“Where have you been?” he asked.
“With the Marquis de Monceau,” Johann said.
“What’s the word outside? Any news of the battle?”
“None, although I suspect Inspector Davidson will be here at some point. He seems pretty well-informed. I need to talk to all of you about something.”
A rustling in the balcony made Marie look up, and she saw the light glint off something metal.
“We should probably go somewhere else,” she said and lowered her voice. “Somewhere below.”
Iris looked up but didn’t question her, just nodded. “That might be wise.”
“Very well,” Radcliffe said. “Madame? Maestro?”
“We will stay here and wait for word of the battle,” Fouré said and put an arm around Lucille.
Marie allowed her forehead to wrinkle in surprise but didn’t say anything. Might as well let someone have some fun. Or perhaps it’s a life-or-death situation tryst. Either way, I’m fine with it, surprisingly. There’s something right about the two of them.
Now if only she could find that rightness with someone herself. And she’d have to be more careful with Johann. He was in even more danger than Frederic had been but likely under the same influence.
“Very well, lead the way,” Iris told her.
Marie led Johann, Iris, and Radcliffe through the backstage area, down to the dressing rooms, and even farther down to where they could hear Edward and Patrick discussing the next step of the lighting system conversion. Her companions followed her down one more level to where old set pieces were stored. Iris sneezed.
“I would think that you of all people wouldn’t be bothered by a little dust,” Johann, teased. “I thought ancient dirt was your specialty.”
“Ancient dust doesn’t get stirred up quite like the modern stuff does,” she said and sniffed primly. “Do either of you have a handkerchief?”
Radcliffe gave her his. Marie glanced at the wooden set pieces that portrayed parts of a street scene, lampposts and a brick wall. Something odd about the surface behind them caught her attention. She brushed past Johann and lifted her lantern to examine the bricks.
“What is it?” Johann asked.
“There’s something back there.”
“It’s just a crack,” he said.
“No, it’s like the one at the church.” She pressed one of the bricks with her left hand and stepped on a slightly protruding one. The wall swung inward with a smooth, silent movement.
“Someone’s been using that,” Radcliffe said. “It’s in good repair if it moves that quietly.”
“I wonder…” Marie turned to face them. “I need to see where this leads. I’ll explain in a bit, but please wait here.”
Marie headed for the crack in the wall, but Radcliffe held her back.
“Wait,” he said. “There are other things to discuss before you go after him.”
She raised an eyebrow in surprise but nodded. “Very well, then. This way leads to the underground. I have friends there who will give us space to talk unmolested.”
“Are they trustworthy?” Radcliffe asked.
“I trust them with my life.” And I have more questions for them. Like what was the Roma boy doing bringing a message to Maman?
Although she had a lantern, Marie checked the match tin. It was full, so she guessed Zokar had information for her. She couldn’t tell him exactly where the automaton was, but she could give him a place to search, especially now that she was mostly sure of the entrance to the spirit’s special set of secret passages.
The inscription of “But I loved him” seemed all the more tragic now that she knew exactly what Johann thought of her. Or who he thought she was, a woman who had been kissed too much but was also ideal. She wondered which opinion of her would win or if they would combine to make her into an actress to be toyed with but not taken seriously.
Then Radcliffe had to keep tugging at Iris to keep her attention on the task at hand. Occasionally they passed human-shaped shadows in alcoves and corners, refugees from the surface, more than Marie had seen previously. They seemed as uninclined to bother the group as Marie was to disturb them. The bones showing through the skin and the gauntness of the faces she could see told the tale of starvation, the poor who couldn’t afford to provision themselves and who were the first to lose the strength to struggle for access to what the government could give them.
One small family group had a fire with a small carcass roasting over it—rat. In fact, the typical scurryings and scratchings were absent, replaced by the sounds of humans who had been reduced to living like animals.
A hand on the small of Marie’s back startled her. Johann kept her close and glared about, daring anyone to bother her. She would have been amused if he’d been guarding her, not who he thought she was. A glance behind her told her Iris and Radcliffe kept up with them. Iris did look wistfully at the inscriptions and then the patterns of bones as they passed through the ossuary but didn’t stop. Marie promised herself she would bring Iris back when all this was over and Paris was free again.
When they came to the fork in the path, Marie looked for the scratches that would tell her which way to take, but the wall had been plastered over.
What is this? She ran her fingers over the smooth surface and felt it was still damp. Could someone have found out how she traveled down here and had her directions obliterated? Were Zokar and Saphira and their family safe?
“What is it?” Johann asked.
“This is where they tell me how to come, how to find them.” Marie swallowed around the itch of panic in her chest.
“Who are they?” Radcliffe asked.
“My friends. The Roma.”
Some of the shadows detached from the walls, and the lamplight reflected in warning flashes off drawn knives.
Radcliffe drew a gun, but they were outnumbered.
“The four of you need to come with us,” the leader said in softly accented French. “Someone wants to have a word with you.”
“Merde,” Marie breathed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Théâtre Bohème, Sunday 4 December 1870
Edward emerged from the gloom of the theatre to the dusk of late afternoon. The theatre and lobby had been deserted, and he surmised that either the battle was over and the siege broken or resumed, or the others had descended into hiding somewhere below. He figured that if they had to go farther below, they would have told him and Patrick. So that meant siege as usual with the typical chance of shelling because if it had been over, there would be celebration in the streets.
