“By whom?”
I dropped my gaze and shrugged, but he saw the guess on my face.
“It wouldn’t have been him. He’d have announced himself, spoken to you as a gentleman should.”
“You have a high opinion of the man.” I walked a few more paces. “Who else would even want them? Or know what they were?”
“I suppose anyone at Craven might have known and had access. What about Mama Jo? How well do you trust the woman?”
I shook my head. “The skirts were shut in the wardrobe door when the thief left. No dancer would have been so careless.”
Another question was forming in his expression, but then we rounded a corner and the first grave on the east side of the cemetery stopped me cold. With a pain that shuddered through my chest, I glimpsed a crooked marker adorned with fresh red roses, her favorite, and the engraved name that slammed into my vision and heart—Delphine Bessette.
I had to remind myself there was no one actually buried there. Perhaps they’d collected some ashes from the fire that night so they’d have something to memorialize. Some way to pay tribute.
My legs trembled as I looked at that name, the dates that marked her life before the fire. Not even a mention of her real name—as if all she’d been was a ballerina. I knelt and touchedthe fading petals of the red flowers, and the dead ones of many former offerings that had dried flat into the ground. Someone grieved her still. Regularly.
“You look pale.” Jack knelt to help me rise. His demeanor was utterly different now, melted like snow. “Come, I’ll take you home.”
Weak, torn, heart raw and vulnerable, I pulled my hand back. “Why do you poke at me so with your questions? What are you up to, besides antagonizing me at every turn?”
Those prism blue eyes centered on my face. “Do you ever grow tired? Of swinging that cumbersome sword around that’s too heavy for you? Yes, there’s more to my ‘why’ concerning Marcus de Silva, but as you’ve already made up your mind about things, I see no reason to tell you.”
“You will eventually, whether you mean to or not.”
He studied me. “You know, you have a way of saying things that makes me believe nearly anything that comes out of your mouth. And that’s dangerous.”
We moved slowly past the other stones, but I saw none of them. In fact, the first thing my gaze focused on after that upheaval of my soul was a lone figure in a dark greatcoat out on Bedford Street just outside the churchyard, poised with his gaze affixed on us.
He turned, and as he loped away, I recognized the unmistakable gait that often accompanied me home. It was Philippe.
12
Back in my flat, I soaked my feet until they were numb, then applied salve and wrapped them in rags. Somehow I’d have to dance on them come morning. Then the performance would be upon us in three days’ time, and I had a solo. A moment out in front. I could do this—Iwould. Even if I had to practice ten times harder than anyone else, I was capable of dancing and doing it well.
I turned as the window groaned open. I watched Minna descend into the room and close the sash.
“You’re home early. The count was tired today, I take it.”
“Yes, well. There’s nothing for it when his daughter suddenly has need of him.”
I cringed.
“A grown woman, and she cannot do withoutPapato fix her little problems.” She plunked herself before the mirror, poked at the skin under her eyes. InIl Fiore Danzante, she had earned the part of the maiden’s friend, who joins the lead for several appearances and performs a stunningdivertissementwhen she warns her mistress against falling in love with a wicked man. A stark contrast from her real life.
“The performance is soon.” It seemed almost silly, the waythings were on the continent, the way real life was, to be flitting about onstage as a host of flowers, but Fournier had insisted that the riots had worn everyone down and the audience needed a reprieve for at least one show. A bit of beauty with no politics attached. “Perhaps you should forget about the count and focus on practice.”
She eyed me cooly. “And what, become like you?” Her gaze dropped to my wrapped feet as I busied myself with pinning the costume on my body to measure for adjustments. “Good heavens, what have you done to them this time?” She selected a small jar from her table and tossed it to me. “Here. This should help.” She folded her arms. “But so would a little rest.”
I wanted rest. Oh, how I wanted it. But that notion always came with an odd pang of guilt. I’d gripped the ladder to pull myself up rung by rung, and I simply could not stop. Not unless I wanted to fall off. I pinned like mad along the right seam, ignoring the throb in my feet.
I shifted and felt a sickeningrip, my costume instantly going slack on the left. I fumbled for the tear with my fingertips, praying it was nothing. It had, however, frayed the costume. My head already swam with exhaustion, and now it would take hours more to repair this.
My passion had ebbed, I realized then, receding like the tide with each day that passed. I worked harder than most. And for what? How did spinning and leaping about have anything to do with God? Or with anythingthat mattered?
“Don’t fixate on it. Don’t fixate.”Those words from Mama echoed through my aching head as I pulled the calico gaiterson backstage to warm my legs before the performance. The familiar knots hardened in my belly, churning up everything I’d dared eat that day.
Dear Father God, please help me through this.The quick prayer nudged my heart back into movement on rusty tracks. It had been a while. But now I needed all the help I could find.
