Lago Pharmaceuticals Proposes on-Site Medical Care for Upstate Agricultural Farms.
I skimmed the article for the one line of tiny text I was looking for. Halfway down, I saw it—Ghent, New York.
I held the file next to the paper.
Place of Death: Ghent, New York.
The distinct taste of bile nipped at the back of my throat, then became stronger the more the insinuation fermented. My fingers shook, the paper almost slipping from my hand.
I threw the file on the table, tipping the box over and spreading the others out across the dining room table. I opened each one, the newspaper in hand as I read through them.
Ghent, New York.
Ghent, New York.
Ghent, New York.
They all came from the same town, had the same occupation ... on the same farm, I assumed. Yet, their deaths were spread across months. The oldest being a year ago, the newest being last week.
Why was this left for us? Was this a threat or whistleblowing? Did Petronille know the extent of her father’s business? I couldn’t even hold it against her if she knew, because whatwasthere to do? The more I learned about her family, the more I realized her behavior toward them wasn’t unwarranted but had been earned in full with capital. Which made it clear that I needed to hide the evidence in case this was some sort of ploy.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Performer
When the sun fell, the city woke. Friday night, mild weather, and the twinkling of occupied windows as plentiful as the stars. There were no stars in the sky because they were all down here, shimmering in the streets after dusk.
Surrey and barouche carriages would be making their debuts with horses just as flashy as the mobiles themselves. Though now you could hear just as much sputtering of engines as the clopping of hooves.
With all the luxury of transportation, one forgot the art of meandering. Arkady and I took to the street, arm in arm. There was no rush to be at the show early, and the theater wasn’t far. To be fair, no establishment was that far here.
The balletomanes crowded in their place of worship, their regular tithing, the stage their church, the performers their prophets. I did not know if I believed in God, but I believed there were things in this world that could move the soul, art being among the most powerful next to death.
A swarm had already gathered. The slow trickle of people disappeared one by one through the doors as their tickets were checked.
I stopped in my tracks, the block alight from the electric bulbs of the marquee sign,The Brass Globe,proudly atop the fixture.
La Sylphide
The letters black and bold, like seeing the face of someone who’s since passed.
We were here to see the premiere. Most importantly, it was supposed to be Lorelei’s debut.
Just remembering made me want to walk a couple more blocks, to postpone the showing. There were many feelings I couldn’t quite come to terms with. Could it be jealousy? Guilt? Going at all felt too much like a confrontation; I didn’t even know if I could stay for its entirety.
Skipping would be a waste, as I’d gone through the effort of looking nice. A silk gown, cream with white datura embroidered down the front. The sleeves were a short white lace that tickled my arms. The opera gloves fashioned from the same cut of silk. Pearls were light in my ears, much more comfortable than any rock. Glimmering on my fourth finger was my engagement ring, a deep red like blood orange.
“You’re hesitating,” Arkady said, standing in front of me to pull me from my fixation.
“We aren’t in a rush.” I thumbed my engagement ring, twisting it absently.
He placed his hands on my shoulders, pressing down slightly.
I sighed at the pressure, my head loping back. “Would you be upset if we didn’t go?”
His fingers cupped either side of my face, letting my head relax into his touch.
“I don’t know why you bothered with all the finery if you didn’t want to go,” he hummed, glancing at the theater, the crowd almost finished filing in. When he looked back at me, he had some wicked glint in his eyes; a terrible idea had graced his mind, I was sure. “Do you trust me?”
