Light Fantastique

by Cecilia Dominic

  The marquis stepped back and looked at her. She gasped and waved a hand in Johann’s direction, but the nobleman didn’t seem to notice.

  “Ah, Daphne, I am greatly disheartened by your husband’s death.”

  Johann decided to rescue her by clearing his throat and throwing himself from the proverbial crepe pan into the fire. “You certainly don’t look disheartened. Or is that how you greet all your female friends?”

  The marquis sighed with exaggerated shoulder slump. “You as well? Daphne, you promised me you’d be discreet about us and tell me if you wanted to bring a third party into our games.”

  “No!” Johann and Madame said at the same time.

  “I tried to tell you,” the widow said, “but you just came in without giving me the chance. Where is that butler? He should have told you I have company.”

  “He said you were alone.”

  “He was trying to make sure you were distracted.” Johann dashed to the nearest window and saw the top of the butler’s head over the wall. “I suspect he is up to no good, Madame. You should go somewhere safe.”

  “But where?”

  “Come to my townhouse,” the marquis said. “It is very secure. You know I do everything to ensure the safety of my treasures.” He glared at Johann. “Unless my guests do something destructive to them.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Johann said but quickly added, “and I’m sure Mademoiselle McTavish also meant no harm. She said what happened was an accident. But this is irrelevant. You should take Madame and go.”

  “We will speak further of this,” the marquis told him. “I did not know you were in the city. I’d heard rumors, but I knew you would not be able to resist performing, so when I didn’t hear of you on stage, I thought they must be false.”

  “Well, surprise.”

  The marquis tapped a finger on his lips. “You may make up for the damage, or try to, by giving me and Madame a private concert this afternoon. Would that suit you, Daphne?”

  She smiled, and Johann tried not to groan. He hoped the private concert would be of the musical type, but by now he had enough of an idea what the marquis and Madame would be up to.

  “I’m afraid I’m in rehearsal for a show,” Johann said. “As you said, can’t resist the stage forever.”

  “Ah, but as you know, I can make your life miserable here in the city. This afternoon, my townhouse, at two o’clock. You may go.”

  Johann tucked the letters into his waistcoat and bowed to Madame. “A bientot, then.”

  The curve of her lips suggested a lizard about to snatch a bug, and he tried not to dash too quickly out of the office. He wished he had some way to tell the detective to apprehend the butler and was relieved to see Davidson talking to the man when he reached the sidewalk.

  * * * * *

  Marie wasn’t sure what to do once Frederic left. She knew she needed to learn her lines, but she was reluctant to go into the theatre, where memories piled on top of each other, both courtesy of the ghost and of her own mind. She walked through the alley to the side street and looked along the deserted boulevard, quiet for this time of day, even on a Sunday morning. Typically there would be some traffic—church-goers who hadn’t given up their faith like their government had given up on them.

  Then it hit her. She had walked outside without looking at the sky.

  Marie stalked as quickly as her skirts would allow to the front of the church next door to the theatre. Between its yard and the theatre and townhouse’s front gardens, there was space enough to see in either direction, especially since the trees had lost their leaves. The national guardsmen didn’t give her any notice beyond approving gazes. There, in the east, was a plume of smoke.

  But what does it mean?

  She looked around to see if someone, anyone, was outside, but the street remained deserted. The naked trees reached their branches toward each other and quivered in the breeze. A sense of aloneness and exposure descended on her, and she fled to the nearest structure, the church.

  The front door had long been barred once the priests left and the military moved in, but Marie knew of a secret door between it and the theatre. At one point, it had been the continuation of a secret passage before the alley had been cut and the portico built. As there wasn’t an obvious entrance, there were no guards there. It looked like masons had shored up the entrance with brick, but Marie pressed two of them, and it swung inward with a creak.

  Gratified that no one had apparently used the door recently and fearful someone might have heard it, Marie inched it closed to minimize the noise. The slick cool of the church enveloped her, and she closed her eyes to allow them to adjust to the gloom. The room she stood in had formerly been the sacristy and held the scents of dry stone with a lingering smoky and herbal overtone of incense.

  Marie opened her eyes when her nose caught the whiff of something more acrid.

  That’s not incense.

  She knew the army was using the church for storage, but she hadn’t made the connection until now. She wandered into the nave and saw that where there had formerly been pews, there were stacked boxes of guns and barrels of gunpowder.

  Marie put her hand to her stomach at the thought, This place is a bomb. She could only imagine what would happen if someone lit a fuse in here—it would take out the church and the theatre and possibly the townhouse. Whereas the possibility was remote if the French held the city, if the Prussians managed to invade, they’d want to seize it. And the French would rather blow up their own city than let the enemy have more weapons.

  A hard edge let Marie know that her thoughts had driven her to back into a large crate, and she steadied it. Not that it needed support—she did—and her mind whirled through the possible meanings of the morning’s quiet and what they could mean for her own family’s safety. Not just hers and Lucille’s but also Iris and Edward, Patrick O’Connell and the doctor, and even the detestable Bledsoe who counted her previous kisses against her.

