Light Fantastique

by Cecilia Dominic

  Marie bit her lip. She and Lucille knew of the myriad secret passages that riddled the theatre, but they’d agreed to keep them secret. Who else could know? “There are many tricks that can be done with mirrors,” she said.

  Corinne’s look would have skewered a lesser man or woman. “Mirrors. You are not serious.”

  “Yes, I am. Perhaps you only saw the reflection of someone in the hallway.”

  “And yet I did not see my own reflection? I do not understand how this could be done. No, it was the specter of Death come to haunt the theatre. Mark my words, Mademoiselle. You will all be doomed, even the delightful Maestro Bledsoe.”

  “What does he have to do with—?” Marie stopped when she saw Corinne’s lips spread into a smug smirk. “Oh. I didn’t know you had a relationship.”

  “Some connections do not require the empty promises and doomed commitments of a relationship.” Corinne tossed her yellow curls. “We have an understanding. That is all.”

  “What sort of understanding?” Marie hoped jealousy didn’t bleed through in her tone.

  “One based on mutual interest. Now, this interview is over.” Corinne stood. “Begone with you. The marquis said he would help me leave on tonight’s airship, and I have to choose what is most important to pack.”

  * * * * *

  “What in the blazes is that?” Johann asked. He peeked around the curtain at the raven, which turned its head, its beak slightly open.

  “I told you to keep the curtains closed,” Edward grumbled. He’d taunted Johann about his appearance, but the scientist’s hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes told Johann he was slipping into a worrisome state. Johann had never seen him this far gone, not even when he was finishing his degree or during the incident that drove him to a life of predictability at the cost of grave limitations.

  Johann slid the curtain along the rod, and the demonic bird seemed to fix on the sound. It opened its beak wider, and smoke emerged.

  “It breathes fire?” Johann asked.

  “No, it is obviously some sort of steam-driven automaton,” Edward said with a look that expressed his low opinion of those who might believe in fire-breathing birds.

  “Obviously. Why are we hiding from it?”

  Another exasperated glance. “Because you don’t know what its makers have instructed it to do in response to certain stimuli.”

  The furnace of anxiety that always had active coals flared to life in Johann’s gut. “Is it the Clockwork Guild?”

  Is this it? My death at the hands, er, beak of a red-eyed fake raven?

  “Doubtful. They don’t use steam in their works, at least not from what I’ve been able to ascertain.”

  “Then who?”

  “If I knew that, I’d know what to do beyond hide from it.”

  The bird opened its mouth wider, and Edward squinted at it. Then he pushed his side of the curtain to the center.

  “Close yours as well! How could we be so stupid?”

  “What do you mean?” Johann complied.

  “The light reflected off a lens in the back of the bird’s throat. I think it had some sort of camera in it, and it was trying to get a picture of what I’ve been working on. I hope we shut the curtains before it got a good image.”

  “Of your devices or of us,” Johann muttered. “If the Guild gets a good look at my photograph, someone will recognize me.”

  Now the only light in the room came from the aether device. With its illumination, Edward’s features were softened, and his physical flaws smoothed, and Johann couldn’t help but imagine how it would affect theatre productions.

  “If you can get the theatre lighting working with this, you will be doing all the actors and especially the actresses a favor.” He recalled seeing Corinne in the light of day come morning. Without her cosmetics, she was not the beauty she appeared on stage, and he wondered just how much she had to put on her face before treading the boards.

  “Perhaps, but one never knows.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Edward shook his head. “Nothing. Go now. I need to continue working on other things. When O’Connell gets back, would you send him up?”

  “Right.” Johann found himself in the hallway. He scratched at his beard—damn itchy thing—and tried not to feel piqued. He’d never shown much interest in his friend’s experiments before, but he was honestly curious beyond the pressure for the aether lighting system to be working soon. Edward’s behavior had been stranger than usual too.

  What is going on with everyone, and who is behind the raven? Surely it didn’t have enough time for a clear picture of me.

