The Underground

by Michelle E Lowe

  “You should stay here for the night,” she suggested.

  “Down here? With you?”

  Her face flushed bright enough to outshine her lantern. “You’ve figured out I’m living here?”

  She sounded ashamed.

  “Oi. At least you have a roof over your head,” he threw in quickly. “Most nights, I’m sleeping in parks or out in a field somewhere. This ain’t such a bad setup you have.”

  She really was a lovely young thing. In her late teens or early twenties, he reckoned. She had very pale blonde—almost white—hair, braided down to her waist, with loose strands hanging over her gorgeous face. Her large, silvery eyes were full of kindness and courage.

  “I’m only here temporarily,” Frederica explained, as if she needed to. She walked over to the footboard of the bed. “I work here, cleaning and tending to the costumes. The manager allows me to stay for little pay, and for the labor I put into the Imperial Theater. Once in a while, I play an extra, and I have earned a place as an understudy for Malene, the lead actress for our upcoming play, ‘The Tempest’.”

  “You’re seeking to be an actress, eh?”

  She gazed over her shoulder and declared boldly, “I am an actress. I just haven’t had a chance to show an audience my talent.”

  Pierce admired the fire in her soul.

  “I believe you will have your chance someday, love.”

  She slowly turned to him and asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “Bloody hell, I’m famished.”

  “Wie bitte?” Frederica said in confusion.

  “Erm, yeah, ich habe nicht in stunden nichts gegessen.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll go to the store before they close.”

  * * *

  When authorities failed to find the would-be-thief, Geisler Hirsch went straight to the home of his old friend, Hamburg’s mayor, Amandus Augustus Abendroth.

  “I want that little bastard,” Geisler demanded. “Nobody robs me and gets away with it.”

  “Ah, but you stated he didn’t succeed in the robbery,” Amandus pointed out, handing him a glass of Penninger Blutwurz. “Your footmen chased him off.”

  “His attempt to rob me is bad enough. And the fact that your constables have failed to bring him in only pours salt on my wounds.”

  Geisler always had a bad temper. Amandus knew this, yet it had been a long time since he’d seen him this irate. Geisler took just about anything personally. Once, when his maid tripped over the edge of a rug and spilled red wine over it, he had her flogged. The stain never washed off, and he tossed it and the battered woman out of his house.

  “I want this boy arrested and charged, Amandus,” he growled. “I am one of your closest friends, and I demand justice for this heinous act inflicted upon me.”

  Although Amandus agreed that highway robbery should not be taken lightly, Geisler’s reaction to his experience was overdramatic.

  “Turn the albino loose on him.”

  No, not him, Amandus moaned inside his head.

  “General Jäger is suspended from duty for nearly killing one of his men.”

  Amandus had never enjoyed Volker Jäger’s company. He found him lacking sanity, and his techniques—although effective—were brutal even by German standards.

  “I don’t care. I want the albino.”

  And that was Geisler, unfortunately—a narcissist brat who couldn’t be bargained with. The only way to get him off Amandus’s back was to bend to his request.

  “All right, Geisler, I shall have General Jäger reinstated and order his commander to assign him to finding this thief. Satisfied?”

  Geisler took a long draught of his liquor.

  “I shall smile when I see this du huren sohn cut down by the firing squad.”

  * * *

  General Volker Jäger was rather surprised to have been summoned to his commander’s office with instructions to wear his uniform. When he arrived, Volker was briefed about the highwayman who had attempted to rob an acquaintance of the mayor’s.

  “We need you to bring him in alive, General,” Commander Keegan Durr explained, sitting behind his desk. “Understand?”

  “Ja, Kommandant,” Volker acknowledged dutifully.

  His commander was a tough soul, not easily rattled by any means. Volker sensed his apprehension whenever he was around him, though. Volker suspected it didn’t come solely because of him being an albino, but also because he was viewed as insane, and at times, unreasonable. Volker cared not, for he was insane and unreasonable—even a savage, at times. If it weren’t for his nightmares taunting him nightly, Volker may have been a more stable-minded person. And up until he pushed a soldier out of a fourth-floor window for calling him a red-eyed rat, no one had ever complained about him before.

  “The mayor has requested you by name to catch the highwayman. Do not fail him or me, General.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  “Good. If you succeed, you’ll be reinstated permanently. Do not, and you will be discharged.”

  * * *

  General Jäger’s first step in finding the outlaw was going to Hirsch’s home and questioning the footmen who had chased him.

  “We pursued him into the Imperial Theater,” a servant stated, “where we then lost him.”

  “I stayed behind until I was told the thief had run out of the building,” the other footman explained. “When I went outside, I found no one.”

  “He seemed to be . . . how old?” Volker asked.

  “Young. An adolescent, I would say.”

  “I see,” Volker said, pushing up his tinted spectacles.

  Volker had long ago become accustomed to hiding his red eyes behind dark eyewear. He rarely removed them in public. The eyes came with the curse of being albino, and it didn’t help they intensified against his powder-white skin, which blended into his light, creamy blond hair. Even his commanding officers thought his constantly shifting eyes were disturbing enough to allow him to wear his tinted shades indoors.

