“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.
Chapter Six
Théâtre Bohème, 2 December 1870
Johann and the other violinist eyed each other. Johann still held his violin and glanced at the sky to see if it would, indeed, rain.
“What is your relationship to Mademoiselle St. Jean?” the other man asked.
Johann allowed his astonishment to show. “Perhaps we should start with our names and move on to more personal questions after. Proper etiquette and all.”
“I am Frederic LeClerc.” He didn’t hold a hand out to shake. “And I am going to marry Mademoiselle. And I know who you are, English swine.”
Johann gestured for LeClerc to follow him so they stood under the canopy of the portico by the side entrance to the theatre. “No sense in getting our instruments wet as we sort this out. How do you know of me?” I’ve made it a point not to be known here.
LeClerc shrugged as only the French do. Johann reminded himself to stay patient. “Word gets around, Maestro. Especially when someone with money is curious.”
Now the iciness in Johann’s lungs had nothing to do with the chill breeze that heralded the start of a deluge. The sound of sleet mixed with rain made him glad he was under cover, but a sense of being exposed caused him to step behind one of the pillars and out of view of the street.
LeClerc studied him with a shrewd look. “Oh yes, Monsieur Bledsoe, someone has been very interested in knowing where to find you.”
“And who would that be?”
Another man ran from the rain and joined them, and Johann prepared to defend himself if necessary.
“Luc,” LeClerc greeted the newcomer with a handshake and spoke in French, which Johann knew well enough to follow. “Where is Martin?”
The new man pulled a clarinet case from under his oilskin cloak. His hair and mustache dripped in spite of his attempt to dress for the weather. “He’s on his way. Why are we standing out here?”
“Madame.”
“Ah.” He seemed to accept that as sufficient explanation. “And who is this?”
“Maestro Johann Bledsoe, our new concertmaster.”
Johann cringed against his given name. He’d been using the pseudonym of Harry Sable.
Martin held a hand out, and Johann took it, bracing himself for Martin to say he’d heard of him or reveal some other sign he continued to be in danger of discovery from the Clockwork Guild. But Martin only introduced himself, as did the two men who joined them. When a knot of six or seven of them crowded under the portico, Madame St. Jean emerged and looked them over.
“Bien,” she said. “The theatre is clean. Practice can start.”
Johann held back as the others filed in ahead of him. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.
“Non, but I’m sure I will soon. Just be careful. And watch out for Frederic.” With that cryptic warning, she disappeared back inside the theatre.
“Oh, I most certainly shall,” Johann murmured. “We have a conversation to finish.”
* * * * *
Iris and Marie walked through the front door of the townhouse just before the rain started. Marie frowned as she shut the door. “I think I see sleet mixed with the rain.”
“Perhaps winter is finally here.” Iris stripped her gloves from her hands.
“You’re not leaving those on?”
Iris glanced up at her with an inquisitive look. “Why should I? I’ve been here long enough that the objects around us don’t ask to be touched or read, and I’ve gotten much better at controlling my…well, whatever it is.”
Lucky girl. “It’s chilly in here.”
“The dining room will be warm enough, and I do believe it’s lunchtime. By the way, you should talk to your mother. She might be able to help you.”
Marie followed Iris through the hall and up the stairs to the first level, where the dining room and kitchen were located. “What do you
mean? I don’t need her help.”
And her help will come with a price, like my staying here and taking the stage for the rest of my life.
“You were talking in your sleep, something about a mask that will consume you from within. It was very poetic, but you sounded frightened.”
“I have nightmares.” Some of them more real than others. “It was probably nothing.”
They reached the dining room, and Iris exclaimed, “Edward, you’ve emerged!”
When Marie entered, she saw Iris embrace Edward, who held her stiffly before melting into her. She looked away and was glad to see she wouldn’t be alone with the hopefully reconciling lovebirds. Doctor Chadwick Radcliffe and his friend Patrick O’Connell stood by the sideboard and helped themselves to a light lunch of salted meats, cheeses, bread and pickled vegetables—standard fare since commerce from farms outside the city had slowed to a trickle, and the growing season was long over. Although Marie thought her mother’s cellar held plenty of food, she knew many pantries around the city bordered on bare, and soon there would be riots.