  He shook his head, but his anxiety lodged in his brain. Now he would have to pick up his violin or find some other distraction before he’d be able to sleep that night.

  The violin it is, then. I’ve had enough of neurotic people—male and female—for one day.

  But part of him hoped Marie would poke her head in on his practicing.

  * * * * *

  The next day, Marie sat on her bed in her old room at the townhouse and gazed out the window rather than at the script on her lap. Rain fell from the sky, glazed the windows, and slicked the surfaces of the trees and street below. A strange large shadow swooped overhead, but when she craned her neck to see it, it had already gone.

  “You’re supposed to memorize all that by when?” Iris asked. She sat at the only desk, which she had taken over once starting school. With the addition of a cot for Iris to the room, there wasn’t space for another. Marie didn’t mind—she learned best when sitting in nontraditional positions, or at least whichever ones her skirts would allow. She much preferred the clothing she’d worn when she trained to be a female guard, but she didn’t like the circumstances of her employment, so she supposed this was a fair trade-off.

  “The show starts in a week, so I need to have all of it memorized by the end of the weekend.”

  “Music and everything?”

  “It’s no different from you learning all the different sizes and shapes of Greek vases because of what you want to be. I can’t imagine learning all that, but your brain soaks it up. Mine does that with lines. Maybe I just want to be someone else.”

  Or someone else wants to be me.

  She’d never been able to explain it, only that when she was preparing for a role and on stage, she felt possessed by whatever character she played. And when the production ended, she felt like she left part of herself behind.

  Iris rubbed her eyes. “I’m exhausted from studying, but I don’t know what else to do. Exams are over, but I feel I need to do something.” She glanced up, and Marie guessed she thought about Edward, whom they all worried about. He hadn’t been down for a meal in days.

  “Me too.” The edgy feeling had started earlier that morning, but Marie didn’t know how to explain it or where it came from, only that it had been off and on the past few weeks. “I’m going to find a corner in the theatre to look over these.”

  Or not look over them without witnesses to scold me for avoiding my work.

  Iris stood. “I can leave if you need me to.”

  “No, stay here, I’ll go. Perhaps you should organize your notes so they’ll be ready for you to pick up next term.”

  Iris grinned like Marie had just proposed the most brilliant of ideas. “Yes! That’s exactly what I’ll do. You’re a genius.”

  Marie left Iris to her organizing, which already looked like an explosion of papers over every surface of the bedroom. She crept down the stairs so no one would accost her. Or maybe she moved slowly so someone would interrupt her on her fool’s errand, for she didn’t want the part of Henriette.

  She emerged into view of the front door just in time to see it close behind Bledsoe, and her errant mind wondered if he was going to see Corinne. Not that he’d find her if she’d managed to make it on to the airship the nig
ht before. Marie shook her head. The privateers would have their hands full with that one.

  When Marie emerged into the halfhearted light of the cloudy morning, she reflexively stilled to listen for the bass sound of cannon or engines. Of course the airship had long since sailed, but she and other Parisians always paused to see and hear if there was smoke on the horizon or other signs the Prussians had engaged the French troops, if they would invade or finally be turned back to slink heads-down to their homeland. Everyone knew something would have to happen one way or the other soon with winter coming on and supplies in the city running low. Meanwhile, they pretended life went on as usual, just with fewer imported luxuries to be had.

  In fact, the city had an air of forced gaiety—look, the people seemed to say, we’re not letting your silly invasion dampen our spirit. It made for irrational behavior, but it also helped fill theatre seats, even if tickets were half the prices they used to be with the economy of the city half shut-down. Still, with most of the theatres having been converted to hospitals, the Bohème drew good crowds since they were one of the few still running.

  A fine mist clung to Marie’s hair and clothing, and a chill breeze made her quicken her steps. She went in a side door just beyond the portico leading to where noble theatre goers left their drivers and carriages. Or if they were nice, just their carriages. Marie tried not to think about how she sneaked out that door and was bundled into a carriage by her former patron. Those memories carried too much regret, both for her and her mother.

