Light Fantastique

by Cecilia Dominic

  If only life could be ordered like one’s office. God knows I’ve tried.

  “It has come to my attention that you’ve been using some sort of substance to smother your talent,” Lucille said and fixed Marie with her black gaze.

  Marie raised her eyebrows, neither confirming the accusation nor lying about it. She’s talking to me like a manager, not like a mother.

  “I should have put the signs together sooner, but I was preoccupied with the different challenges inherent in this upcoming performance, particularly at this time.”

  Marie allowed a snort to escape. “The city could be under attack and you’re worried about how I’m managing my acting ability? Aren’t there more important things to worry about, like the store of arms in the church next door that could blow us all to bits if the wrong people get hold of it?”

  Lucille narrowed her eyes. “This is a matter of equal gravity. Do you know what will happen if you smother your talent, kill it completely?”

  Is that possible? She found herself simultaneously horrified and thrilled at the thought.

  “I know what will happen if I don’t.” The memory of Bledsoe’s kiss pushed its way into her mind, distracting her. Had he kissed her or the idealized woman? She hadn’t felt like she played a role, and she had had a dose of whatever was in the ghost’s smoke that morning. Could he have kissed her, Marie, and not who he thought she was?

  Her mother’s words pulled her back to the matter at hand.

  “You are afraid you lose part of yourself with every role. You fear you will never discover who you truly are.”

  When faced with a direct question, Marie had to tell the truth. Plus this was no time for lies, not with the possibility that this could be their last conversation. “Yes, precisely.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you, cherie, that this problem does not come from your talent, but from some other issue deep inside you?”

  This time Marie didn’t have an answer, either stated or thought. After a minute, she asked, “Are you saying there’s something seriously wrong with me?”

  “Non, I am saying that the answers you seek are not so far from you, and running away will only make it harder to find them, as will trying to deny something that is an integral part of you.”

  Marie leaned forward. “Then tell me how to control it, how to keep the roles from taking over.”

  Lucille took one of her hands. “It is something you can only find out for yourself, for it is different for everyone. But you must be careful of those who offer you easy answers. You will find that there is no such thing as easy, and the price is too great.”

  “You speak in riddles.” Marie slumped back. “Answer me one question, then. Who is the man in the metal mask who lurks behind the mirror in my dressing room?”

  Lucille’s face went from olive to ashen. “I was afraid he had returned, but I hoped I was wrong.”

  “That’s not an answer.” But the expression on Lucille’s face and her coloring made Marie think to when the last time she’d seen Doctor Radcliffe was and how quickly she could fetch him if her mother was to collapse.

  “He once offered me an easy solution to a very difficult problem, and I was fool enough to take it. I don’t know exactly who he is, but he is likely trying to harm you to get to me. You need to not have anything more to do with him, Marie.”

  “Tell me how to get to the passage behind the dressing room, then. Let me discover where his lair is and flush him out.”

  “I will take care of him.” Lucille stood. “I forbid you to have anything to do with him. Focus on Maestro Bledsoe—he is accustomed to being one thing and acting another. Ask how he manages it.”

  A knock on the door forestalled anything else she was going to say. A little boy with wide eyes and curly dark hair handed her a note. He looked familiar.

  “I told him never to contact me here,” Lucille murmured.

  “He said it’s important, Madame.”

  Lucille dashed out of the office, leaving Marie sitting bewildered in her chair. So her suspicions were correct—Lucille did know the theatre spirit. But how? Was he helping Marie so he could get at Lucille?

  Dammit, why are there always more questions than answers? And what did she mean about Maestro Bledsoe?

  The identity of the boy struck her—she’d seen him in Zokar’s cave. With the questions whirring around in her head like clockwork butterflies, Marie rushed into the corridor, but the child and Lucille had disappeared.

  * * * * *

  When Chadwick locked up his clinic to return to the townhouse for lunch, he noticed the streets were strangely quiet and looked up at the sky, where he saw the vapor trail of an airship overhead. It was of course too high up to see if it had any identifying colors or markings to say whether it was French or Prussian, but it did point his gaze to a plume of smoke on the horizon to the east.

  That explains why no one has come in today. He’d risen early and slipped away while it was still dark, preferring to worship at the altar of science than that of a god who had taken everything from him. Although it shocked a lot of his clientele, he was open on Sunday to accommodate those who had to work the other six days.

  He arrived back at the townhouse in time to see Iris McTavish alight from a carriage. She had a satchel at her hip, its strap across her chest, and clutched a textbook to her chest. She, too, glanced up at the sky and squinted, then caught sight of him when she looked straight.

  “Ah, Doctor Radcliffe, a word?”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything. Something about her reminded him of Claire, and it caught him off-guard in moments like these, rendering him speechless and breathless with grief until he could recover control over himself. He hadn’t been able to put a finger on what, precisely, about her made him react like this. Perhaps it was her curiosity mixed with kindness and passion to make the world a better place. That was where the resemblance ended, and he thankfully wasn’t attracted to Iris like he’d been to Claire. One shattered heart was enough for a lifetime.