  Volker pressed his pen to the paper inside his ledger. “You saw his face. Describe him.”

  The servants illustrated the boy as a good-looking youth with shoulder-length, multi-colored hair, average in height. He had worn dark clothing and a scarf. Volker documented the description in his ledger and relayed it to his troops, who were assigned to assist him in the hunt.

  “Search the city and nearby towns,” he ordered the throng of lawmen. “Pose as passengers in stagecoaches to try baiting him. I want this boy apprehended no later than tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Frederica kept her guest safe inside the theater basement for the next few days. He contributed by paying for food that she had brought to him. At night, they played games and told stories about their lives near the warmth of the heating lamp. She knew Peter was withholding much about his past. She didn’t press him, though. He was an outlaw, after all, and was only protecting himself.

  Frederica told him about how her high-class parents wanted their only daughter to abandon her dream of becoming an actress and fully immerse herself in their proper high society. They had even arranged for her to marry a man she did not love. That was when she fled.

  “I’ve acted in small amphitheaters around Germany for the past two years since I left. Then I arrived in Hamburg.”

  Frederica enjoyed Peter’s company and began spending more time in the basement with him. They even devised an idea to combine different games.

  They shared a bottle of cheap Irish whiskey and played the game of cup and ball, which Peter discovered was more difficult than he initially thought. He’d leap forward and backward, trying to catch the ball. The alcohol didn’t help.

  “Caught it!” Frederica exclaimed, holding up the wooden handle the ball was tethered to. The ball itself was nestled snugly in its small cubbyhole.

  “Bugger,” he groaned, pouring a shot. “All right, erm—truth.”

  Frederica chewed her bottom lip. Only after a few drinks had she
gained the courage to ask the next question.

  “Are you a stranger to copulation?”

  Her question took him aback and he nearly choked on his drink.

  “Pardon?” he asked, coughing.

  Her own forwardness shocked her. “Well?”

  His cheeks fired up and he shied away, unable to look at her. His callow manner made him even more adorable.

  “Erm, no. I mean, I ain’t an expert, but not a stranger, as you put it.”

  “When was your first time?”

  Clearly, no woman had ever spoken to him in this fashion before. He rose to the challenge and narrowed his eyes with a mischievous smirk.

  “Quid pro quo, Fräulein. Are you so innocent?”

  His confidant tone suggested she wouldn’t answer him. The alcohol pushed her to prove him wrong.

  “I am not. I have been with men—actors such as myself.”

  He only nodded at that. “I see. Right. I was fifteen. I ran across a small troupe of țiganii from Romania. There was a girl named Narcisa, a year older than I. We began a love affair that lasted nearly a week until her father found out and told me to leave.” He snorted. “And by told, he bloody well chased me out with a knife!”

  “And she is the only one you’ve ever been with?”

  “Aye.”

  Frederica laughed a little at that.

  “For a thief, you’re very honest. You could have lied and said you’ve been with hundreds of women.”

  He chuckled.

  “Hundreds, eh? I ain’t no bloody Claude Du Vall, darling.”

  She bounced the ball from its cup.

  “Let’s go again.”

  They resumed their game, and this time, he caught the ball. Frederica knocked back her shot. “Dare.”

  “All right. I dare you to teach me to speak better German.”

  “Is that all?” she said disappointingly. “Very well.”

  They continued dancing about like uncoordinated circus dogs, trying to catch their ball until Frederica eventually did.

  “Dare,” Peter said before downing his drink.

  She already had something in mind.

  “Recite lines with me.”

  “Eh?”

  She rushed over to the vanity table and rifled through the stacks of playwrights.

  “Ah, ‘Oedipus the King’.” She pointed to the top of the page. “I’ll be Jocasta and you play Oedipus Rex. Here. You start.”

  Peter looked at it, straining to focus his intoxicated eyes on the print. Although the character did not require it, Peter grabbed a staff by the costume rack. Maybe it was to help him stay on his feet.

  “Erm, right. ‘Lady, as I listen to these words of yours, my soul is shaken, my mind confused.’”

  “‘Why do you say that? What’s worrying you?’” Frederica recited without looking at the script.

  The scripts were in English, forcing her to go by memory alone. He looked at her and smiled.

  “‘I thought I heard you say that Laius was murdered at a place where three roads meet.’”

  “‘That’s what was said and people still believe.’”

  “‘Where is this place? Where did it happen?’”

  Frederica’s character took her over, and it showed in her mannerisms. She turned toward the darkness as though addressing an audience and spread her arms.

  “‘In a land called Phocis. Two roads lead there—one from Delphi and one from Daulia.’”

  “‘How long is it since these events took place?’” Peter said.

  “‘The story was reported in the city just before you assumed royal power here in Thebes.’”

  “‘O Zeus, what have you done? What have you planned for me?’” he yelled out.

  Federica turned to him, amazed at the passion he had put into his lines.

  “You’re not bad,” she praised.

  “Aye,” he laughed and poured himself another. “I used to act when I lived with my Gypsy folk.”