  Where is he, anyway?

  She hadn’t seen him leave that morning, but he wasn’t there for breakfast. Neither was Iris.

  Oh, God, Iris.

  Had she gone to the museum? What if fighting or riots broke out in the street and she was trapped?

  Calculation and strategy replaced panic. First thing, see who’s at the townhouse and if anyone has any news.

  With that course decided, she slipped back out of the church, careful to ensure the secret door clicked locked behind her. She walked into the alley and almost into a national guardsman, who looked about her age.

  “Best be careful, Mademoiselle,” he told her. “The peasants in the area want to get at what’s in the church.”

  “Spiritual solace?” she asked with a bright, innocent smile she’d used often enough it didn’t prompt any one role to appear.

  He chuckled. “Solace of some kind, that’s certain. Best get home. Things are heating up outside the city, and the emperor wants everyone to be safe.”

  Or out of the way where they can’t see his mistakes. But Marie only nodded and turned toward the servant’s entrance of the theatre.

  “Wait, Mademoiselle.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “But if you would like to offer me some comfort, we change shifts at six. I saw you in the alley with the violinist earlier.”

  Marie snatched her hand back. “You have mistaken me for a different kind of woman, Monsieur.”

  He held up his hands. “I did not mean to insult you.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m stupid about this sort of thing.”

  “Yes, you are.” She stalked away before she said anything else to him that could come back against her later and tried to convince herself the cold wind explained the tears that bubbled up from the ashamed place inside her.

  A shadow overhead made her glance at the sky and gasp. The airship passed so quickly she
wasn’t sure if she’d seen it, and it was too high up to hear, but it left behind a vapor trail. She lifted her skirts and ran to the townhouse.

  * * * * *

  Once Davidson left, Iris turned to the manuscript on Monsieur Firmin’s desk. It continued to push at her, and she held back to prepare her mind for whatever it might assault her with. She typically had to reach with her mind to penetrate the fog of thoughts around an object, not defend against the sensations. She tried to push away the memories of the first time an object had been so insistent. The poison holder that contained the last note her father wrote to her had called to her like that, but with more frightening insistence. She later came to find it was from the danger she was in.

  No time to dwell on useless memories. I have to concentrate on what I’m doing now, not that I won’t be having Christmas in the house in Huntington Village with Father and Cook and Sophie, that traitor. All right, maybe I won’t miss her that much.

  The betrayal of her beloved maid, who had served Iris’s mother since childhood and then assisted with Iris’s care, still stung. She’d seen Sophie at Jeremy Scott’s funeral, all traces of affection erased from her beautiful face when Iris told her she had a maid of sorts and had learned to do for herself, and no, she didn’t want Sophie to come to Paris with her. Rejecting her had felt like a victory at the time, but now emptiness replaced vindication. Iris was in a place that could soon turn into a war zone. Sophie was safe in England with her husband.

  Iris sat and buried her face in her hands. What am I doing here? Am I here because I want to be or because I can’t go home? Sometimes dreams don’t come true the way you want or expect them to.

  She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and sniffled the last of her sorrow away. Whatever her feelings, she had a job to do, and she felt that there was some sort of significance to the manuscript on Monsieur Firmin’s desk. Whatever her emotional outburst meant, it was good she’d at least had the space for it here. She never knew when she might be interrupted at the townhouse, and it was typically never by who she wanted to disturb her. Perhaps Edward would be more accessible now that he’d solved the aether light problem, and she’d help him get to the next step however she could.

  Iris locked the door and removed her gloves. One of the coals in the fireplace shifted. The crunch, hiss and shower of sparks made her jump, but she was determined to proceed no matter how spooked she felt. With a deep breath, she sat and filled and emptied her lungs a few times. She inhaled focus to her fingertips and mentally placed barriers on the exhale, trying to find the balance she needed to best approach actually touching the manuscript.

  When she felt as prepared as possible, she closed her eyes and touched the ends of her thumbs, index fingers, and third fingers to the parchment. She had the sensation of spinning, or at least the dizzy feeling that comes after, and for a minute all she could see was smoke. Then she smelled the burning, and her vision cleared to show her a series of fires in a grain storehouse. She clutched the manuscript with both hands and detected a voice in her ear.

  “Run, flee now! They mustn’t find it. If they do, they’ll use the eternal flame for the perverted aims of their gods. At least they are burning the key, the fools.”

  Hands shoved her, and her feet skidded along water-covered flagstones before finding purchase. Bucket brigades had formed, but one by one they gave up and fell away, following Iris—or whoever she inhabited—out of the building. She held the rolled up parchment to her heart but could still feel its pounding through her thin breastbone and the scroll in her fingers. Now outside, she attempted to clear the after-images from her eyes and found herself in a temple courtyard.

  A giant stepped in her way, and Iris recognized the armor of a Varangian guard. From the perspective she looked at him, she guessed she was small, child-sized. But why would such an important document be entrusted to a child?