  He’d heard Claire was studying analysis in Austria after having been treated in Vienna, but he didn’t know when or if she would be mentally whole enough to see him.

  Iris didn’t seem to notice his reticence. “I was wondering if I could borrow your knowledge of ancient languages,” she said. “Monsieur Firmin has perhaps given me the next piece to our puzzle as to how to harness the power of the E.E.”

  She grinned like a proud student, but a shadow flickered through her dark blue eyes.

  “And what kind of pressure did he put on you?” Chadwick forced himself to keep his demeanor relaxed in spite of the protective urge she prompted.

  “You’re a reasonable man, so I can say this to you.” She paused before ascending the front steps. “He hopes it will end up being a weapon to help the French against the Prussians, but I doubt they will stop there.”

  Now the twist of panic in Chadwick’s gut was for a different reason. “And they could pass it along to the Confederates, giving them the advantage in the war in the States.”

  “I’m sorry,” Iris said and put a hand on his arm. “Of course. Your family and people are in more immediate danger than mine.”

  “That’s all right.” He patted her hand and escorted her up the stairs. “It’s easy to forget about other wars when you’re in the middle of a battlefield. Can you delay your work? Keep the knowledge out of Firmin’s hands?”

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “There are reasons—very good ones—he thinks I can solve this riddle before anyone else can.”

  “Like what?”

  She stepped aside so he could open the door for her. “It’s too hard to explain, especially to a man of science.”

  With that cryptic remark, she rushed upstairs toward her and Marie’s room, but Madame St. Jean stopped her on the landing.

  “There is fighting,
and we do not know if shelling will start. Grab what you need, and we will go to the theatre so we can escape underground if need be.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Théâtre Bohème, 4 December 1870

  Weighed down by his and Edward’s valises, Johann almost tripped over the messenger in the livery of the Marquis de Monceau, who waited for him in front of the theatre.

  “The marquis said to remind you of your appointment with him at two.”

  “Are you insane?” Johann asked. “There’s fighting and fear of shelling. You should be somewhere safe.”

  The man bowed and handed him a message. “The marquis says he still expects you to play for him this afternoon. He has sent me to guide you.”

  “Please give him my regrets, but surely he understands the situation has changed.”

  “He said not to take no for an answer and that Madame has something further to tell you.”

  Johann cursed under his breath. It’s not like we’re completely safe in the theatre. A well-placed mortar could bring it down upon our heads even if we’re underground, and there is the question of the explosives in the church next door.

  “Very well. Let me deliver these, and I will come with you.”

  He found Edward and Patrick O’Connell under the stage.

  “I grabbed some of your things from the atelier,” he told Edward. “And Doctor Radcliffe packed a bag for you as well, O’Connell.”

  “What’s going on?” Patrick asked.

  Johann heard him, but the haunted look on Edward’s face delayed his answer. He knew it was pointless to ask if Edward was all right—he never admitted to fatigue when he was in the middle of a project—so he asked, “How far have the two of you gotten?”

  “We’re about halfway there,” Edward said and rubbed his sleeve across his eyes, leaving a smudge across his temple.

  “I keep telling him he needs to rest, but he won’t stop.” The Irishman sounded both admiring and annoyed. “What brings you down here with luggage? Does Madame expect us to move in until the lighting system is completed?”

  “Oh, right.” Johann turned to face O’Connell, who looked as exhausted as Edward, perhaps more so. “The French are mounting an offensive, and there’s fear of shelling from the Prussians in reprisal.”

  “Well, at least something’s happening,” O’Connell grumbled.

  Johann bit back his retort. He only wanted to deliver the items and be on his way.

  “Here are Edward’s and my bags. Will you bring them to wherever Madame wants us to settle in?”

  “Aye. Where are you going?”

  “To play for the Marquis de Monceau at his townhouse,” Johann said with unconcealed frustration. “Apparently he feels that the Prussians wouldn’t dare interrupt his afternoon entertainment with something so rude as a shell through his roof, and he could still make a lot of trouble for me once this situation has ended.”

  Patrick nodded, and Edward only turned back to the tube he was placing some sort of putty around.

  “Be careful,” Patrick said.

  “Right, I’ll tell the Prussians to aim elsewhere,” Johann told him. He took his leave and ran into Marie in the vestibule. He tried to tip his hat and brush past her, but she stopped him.

  “Why is the marquis’s man standing outside?” she asked. “Surely you’re not going to accompany him.”

  Johann wanted to kiss her again, but he held back. He’d seen some men slap a hysterical woman, but he preferred his own methods. Plus she wasn’t panicked now, only concerned, and it loosened something inside him to think she was worried about his safety.

  “I’m afraid I have to. I don’t want him making trouble for me or for your or your mother, and you know he will if he doesn’t get what he wants.”

  “Then please be careful.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Then she hurried off.

  The imprint of her lips warmed his face until he reached the marquis’s townhouse, where the impression of the kiss melted off in spite of the warmth inside.

