasped for the role of outraged actress, but all she felt was young and foolish.

“Now what can I do for you?” he asked.

“The autograph I gave you earlier, I need it back.”

His gray eyebrows signaled surprise before they drew together. “Now why could an autograph be so important?”

He drew it from his waistcoat pocket, and Marie clasped her hands in her lap so she wouldn't grab for it and cause a scene. She was too known here. Too known everywhere in Paris, actually. Facing others' expectations, feeling them crawling into her skin and under her pores until she couldn't help but be who they wanted her to be, had grown tiring. But she wouldn't reveal that to him.

“It isn't the autograph itself, sir. See? I've brought you another.” She removed a folded piece of paper from her cloak pocket and handed it to him. He compared it with the one he'd removed from his own.

“You still haven't told me why this one is so valuable.”

“I apologize, but when you visited me in my dressing room earlier, I picked up the wrong piece of paper.” She tried to shrug in a nonchalant manner—
See? Silly me.
“So I would appreciate if you would return the other to me, for I need the letter on which it's written.”

“I hadn't noticed.” He unfolded the paper on which her first scrawl was written and scanned it. “You're planning to leave Paris and visit a relative in the United States?”

Another silly girl shrug. “Only for a short time. I'm ready for a change of scene, as it were.”

His mustache didn't move when he smiled, she noticed, only the corners of his lips. “I can do much better than this,” he said. “A talent like yours needs to be seen in New York or Boston.”

Marie kept her own smile stuck where it was in spite of her jaw muscles tightening so hard they stung. “Where I want to go is none of your affair, although I appreciate your consideration.” She held out her hand. “My papers, please?”

He tucked it back in his waistcoat and handed her substitute back to her. “We'll discuss it after tomorrow night's performance at a late dinner. Do you know where the Hotel Auberge is?”

“I'm afraid my mother will not look kindly upon me dining alone with a strange man.”

The look he gave her made her wish she'd kept her mouth shut, for she now knew she was the prey.

“Your mother doesn't know about this letter. She has no idea of your intent to leave Paris.” They weren't questions, so she didn't answer them, but she had to look away. “Then your proposed adventure is much more risky than dinner with me, Mademoiselle.” He lifted her hand to his lips, and the brush of his whiskers put her in mind of a scraggly lion. But this one was far from toothless.

“Tomorrow, then.” She stood and walked out. She tried to ignore the whispers after her, but she knew the gossip would be all over Paris by the following morning, by when she had intended to be gone. Now instead of “Actress Disappears,” the paper would read, “Actress Entertained by American Entrepreneur at Gentleman's Club.”

“
Merde,
” she whispered.

Chapter Five

Théâtre Bohème, 2 December 1870

Johann sat in the pit and tuned his violin. Sometimes when he played, it felt like part of him, and other times it seemed a creature with its own mind that required cajoling and gentle handling. And rarely it seemed to hold a tempest, and he had to grasp the bow with even more care lest it slip away from him in the middle of a passage.

Today feels like a tempest day, or perhaps that's how
I
feel.

Sometimes he was happy for Edward's preoccupation. Johann felt his friend was the only one who had truly forgiven him for his role in the airship crash in spite of being the one most hurt by it.

He made the tuning note a long and plaintive one. The tone hung in the air, but when he lifted his bow, a new sound floated to his ears.

“Marie?” The name was asked in almost a whisper.

Johann stood and saw Iris at the back of the theatre. When she saw him, she stepped backward, then squinted.

“Maestro? I hope that is you and not some strange spirit haunting the theatre.”

Her words made the skin between his shoulders tighten. It wasn't like her to kid about the supernatural. “Mademoiselle, if there is a ghost in the room, it is not me.”

She gave him what he'd come to think of as her analytical look and walked down the side aisle. “I hope you're jesting. Have you seen Marie?”

“Not since breakfast.” And she had seemed distracted with barely a glance in his direction. Not that he expected anything from her, but he'd found himself oddly disappointed. “Why?”

Now Iris stood close to him. “I'm not sure what to make of it,” she said in a quiet tone. “Madame St. Jean seems convinced there is something evil here, and she is concerned for Marie. I told Madame I would help her search.”

“And you're sure Mademoiselle St. Jean is here?”