  “What do you have there, little one?” the guard said and held out a hand the size of a ham hock.

  Iris ducked around his arm, but he caught her by the hair. A vigorous shake of her head left him with a chunk of it and her free but with blood running down her neck. She ran and ran until her lungs and heart felt like one organ desperate for air and tight with terror that they wouldn’t get enough. Her eyes stung, and the insides of her nose and mouth had a bitter taste that drove her to crave water, but she dared not stop. No one detained her, although crowds gathered at corners or wherever they could see the flames and then the glow of the temple.

  Finally, in an area with narrow streets the perfect size for her and the rats, she slowed and made her way to a house just below the city gates.

  An older woman opened the door and pulled the child in. “I heard your footsteps. What is happening?”

  “The temple is burning. They set fire to the granary.” They moved to sit at a table, but the child wouldn’t release the scroll even when the woman reached for it. Giving it up would mean letting go of the life she’d known to that point, which although it was harsh, was at least familiar. Iris couldn’t blame her.

  The older woman shook her head and sucked her teeth, or at least the few she had left. Iris knew that was a sign of disrespect toward whoever would commit such sacrilege, but her eyes were drawn to an almost faded tattoo on the woman’s wrist rather than her interesting face. The symbol was a square inside a circle, and her heart resumed its hummingbird thrumming. Her modern aware self noted it, that it was a Pythagorean symbol. She waited for the woman to speak, to give her further instructions.

  “They are getting desperate,” she finally said and opened her hands.

  “But why are the granary records so important?” Iris asked. She cheered the child on, happy that the trauma of the fire hadn’t dampened her curiosity and had increased her caution. “Especially with the grain burned and the temple next to go.”

  “Because they are more than they seem, little one. The scholars are very close to finding what they seek, and the emperor knows. He wants to snatch it away before they can use it against them to make a fire that will not burn out.”

  “There is no such thing.” The child’s certainty came through with a sense of wonder. Could the scrolls with the long lists of numbers really give a clue to such things?

  “Not yet, there isn’t. And when there is, Constantinople will be the first to burn.” Now her teeth showed their rot when she cackled.

  Iris backed away. She didn’t want Constantinople to burn—she had family there. That was where she’d lived before the priests had come and snatched her up to become a page destined to be a temple concubine. She wasn’t sure what a concubine was, exactly, only that they ate better food than the priests, slept late and ordered the pages around.

  The woman lunged for her, but Iris slipped away easier than she had from the guard and ran outside. She was soon lost in the maze of streets.

  Iris lifted her fingers from the pages, which she now knew had once been a scroll, and opened her eyes. It took her a moment to recognize her surroundings, but Monsieur Firmin’s voice jolted her back to the present.

  “I knew your father, Mademoiselle McTavish. He had a very unusual talent, and I suspect you do as well.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Théâtre Bohème, 4 December 1870

  “It’s getting stuck somewhere around here,” Patrick O’Connell said.

  Edward looked up from the main console. “Let me see.” He wiped his hands on the rag he kept nearby, not because he’d soiled his hands, but due to needing to feel like he didn’t have any oily residue on his fingers. Even the smallest amount could interfere with the flow of aether through the various chambers. It was yet one more fascinating thing about the substance, but he felt no closer to figuring out how to turn it to a power source, which had been their original mission.

  He walked to where O’Connell stood and mentally mapped out the connections between the central console, which lo
oked like the top part of an organ with its various stops plus levers and dials, and the place where the flow of the aether gas had stopped.

  “It looks like it’s clear, but it won’t pass through.” O’Connell pressed his lips in a tight line, and his eyes were red-rimmed. Of all of them, he seemed most affected by being stuck in Paris. Strangely, being vigilant to the Irishman’s moods made Edward less conscious of his own doubts, which plagued him at night especially.

  Edward put a jeweler’s scope to his eye and bent to the glass tube that carried the gas. He could barely see into the brass fitting, which was at a corner, but it did look as though there was ample space for it to pass through.

  “Is the hydrogen passing?”

  “Aye.”

  Edward stepped back and surveyed the area. One of the things he loved and hated about aether was how unpredictable it could be. Working with O’Connell had given him a new respect for the nuts-and-bolts of producing and directing the substance as well as the equipment they used and the need to look at the whole picture. If he’d done that in Rome, stepped back to look at the whole situation before he acted…

  He pressed his hand to the wall to force himself to stay in the present and felt a slight vibration.

  “The orchestra isn’t rehearsing, but something is causing this. Perhaps the vibration of life in the city?” he mused. “And there’s something about the vibrations, particularly how they’re moving through this corner. Do we have any buffering material for the joint?”

  O’Connell handed him a plug of putty, which Edward molded between the brass joint and the wall.

  “That seems to have done it.” O’Connell shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “That’s the strangest stuff I’ve ever dealt with, Professor.”

  “It definitely has its quirks. How far does it go now? This might be the key to having it spread throughout the theatre system. I wish the siege would lift so we could get the rubber tubing. The glass and brass are too sensitive to outside noise.”