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Her laugh slips out unexpectedly, small and breathless. Edward’s arms tighten around her like he wants to keep the sound from escaping.
The maps remain spread across the table, all the names remain written in ink. The circuit of monsters still stretches from England to Spain to the Caribbean to the Philippine islands and beyond. Children are still missing, women are still sold and men with fortunes and titles still gather beneath chandeliers to prove hell has poor border security.
Our war against the wicked has not vanished, but for this one strange amount of time, Olive is on the floor in Edward’s arms, high as a church steeple from my catastrophically strong biscuits, accusing her eyelashes of being loud, and we are all alive to witness it. That has to count for something.
Olive suddenly grabs my sleeve. “Lazarus.”
“Yes, darling?”
“If I begin floating, hold my ankle.”
Edward makes a pained sound as Alcott turns away, shoulders shaking. I place a hand over hers with grave solemnity.
“Darling Widow, if you begin floating, I shall tether you to the nearest respectable object.”
“There are no respectable objects in this house.”
“True. Then Edward.” Edward looks at me. I smile.
“He is the closest thing we have.”
Olive turns to Edward and pats his chest. “Respectable object.”
His mouth twitches. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” Then she tucks herself back into him. “I still need to get closer.”
I lose the battle and howl with laughter, as Alcott does too. Even Edward, poor doomed Edward, gives one helpless, disbelieving laugh before pressing his mouth to Olive’s hair.
She smiles with her eyes closed. Safe. For the moment. I sit beside them on the rug, my back against the sofa, and look toward the rain-streaked windows. Perhaps tomorrow we will return to maps and murder boards. We will discuss invitations, forged names, shipping routes, and rich men who deserve to meet the worst parts of us. Tomorrow the Widow will rise again, sharp and glittering and ready for war. Tonight, Olive needs to be held. So we hold her and when the biscuits finally decide to show her whatever colors exist beyond ordinary sight, God help us all.
30. Altar Made of Sin and Velvet - Edward
If I'm There
La Sirene is not merely a theater. It is a living thing.
It breathes in candlelight and exhales smoke. It dresses itself in velvet, mirrors, silk, and sin. It swallows men whole and returns them to the street changed, poorer, and usually too dazed to notice.
Tonight, I sit near the back, half-hidden beneath the balcony, watching the stage as though it is an altar and I am a man with nothing left to pray to but her. I had thought I understood her beauty the first time I saw her perform. I had been wrong.
That night, I saw the woman I had spoken to for years without a face. The voice from behind curtains. The mind across luncheon tables. The sharpness. The wit. The loneliness I recognized before I had any right to name it.
Tonight, I see more, and every time I have the luxury of getting to know her better, I fall deeper. The woman who curled against my chest, overwhelmed and trembling, and asked to get closer as though closeness were something she had spent a lifetime being denied. This beautiful woman who looked at me in an abandoned office and refused to let me turn love into another word for fear.
I gaze upon Olive and I am lost. Hopelessly, completely and with a quiet devastation that feels almost peaceful. The music begins low, a single violin drawing its bow across the room until every conversation fades. The curtains' part and Elisa appears first. She wears black and sapphire, her blond hair pinned high, her mouth curved with command. Several dancers follow behind her in deep red skirts and fitted bodices, their heels striking the stage in perfect rhythm.
Then the tango begins, it is a battle dressed as dance.
Elisa moves with one of the women, their bodies turning sharply, hands sliding, heels flashing against polished wood. Two more dancers join. Then another pair. The stage becomes a storm of red silk, black lace, lifted chins, and dangerous smiles.
The mirrored walls catch every movement and multiply it. One dancer becomes ten. The room grows breathless, as the dancers move as though they are courting and killing one another in equal measure. Every step is a challenge. Every turn a refusal to be conquered, their bodies speak in a language older than words and sharper than axes.
Then Olive enters and the room changes.
She does not rush toward the center. She claims it by degrees. One step. Another, then a slow turn of her wrist, the tilt of her head. A glance that makes half the room lean forward before they realize they have moved. She wears black tonight; the dress hugs her body before spilling into layers that flare with each precise turn. A crimson flower is pinned near her throat, bright as a wound. Her hair is swept over one shoulder, dark and shining beneath the stage lamps.
She dances with Elisa first. Then alone, then with the shadows. There are men in the audience watching her with hunger and I should hate them for it. Part of me does, but another part understands. How does one look away from the moon because others have noticed it shines? Olive spins, and the mirrors fracture her into countless versions of herself. A hundred Widows. A hundred of this impossible woman surrounding me, that I have loved in silence, in fear, in fragments, in every life I might have lived before this one.