“She said she was coming over to study her lines for the production.” Iris glanced around the theatre. “I'm to search in here and backstage.”

“And if you find her?” Now Johann's nerves thrummed like someone stroked them with a bow. Iris seemed worried, and she wasn't easily disturbed, not after all she'd been through. Something felt off about the place today, but he didn't know whether to attribute the sensation to something truly there, or merely because he felt conscripted to be there and would prefer to remain hidden in the background, not front and center in the orchestra.

“If I find her, I'm to tell her to go to the townhouse, and to run if we have to.” She glanced up at him. “This sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Nothing in here could hurt us. It's the middle of a Friday morning.” But she rubbed her hands together, and the strips of pale skin between her gloves and the bottoms of her sleeves showed goose bumps.

“I'll help you search for her,” he said. “If only to prove that this is all nonsense. Madame seems a sensible woman, but the old have been known to start seeing things that aren't there.”

“I doubt Madame is going senile, but yes, the sooner we can find Marie the better.”

Johann placed his violin in its case and secured it. He'd return to practicing later. Mademoiselle St. Jean hadn't been far from his thoughts all morning, so it made a strange sort of sense he would search for her now. And when he found her? She'd probably be irritated at the interruption rather than rush into his arms.

“Maestro, look,” Iris said. She'd climbed the stairs at the side of the stage and found something, a piece of the script, toward the front. “It's hers, I think. The notes are in her handwriting.”

He joined her, and together they followed a trail of pages through the backstage area and green room and then down the back stairs into the hall where the dressing rooms were. They stopped in front of one of the doors, which had the name
Mlle. Corinne
scrawled on the nameplate.

“This is the star's dressing room,” Iris whispered.

“I'm sure Madame will change the nameplate soon,” Johann replied, also
sotto voce
. “And why are we whispering?”

“I don't know. But it's oddly quiet down here.”

Indeed, noise from the street could be heard in the theatre itself but not in the lower levels. Now the only sound came from shadows, which was to say, none at all. Even the gas lamps flickered silently. Johann fought the urge to hunch his shoulders against an invisible threat. No matter which way he turned, he felt something stood behind him and watched.

Iris raised her hand to knock on the door, and her taps echoed in the corridor. “Marie?” she called, but still in a muted call. “Are you in there?”

A noise came from behind the door, and something rattled the handle.

“Iris? Is that you? I'm locked in!”

* * * * *

When Marie woke, she found herself back on the chaise lounge, and she scrabbled against the feeling of fingers brushing over her. No light illuminated the room, which was a normal temperature again, and the groping feelings subsided as she anchored herself by pinching the fabric against her skin.

A knock at the door made her run to it, but she found it was again locked.

“Marie? Are you in there?”

“Iris? Is that you? I'm locked in!”

“Stand back,” a male voice said.

“Maestro?” Marie asked. Shame at being caught in that predicament warred with a strange relief he was there. “Whatever you do, don't damage your hands.”

“Do you want me to get you out or not?”

Just hearing his voice calmed her and shredded the cobweb-like wisps of the dream that clung to her brain. “Of course, but let me think for a moment.” The darkness behind her pressed in on her, and she resisted turning around lest she see the metal face leering at her. She couldn't allow Bledsoe to risk a broken hand or dislocated shoulder by breaking down the door—Lucille would surely blame her. Plus Marie hadn't turned to a man for help in a long time, so she knew she could figure this one out. She ran her hands over the door, and her right thumb brushed against something metal sticking out from it—the key.

In the lock.

She leaned with her forehead against the door. The key hadn't been there a moment ago, had it? Her brain must still be addled by whatever had been in the smoke that dragged her to the past. She wasn't even sure if she had described her vision out loud or if she had only dreamed it. And she had been fighting the role of a woman who went mad from opium—had she dreamed everything, even the man?

They're going to think I'm insane.
“Never mind, I found the key.” She turned it, opened the door, and squinted against the light in the hallway. Although dim, it was brighter than the darkness in the dressing room.

“You were locked in… With the key?” Iris asked. Her facial expression only showed concern. “We found these.” She handed Marie the missing parts of the script. “They led right to you.”

Marie rarely found herself speechless, but she had no explanation that would make any kind of logical sense. “I wish I could tell you what happened, but I'm not sure myself.”