  She remembered him talking about his childhood and how he had been separated from his parents in London. It seemed painful for him to talk about it, so she refrained from venturing too deeply into the manner.

  “You’re not bad yourself,” he complimented her.

  “You think so?”

  “I do. You have a natural gift. I daresay that running off on your own was a good choice.”

  For him to say that, killed every doubt she had held when she left the comforts of her parents’ home to seek out her dream.

  “Let’s play again,” she said.

  They played and drank and played some more until neither of them could stand.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Peter groaned. “Everything is spinning.”

  He leaned the staff against the wall beside the bed and fell onto the mattress. Frederica collapsed next to him, the bedsprings creaking under her weight.

  “I did catch the ball, though.”

  “All right,” he sighed with eyelids closed. “Truth.”

  She bit her lower lip.

  “What is your real name?”

  There was a pause. She half expected he’d fallen asleep or did not want to answer. Then he whispered, “Pierce.”

  She sat up and studied him.

  “Pierce?”

  His breathing grew heavy and a faint snoring escaped him. Frederica stared at his scarf. He never removed it and always seemed cautious not to allow it to get too loose. She lowered the scarf and peeked. Underneath, there was a scar.

  “Pierce,” she whispered, nuzzling up against him. “Ja. That name suits you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Illusion Wheels

  A week had gone by and the manhunt continued. When Pierce thought it was safe to leave, Frederica showed him a wanted poster with a semblance of him drawn on it, along with a hefty reward.

  “You tried robbing Geisler Hirsch. The mayor’s friend,” she informed him, which explained why Hamburg had fattened up rather quickly with soldiers and constables.

  “Uh, you don’t say? Damn, I bet I could’ve gotten loads of loot off the likes of him,” Pierce quipped.

  He feared he would never leave the Imperial Theater.

  One day, Frederica came with good news.

  “Pierce!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Guess what has happened! Malene came down with the measles.”

  “And you’re happy about that?”

  “Not about her illness, but it means I get to take her place as Miranda!”

  “That is brilliant,” he said zealously.

  She rushed over and held him by the hands.

  “The theater will be vacant tonight. I want to show you something.”

  * * *

  If felt bloody marvelous to finally be getting out of that chilly crypt. Pierce had never stayed in a single place for very long, and the enclosed space was just about driving him mad. After the playhouse closed for the night, and Frederica made certain everyone had left, she led him up to the tiring-room above the main stage. Along the way, he recited lines with her.

  “‘ . . . knowing I loved my books, he furnish’d me from mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.’” He read from the script he carried as he followed her to a staircase backstage.

  “‘Would I might, but ever see that man!’”

  “‘Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arrived; and here have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit than other princesses can that have more time for vainer hours and tutors not so careful.’”

  “‘Heavens thank you for’t! And now, I pray you, sir, for still ‘tis beating in my mind, your reason for raising this sea-storm?’”

  He closed the script. “That’s scene. Nicely done. You don’t even need the bloody playwright.”

  “I’ve been rehearsing this since I became Malene’s understudy. And you’re only supposed to speak in German, remember?”

  She was quick to remind him about the deal they’d made in order for him to become
a better German speaker. Since that night, he barely spoke English, and only read in German. Having actual conversations in German had helped considerably.

  “You’re right. I mean . . . du hast recht,” he agreed.

  The way into the tiring-room was the same as going up into an attic without a door. The stairs met up to the upstairs flooring, where Frederica switched on a tall, standing heating lamp designed to reassemble three tulip flowers outlined by brass metal rods. This heating lamp was powered by an actual voltaic pile battery, unlike the makeshift batteries in the basement that Oskar, the stagehand, had put together for her. When the place brightened with a warming glow, Pierce caught sight of something curious.

  A contraption stood on a wooden base with four little wheels at each corner. Atop it, in the center, was a pole that branched off into two separate poles, rising at a slight slant for a few feet before leveling off and rising straight up. It nearly looked like a giant tuning fork.

  Pierce went to have a closer look. Halfway up, the two straighter beams had hand cranks, and right above the cranks the poles again forked where tube-shaped glass bulbs were screwed into open metal boxes. But none of this fascinated him more than the large glass-plated wheels mounted side by side upon their tuning forks. Around the edges of these wheels were a series of daguerreotypes with a single image in a slightly different pose inside every frame. One wheel depicted a bat in flight, the other, a woman dancing. From the metal boxes, thin wrought iron poles protruded upward and hooked over the top of the wheels. Hanging from the ends were wide, clear glass lenses aligned precisely in front of the bulbs in the back.

  “They’re called Illusion Wheels,” Frederica explained, walking over to it. “Mr. Hofer, the theater owner, bought them from a Contributor last summer.”

  “What does it do?” he asked, gawking in awe.

  She pointed beyond the Illusion Wheels. “Look.”

  Ahead, directly in front of the Illusion Wheels, were two very large round discs, shiny white like the inside of an oyster shell. Both rested on cast iron legs, similar to the ones supporting the heating lamp down in the basement.