  See, Maman? This is why I cannot take the stage again.

  She knew no one would be in Corinne’s former dressing room and turned in that direction, but then she stopped. That was the star’s dressing room, the one her mother wanted her to take. Was she doing it again, responding without intention to a role that had been thrust upon her? She closed her eyes, and the litany she had come up with long ago materialized in her brain and whirled around like a little aether cloud. She clung to its light, which pierced the haze of her anxious thoughts.

  I am Marie St. Jean. I am twenty years old. I have brown hair and hazel eyes. I like pain au chocolat and cappuccino. I am myself, not my role. I am Marie St. Jean…

  She opened her eyes to see she now stood in the hallway in front of the dressing room she wanted to avoid. Had she walked here without recognizing she did? Panic shot in an arrow’s line from her stomach to her throat, to which she raised a hand. Wait, that wasn’t one of her regular gestures, was it? The script fell to her feet, and when she knelt to retrieve it, she saw the stage direction on the page in front of her—“Henriette: raises hand to throat.”

  “Are you having difficulty, Mademoiselle?” a soft male voice asked with an American accent. Marie wasn’t one to faint, but the hallway swam in front of her eyes, and the last thing she saw before she blacked out was a metal death’s head leering over her.

  Chapter Four

  Théâtre Bohème Townhouse, 2 December 1870

  “Where is she?” Lucille swept into the room. Papers swirled in the eddy caused by her flinging the door open, and Iris dove to pluck her Greek Pottery I—Prehistoric through Archaic Periods notes from the floor so they wouldn’t end up under the Frenchwoman’s boots.

  “I take it you mean Marie, Madame?” Iris asked in as polite a tone as she could muster while she straightened the stack in her hands. She reflexively looked around for her gloves, as she typically did when Lucille was near.

  “Yes, Marie. She is needed to read through the play this morning.” Lucille’s black gaze swept through the room as if she could make Marie materialize from the books and notebooks that covered every surface.

  “I think she was headed to the theatre to review the script.”

  Lucille’s brows drew down in a black V. “The Théâtre Bohème is a large building, and she could be anywhere.”

  The defeated expression that flickered over Lucille’s face made Iris blurt out before she could stop herself, “I’ll help you look for her.”

  “Bien.”

  Now Lucille beamed at her, and Iris wondered again just how much of what Lucille did and said was real and how much an act to manipulate others. She was coming to a ratio of about seventy to thirty percent unreal to real. Iris found Lucille to have a dizzying array of expressions like her own mother, but unlike Adelaide, Lucille didn’t always seem to feel the emotion she projected.

  Or did she?

  “I need a break from this, anyway,” Iris mumbled.

  “Pretty girls do not mumble,” Lucille said, and her voice and accent were juxtaposed in Iris’s mind over Adelaide’s.

  “I said I need to take a break from this organizational effort,” Iris said and enunciated clearly, perhaps exaggeratedly. Not that her schoolwork looked very organized.

  Lucille either didn’t notice or chose not to respond. She swept out of the room, and Iris followed her after making sure no notes flew too far. She glanced up the staircase toward the atelier, as Marie called it, where Edward worked on his aether-based lighting system. He hadn’t come down to dinner again last night, or to breakfast that morning. She’d been so focused on her exams she didn’t remember the last time she saw him, and now guilt sagged between her chest and stomach.

  “Lucille, are the servants feeding Professor Bailey?” she asked.

  “I believe so, yes,” Lucille said over her shoulder. “He says he is getting close. But he has been approaching close for months now and never reaching it.”

  “I know. I’m worried about him.”

  “As well you should be. He seems possessed by a certain madness.”

  Lucille’s words made Iris’s stomach clench, and she almost stumbled on the stairs. “What kind of madness do you mean?”