“What do you mean?” Iris asked simultaneously with the maestro asking, “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”
Aside from my little involuntary trip into the past.
“What's wrong?”

“Other than you being locked inside with a key and parts of your script leading us to you in a trail?”

Marie could tell Iris's mind sifted through the possible explanations like her fingers would eventually search for shards of pottery or other clues to the past in the desert sands. The crease between her brows and sharpness in her dark blue eyes said Iris could not come up with any good, sane explanations for Marie's predicament. That was fine because Marie hadn't, either. Who would believe a story about an automaton that had trapped her and forced her to reveal a past she wanted to keep hidden?

“Yes, that. I may have had some help, but I don't want to speak of it here.” She looked back into the dressing room, but it looked ordinary again, the mirror just a mirror.

“Your mother said we need to go back to the townhouse.” Iris glanced over her shoulder. “She seems to be concerned that someone is in the theatre who shouldn't be, and that we're in danger.”

“She's right.” Marie couldn't suppress the shudder that overtook her. What did her mother know of the strange man in the mirror? And her mind batted the question around—was he even real or an invention of the role that tried to overtake her?

Marie led them out of the side door and into the cool, gray morning. The clouds hung low overhead, and she paused as she always did, but again no mortars or overhead engines overlaid the usual city noises. They encountered Frederic LeClerc, another violinist, on his way into the theatre, likely for some pre-rehearsal practice. When he saw Marie, his face transformed from a mask of artistic concentration to a fire burst of a smile.

Marie groaned inwardly—she'd been avoiding him since returning to Paris. Not that there was anything wrong with him, but he had a dogged devotion and had proposed to her at least once a month before she left Paris two years earlier and insisted she call him by his first name, although she never reciprocated the invitation.

“Mademoiselle St. Jean,” he said and bowed over her hand. He continued in rapid French with tone and volume that hinted he spoke words of love to her. “What a pleasant surprise! I hear you are to take the role of Henriette in
Light Fantastique
. It is a part that was meant for you, I think, a sign that Fantastique should take the stage once again.”

A chill shimmied up Marie's spine. Henriette—Hector Berlioz's idealized woman—was the type of role she most needed to avoid lest it influence her to become the ideal woman for someone like Frederic. As it were, when she was in character, she would likely only increase his perception of her as the perfect woman for him.

Merde
, how am I to get out of this one?

“We were just leaving,” Bledsoe said, and although his hand hovered above and not on Marie's waist, Frederic stepped back, a look of dismay on his face.

“And so you are the new concertmaster? I have heard of you.” Frederic's English was heavily accented. “But it is strange that you would be leaving. Are we not to start rehearsals today?”

“I will return shortly. I recommend you wait out here until I do.”

Frederic looked at the sky, where the clouds sagged darker than before. “But it looks like it shall rain.”

“Madame St. Jean is doing something in the theatre,” Iris said. “She said for no one to come in until she finished. You're welcome to join us at the townhouse for lunch.”

Marie sent Iris a sharp look. “Or perhaps you should wait here until the others arrive, warn them as well not to disturb
Maman
.” She steeled herself against his crestfallen expression.

“Ah yes, Madame needs to work her magic,” he said. “It is part of her genius, so I will wait here. I disturbed her once and shall not allow anyone in
my
orchestra to make the same mistake.”

Maestro Bledsoe stiffened beside Marie, and she guessed he felt Frederic's barb, that as concertmaster he should take the lead. “I will stay here as well,” he said. “Mademoiselles, please go to the townhouse. I shall join you as soon as I can.”

Marie and Iris linked arms and turned on to the sidewalk. Marie couldn't resist one last glance behind her, and as she expected, the maestro and Frederic stood a few feet apart and appeared to evaluate each other.

“Will there be a fight?” Iris asked. She, too, stared at the men, and Marie directed her gaze forward lest they bump into a lamp-pole or tree.

“Don't be dramatic. That's my job. Plus, they won't risk their hands.”

“It's romantic, don't you think?” Iris grinned up at her. “Two artists vying for your attention.”

“Not those two. I don't want the one, and I don't trust the other.” But she caught the disappointment on Iris's face.
Right, she's craving romance she's not getting. Taking this role is going to cause me nothing but trouble.