“I hardly saw you all evening,” Catherina complains as I add up the night’s takings, counting off her cut and depositing the coins into her open palm. As predicted, Lucien Vega drank the bar dry of blood and booked a private room with two of my younger ladies, so I am one step closer to electricity and a new dress.
Especially since I made Gideon Rougon’s master pay me double.
“I was entertaining Lucien Vega and his guests.”
Catherina unclips her jewels and drops them carelessly onto her vanity. I touch my fingers to my collar, seeking the familiar coolness of the stones. Gideon’s questioning from earlier unnerved me.
I’m not normally a superstitious person, but the legend of the necklace weighs on my mind. Ever since I started wearing it, my luck has changed. I escaped to Paris. I found this old church for a bargain price. I created La Petite Mort from the ether, and pioneered a dance style that I hope, one day, might make me as famous as my idol, Sarah Bernhardt.
And a delightful young human has just fallen at my feet.
He can be only a temporary amusement, but I do love being amused.
“Séraphine was the one polishing his brass while he feasted on Gisele’s neck. The only time I saw you tonight, you were speaking with Lucien’s human. What’s his story? He doesn’t appear to be Thralled. And he didn’t even touch his absinthe!”
“I believe Lucien has employed Gideon Rougon’s services, not his veins,” I murmur. I don’t want Catherina to know just how much my thoughts have lingered on the pretty Gideon. “He was an engaging conversationalist, for a human—”
A creak sounds from out in the hall, past the closed door.
“Who’s there?” I ask. The theatre should be empty now; the only people backstage are the performers removing their costumes and makeup. And none of my ladies skulk around silently in the shadows.
Another creak, closer this time. A footstep in the narrow corridor.
I sniff. Beneath the scents of backstage – gas from the lamps, stage glue, sweat-soaked costumes, Catherina’s cloying perfume – is another scent. Musky and masculine and foreign, but also familiar.
“You’ll have to leave, Sir,” I call out. “Patrons aren’t allowedbackstage. If you don’t want to be garrotted by a silk stocking, I suggest you make your way outside now. And if you wish for the garrotting, that will be two francs. Please pass your coins beneath the door now.”
Nothing.
As quick as lightning, I sweep the remaining coin into my purse and hide it in my skirts. My fingers clasp around the silver dagger I keep there. Catherina draws her blade. Ladies in our business are always prepared for penetration of one form or another.
Catherina moves to one side of the door, I to the other. I count down under my breath. We both raise our daggers.
I kick the door open and leap into the gloom, Catherina screaming like a banshee behind me. My foot lands on the creaking board. I stare into the darkness of the wings, but between the props and stacked curtains, I can see no phantom hiding.
“There’s no one here.” I whirl around to Catherina, who is busy searching behind her large bathtub. “Perhaps we imagined the sound.”
“We’recocottes. We know instinctively when a man is nearby and means us danger. It is our speciality, like that move you showed me with the eggplant—”
Catherina raises her finger to her lips, and in the heartbeat of silence, I hear the floorboards creaking from somewhere behind me.
He’s still here.
Skirts flying, we race in the direction of the noise, our shoes clattering up the short steps to the stage. It’s gloomy and shadow-laden without the harsh stage lights, the religious statues above our heads grotesque.
I bunch up the curtains, searching for someone hiding in the thick folds of fabric. Catherina moves towards the tables in the audience when—
Glass shatters.
A high scream echoes from backstage.
Séraphine.
We fly back down the stairs. Séraphine stands in the doorway of our dressing-room, a bundle of costumes for the laundry bunched at her feet. Her hand is pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.
We rush to her side, daggers raised. She points a trembling finger into the room we’d vacated only moments before.
Only now it is a mess – the jars of makeup on the vanities have been swept off and broken on the floor. Glittering powders mix with sparkling shards of glass. That makeup is expensive and will have to be replaced before tomorrow night’s performance.