“Gentlemen,” Marie said with a nod. Que sera sera—enjoy the moment while you have it.
The doctor and his friend greeted her, and she moved to join them. A certain energy trembled in the air, of expectation and hope. Marie glanced between the two of them but also took in the details of the room—the damask wallpaper, the sideboard with its chipped corner from where it had been moved clumsily after serving as a piece of a set. And the cocktail server, which had been converted to a tea server due to their English guests, trundled around the room on its little track inlaid in the wooden floor. Marie paused to allow it to pass before standing beside Radcliffe and O’Connell.
“What’s new?” O’Connell asked. He held a bottle of some sort of alcohol.
“Looks like something got through on last night’s airship.” She gestured to his beverage. “Where’s it from? And how did you get it?”
“Stu swore it’s from Ireland, but the brew isn’t black enough,” O’Connell said. “As for how I got it, don’t worry about it.”
Radcliffe snorted. He rarely imbibed but held a snifter with some sort of honey-colored liquid.
“Perhaps I should ask what’s new with you.” Marie gestured to Edward, who spoke with Iris in hushed but excited words and then to the two men with their beverages. “This feels like a celebration.”
“We made a breakthrough,” O’Connell told her. “Well, the professor did. We got the mock lighting system to work with the aether. It was disappearing when we tried to inject it in the hydrogen, but he made an adjustment and it worked. Lit up the atelier like a bonfire all morning.”
“Oh, that’s incredible!” Marie clapped her hands. Now she stopped the tea server, which had come around again, and opened a side door, where her mother always kept a small bottle of rum. She poured some in a teacup, which she then raised. “Here’s to you, then, and the new era for the Théâtre Bohème.”
They raised their glasses to hers, and Edward and Iris joined them. The professor appeared tired and worn, but there was a light in his eyes that had been dulled since the death of Jeremy Scott in Rome. From the look on Iris’s face, she noticed it too, and a relieved happiness emanated from her through the special connection she and Marie shared.
Marie’s shoulders relaxed a hair, but jealousy braided her lower guts. Not for Edward—goodness, she had no room in her life for neurotic scientists—but that Iris was one step closer to the chance for a normal life with a husband and family.
Marie gazed at the brown liquid in her glass, hating her friendship-betraying thoughts and the circumstances they originated from. She should be happy for Iris and not begrudge her the moment, for she knew there were still challenges ahead.
“Where’s Johann?” Edward asked and startled Marie from the dark spiral of her emotions. “He should be here to celebrate with us.”
“Why?” Marie asked. “He’s busy. Working. He can celebrate with us later.” She pushed away the sense of relief she’d had that morning when she heard him outside the dressing room, like he could pull her from her strange dreams into this world and anchor her in reality.
“Something he said yesterday was responsible for the breakthrough. His words bounced around in my head and made me see things in a new way.” Edward smiled at Iris. “And then I knew what had to be done, what adjustments to make.”
“He’s a good friend,” Iris said.
“Even if he has his faults,” Marie added.
Like being irresponsible and a gambler and putting us all at risk from the Clockwork Guild. Her mind tripped through her reasons for not liking Bledsoe as smoothly as the tea server moved along its track.
“Right,” Radcliffe said. “So let’s toast to Edward and Patrick.”
“And to Marie and Maestro Bledsoe, who will be taking part in the upcoming production,” Iris added.
Marie reluctantly clinked her teacup to the others’.
“So Fantastique is taking the stage again?” Radcliffe asked.
“Not enthusiastically.” Marie tried to ignore the impulse to step into the expected role of premiere femme, but her shoulders straightened, and her chin tried to move into a haughty angle.
Her appetite fled. No, no, no! She took a gulp of rum and ended up coughing.
“Are you all right?” O’Connell thumped her on the back.