  * * * * *

  After Johann left, Edward turned back to the joint he was buffering, but Patrick’s hand on his arm stopped.

  “I think we’re far enough along to test the footlights, see if they’ll give people a rosy glow from below.” He grinned, and Edward had the sense he’d said something vaguely dirty.

  Speaking of dirty… Edward wiped his hands on a rag that may have been white at one point but now matched the dingy state of his and Patrick’s clothing. Contorting into and squeezing through small spaces in the old building certainly made his work more challenging than it had been at the university, but he didn’t feel like he could ever return to those pristine halls of his previous life.

  “It may be a good opportunity to get the others’ minds off the situation, as much as that can happen,” Patrick said.

  Edward heard the subtext—and get you out of your head, which you’ve been ridiculously stuck in all day.

  “Fine. We should probably take a break, anyway.”

  When they emerged from underneath the stage, Edward carrying his and Johann’s bags, they found the others gathered in the theatre along with Maestro Fouré, whom Edward had met briefly the day before.

  “And how is the work coming?” Lucille asked as though they weren’t in danger of the roof exploding over their heads at any moment. Only the way she twisted her skirt around one fist gave away her state of agitation.

  “It’s coming,” Patrick told her. “We’re ready to test the footlights if you’re interested in watching. Perhaps you and Mademoiselle could stand on stage so we can check the intensity of the lights.”

  “I’ll go downstairs and turn it on,” Edward offered. He felt Iris’s gaze on him and felt the urge to escape her and her expectations.

  “No, I’ll go. You stand up here and observe. You’re more precise than I am.”

  Patrick disappeared, leaving Edward with the others. Marie and her mother walked on stage, but Marie looked oddly uncomfortable in spite of being a renowned actress.

  “Do you think she’s all right?” Iris asked him. Somehow she’d snuck over to stand next to him.

  “I suppose so.” Edward didn’t know what to think.

  The theatre was plunged into darkness for a heart-stopping moment, and Iris’s hand found his.

  “Is this part of the demonstration?” she whispered.

  “Yes, it’s the only way to get a true measure of the light quality without interference from any other sources.”

  The foot of the stage took on a glow so slight it was impossible to tell whether it was really there or an after-image.

  “Like the moon.”

  He wasn’t sure she said the words, but they brought him back to that horrible morning in Rome. He snatched his hand back.

  “What’s wrong?” Iris asked.

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Say what? I only asked if the darkness was part of the demonstration.”

  The glow increased, and Lucille’s and Marie’s shapes took form.

  “Why did you say the thing about the moon? You know it’s going to bring on bad memories.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  He felt her hand on his arm, and he jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

  The light grew, and with the part of his mind that still took scientific note of what was happening, Edward saw Marie had tears running down her face, and Lucille looked angry. Still, they both looked younger and more attractive in the gentle rose-peach glow of the aether lighting.

  “Edward, please, look at me.” Iris had tears in her voice.

  Edward couldn’t look at her now, not when he knew he’d hurt her. It must have been his imagination, the thing about the moon. She wouldn’t deliberately do something to distress him. It was his fault—he was the bad person, t
he one who should have been lying dead under the altar in the temple under the Porta Maggiore in Rome.

  The theatre filled with murmurs and snappishness, and the scientist part of Edward’s brain took note of that—what was going on? His lungs struggled to pull in the thick air, and he broke away from Iris’s seeking reassurance. His panic carried him from the theatre into the lobby, where the windows let in icy light and the air felt less solid. He could breathe again even without the aid of a paper bag and took gulps of air.

  It was when he stopped to breathe normally that a single gunshot crackled through the silence and brought it tumbling around him followed by screams that rent the air like shattered glass.

  “Useless child, too cowardly to use your gifts or take the marvelous opportunities offered to you. Why did I even bother letting you on this stage?”

  The words hissed in Lucille’s familiar tones of contempt cut Marie through her middle. Why was her mother speaking to her like this now? She thought they had reached some sort of understanding, or at least that Lucille had spoken her piece, but no, she had to submit Marie to a verbal stabbing as they stood on the stage, in front of everyone but invisible in the dark.

  A tingling sensation overtook her, similar to when a role fought to control her, but made of restlessness, like ants crawling under her skin. Then the tears came, unbidden but needed to release the grief, wash away the disappointment she would always have in herself…and that her mother would always have toward her. She’d never get rid of her past mistakes, but at least she could release the pressure around them.

  Sometimes.

  Marie wiped her eyes and pinpointed the source of the rosy-peach glow that surrounded her as the footlights. The light grew brighter, and whispers floated in the darkness beyond. She drew her eyebrows together like frowning would clarify the words, but she only heard the bickering rhythm.

  That’s odd. Has something happened?

  She glanced toward Lucille, who looked away with a pained expression. Marie left the stage and walked up the side aisle. Now that the glow wasn’t in her face, she saw Radcliffe engaged in some sort of discussion with Iris, but there was no sign of Edward. Iris shook her head and rushed up the aisle on the opposite side.