  “He is one who will always lose himself in his work. It is not a bad thing, Mademoiselle, but men like that require extra care. And patience.”

  They reached the front hall, and Lucille turned to Iris so suddenly Iris almost bumped into the older woman.

  “Sometimes no matter how hard we try, we are not enough.”

  “What do you mean?” Iris asked. She found her gloves on the side table where she’d set her books the day before.

  “You cannot hope to change him if you want to truly love him. Many women have ended up in unhappy relationships because they think they can transform a man into what they want him to be. In some cases, you merely have to accept.”

  Iris nodded as though she believed the woman’s words, but she didn’t allow the disappointment they engendered to take root. She didn’t want to think that this would be her life with Edward, not seeing him for months at a time, always wondering if he loved her more than, or at least as much as, his science. She loved archeology and him equally—at least she thought she did.

  Some impulse made her ask, “Is that what happened with Marie’s father?”

  Lucille barked a laugh and opened the front door. “Ha! No, mademoiselle. We had an arrangement. I wanted a daughter. He wanted a no-strings-attached dalliance. It was not a traditional arrangement, but it worked for us.”

  “What if you’d had a son?” Iris followed Lucille along the sidewalk. “You can’t determine the gender of a baby.”

  “There are things one can do, but you are too young and innocent to know of them.”

  Iris fought to keep her shoulders from slumping, as they wanted to do when she ran up against the wall of women’s wisdom she was “too young and innocent” to be worthy of learning. It was one of Marie’s favorite conversation-avoiding tactics.

  I guess I know where she learned it from.

  The gloom of the theatre enveloped Iris along with the smells of old wood and the paint the scenery-smiths were busy using for the new production pieces.

  Lucille paused in front of the ticket window and flared her nostrils. “There is something… You take the main auditorium and backstage areas.” />
  “Where will you search?” Iris asked. She reached through the connection she had with Marie but couldn’t feel anything.

  I should be able to feel her if she’s nearby unless she’s asleep.

  “The dressing rooms and passages.”

  “Secret passages?” Iris took her hand. “Oh, let me search with you! I knew there must be some in a building like this.”

  “No, Mademoiselle, it will be too dangerous.” Lucille’s eyes flashed like faceted jet beads in the flickering gaslight. “You stay where you can run if you need to and tell Marie to get back to the townhouse as soon as you find her, if you find her and we are not too late. I fear he is back!”

  “Who?” Iris grabbed for Lucille, but the theatre owner had already dashed into the hall beside the ticket booth.

  Who is he? What is going on here? Iris moved toward the auditorium through the nearest door, but a chill settled on her shoulders like the gaze of a malevolent spirit.

  Don’t be silly, you’re letting your imagination run away with you.

  But evil spirits belong in the myths of the past, not in the scientific present, don’t they? Whatever was happening, she felt a flicker of Marie’s panic and hastened into the auditorium.

  * * * * *

  Marie woke inside Corinne’s dressing room. Her mind wouldn’t let her think of it as her dressing room. For one thing, the other actress had been much too fond of lace and gauzy fabrics. Marie didn’t know how much stuff Corinne had stashed in this room, but she guessed it would be enough to keep some very lucky ragpicker fed for a month. If Lucille didn’t sell it first, but would she want to attach herself monetarily to a doomed woman’s possessions?

  That’s not a useful thought, and many women will be happy for such luxuries, especially right now.

  Marie propped herself on her elbows and saw she lay on the chaise lounge to the right of the door. She kicked a pair of stockings to the floor. The script lay on the dressing table, but it was thinner than she remembered.

  What…?

  A movement in her peripheral vision made her straighten to full alertness, but the only person she saw when she turned her head was her own reflection in the full-length mirror that made the wall at the back of the room. That was why Corinne had liked this dressing room—she could admire herself from every angle and observe which men never took their eyes off her. Yes, Corinne knew how to find out who worshiped her and who merely saw her as a prize. It was one of the few things Marie admired about her.