“Uncanny,” Radcliffe said. “You seemed to transform for a moment.”
“And you’ve been working too hard. Perhaps you should take a break from your makeshift clinic, Doctor.” Marie set her teacup on the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have lines to memorize.”
“Wait,” Edward said. “I wanted to show you the system so you can tell me if you think the quality of the light will work for the stage.”
“Very well.” Marie allowed the others to file out ahead of her and grabbed a couple of cornichons and a piece of rolled-up ham with a thin block of cheese in the center. She ate them on the way up to the atelier and repeated her litany.
My name is Marie St. Jean. I am twenty years old, and I am not going to allow my mother to make me feel badly about my size.
Maestro Bledsoe certainly hadn’t seemed to find fault with her shape, not the way his eyes roved over her like—
I am Marie St. Jean, I am not going to allow the way a man looks at me to define me.
Thankfully she reached the top of the stairs before she got in a serious argument with herself. That was the problem with her little sayings—sometimes they conflicted. She didn’t want anyone defining her but her, but it was hard to fight through all the messages and expectations, particularly with the strange talent she didn’t want to acknowledge.
Marie hadn’t been in the atelier since her mother’s former renter, an artist who painted portraits of the gargoyles on top of the theatre but with his former lovers’ faces, moved out. She saw it had been transformed into a laboratory of sorts, and a replica of part of the theatre’s gas lighting system stood in one corner. It looked like a tangle of metal and glass tubes, and Edward started the little steam engine that powered it all.
“Typically a theatre uses hydrogen gas injected with some other gas to control the brightness of the lighting,” he explained.
Marie nodded. Of course she knew that, but she also recognized he spoke for the others’ benefit.
“Instead of oxygen, for example, we’re injecting aether into the part of the system that illuminates the stage. At this frequency, which I only thought to apply this morning, it spreads quickly and seems to pull more aether out of the existing gas in the tubes.”
Indeed, Marie could barely stand to look at the device, it shone so brightly. “Is there some way to control the brightness?” she asked.
“Yes. This method is much more reliable than the tuning forks I used in—”
The word hun
g in the air—Rome. A spike of fear and concern stabbed through Marie from Iris, who stood near Edward. Her hand hovered by his shoulder, and confusion showed on her face.
“Than I used before,” he said. The dark stubble on his cheeks gave them an extra haggard appearance, and Marie glanced at Iris, who clasped her hands together.
“Don’t worry about me,” Edward said and pried Iris’s hands apart before taking them in his.
“But I do.” The tears in her eyes fragmented the reflection of the aether light into sparks.
O’Connell cleared his throat. “The demonstration?”
“Right. If you will assist me, Engineer O’Connell?”
The Irishman increased the amount of coal in the engine, and when he nodded, Edward flipped some switches. The engine sounded like it ran faster, and the hue of the aether changed to a peach-rose color. Now everyone in the room looked younger and less tired, even Radcliffe with his dark skin and Edward with his sun-starved sallowness.
A flapping noise outside the window drew Marie’s gaze away from the mesmerizing model, and Edward ran to the windows and pulled the curtains.
“What…?” Iris started to ask, but her question was cut off by a scream from outside.
Chapter Seven
Théâtre Bohème, 2 December 1870
Johann found himself in the role of concertmaster, conductor and cat herder during the rehearsal. Every time he suggested something, Frederic would argue with him about it, and by the end of the first hour, he was sure he’d lost clumps of hair due to pulling on it in frustration. Even worse, Frederic was his stand-mate, which put the Frenchman in an even better position to sabotage him.
“Let’s try that passage again,” he said and willed his jaw to unclench. He wouldn’t show the little snot how much he’d allowed him to bother him.
He lifted his arm, but an ear-splitting scream punctuated the air before he could draw his bow across the strings.
“What the hell was that?”
“It’s a theatre, you idiot.” Frederic’s accent didn’t make his insult any more charming. “It is expected during rehearsals, non? Someone is merely practicing their lines.”
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