So here he was getting some fresh air and natural light. In his university days, which felt like ancient history, he’d sometimes found that taking a walk could give him new perspective on a problem. He and Patrick had almost gotten the lighting system updated to run with the aether. All they lacked were some parts that were supposedly coming in on that night’s airship, but who knew how reliable that would be?
But beyond their immediate task, he felt there was a missing piece of the puzzle. Well, more than one. The biggest one—how could they convert the Eros Element from light to power? That was their original mission, and aside from his darkest moments, he felt he could not rest until he’d solved that particular problem. But something tickled the back of his brain about what he’d seen and experienced in the theatre.
“Excuse me, Monsieur?” It was a young woman dressed in bright blue. He must have been tangled in his thoughts if he missed her walking up to him because even in the twilight, her dress shone against the drab background of the Parisian winter. The color of her garment and the degree of cosmetics revealed her profession.
“I’m not interested. Please leave me be.”
She didn’t duck her head as prostitutes typically did when he dismissed them, and she wouldn’t let him move past her. Instead she pluc
ked at his sleeve. “Please listen to me, Monsieur. I have seen something horrible.”
Her eyes widened in desperate imploring, so Edward nodded with a sigh. “Fine. What is it? You do realize the city is at war, so horrible things are bound to happen.”
“A man was killed earlier today, right there in front of the theatre.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But listen, Monsieur. I saw who did it.”
It was a smaller piece of the puzzle, but it got Edward’s attention. “All right, I’m listening.”
She took his hand and tugged him to the side of the theatre that was away from the church and the guardsmen who would occasionally glance their way with smirks. She pulled him behind a tree.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “They’ll think we—”
“Let them. It was one of them who did it, who shot the violinist.”
“Are you sure?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Please believe me, Monsieur. I was walking along here—I left my patron’s house around lunchtime and missed the news of the battle. I saw the violinist coming the opposite direction. Then something changed about the atmosphere, and I thought we were going to be blown to bits by a Prussian mortar, but it was a different kind of feeling.”
“What kind?”
“I felt angry.” She looked down. “I wasn’t always like this, a fallen woman. I once was a dancer, but an injury on stage ended my career. I thought I had accepted my lot, for men are willing to pay me, or they were when they had money before the siege, but I was overtaken with a feeling of unfairness. I wanted to hurt those who hurt me, and I would have attacked one of the guardsmen—they’re the worst clients, smelly, brutish, and rough—but one of them raised his musket and shot the violinist. I screamed before I could help it. I was afraid they would shoot me too, so I hid.”
“Did the others not do anything?”
“The other two on this side of the church were arguing with each other and did not see him until after. Then they took him away.”
Edward’s mind sorted through her story. She couldn’t be telling the truth, could she? But he had heard screaming, so it must have been her. “And what happened after that?”
“The feeling, like a fog, lifted from my brain, and I would have gone to the fallen man, but another young woman came from the theatre, and two other guardsmen came to the man’s aid. I wanted to tell her what happened, but I couldn’t work up the courage to go into the theatre. Madame St. Jean has not been kind to those like me who approach her, even if it is for honest work.”
Her tale matched up with what he had seen and, more disturbingly, what he’d felt. He would have attributed the irrational anger to the escalation of danger in the siege situation, but then it should have started earlier and lasted longer. No, it had to be something else, and the only temporal match was the use of the lighting system.
And it had been during the original demonstration that the other man had been murdered in front of the theatre.
Edward steadied himself with a hand against the tree, heedless of the icy bark.
It wasn’t possible, was it? Could the use of the Eros Element at certain frequencies led to behavior change, an inflaming of certain passions? But what was the connection of the guardsman to the violinist? Or was it a random act of violence against someone of perceived privilege?
The questions erupted through his brain faster than he could catch them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I must go. I have to record this data.”
“Data?” the woman pursed her lips in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t explain. Thank you for coming forward. Please do not tell anyone else about this.”
She held her hand out. “And how much is my silence worth to you? After what I’ve seen, I’m going to have to go to a different part of town, start over, lest the guardsman find me and shoot me too.”
He gave her all the money he had, which wasn’t much, and she tucked it away and disappeared. He leaned against the tree, comforted by its steadiness.
The substance was named the Eros Element. The Eros of legend prompted people to do irrational things by shooting them with his arrows. But it couldn’t be possible. What sort of scientific principle was at work here?
The fact that the action of the Eros Element might be beyond science frightened him even more than its possible uses.
* * * * *
Marie thought she recognized one of the men from her attack on the street. The character of Marguerite the Spy snapped into place like a favorite jacket, and she surveyed their attackers through heavy-lidded eyes.
“Really, gentlemen, is all this drama necessary?” she asked.
Iris hid a surprised laugh behind one glove, and Marie caught Radcliffe giving her a look of almost clinical measurement, but the one she was most concerned about was Johann. She could handle the situation if he would stay quiet, but she knew that would be a challenge for him. She laid a finger on his arm and found his muscles tight and ready for action.
“You wouldn’t come with us up top, so we had to find you down here. Nice of you to walk right into our temporary home.”
Marie glanced around. That explains why they plastered over the scratches—they knew others would be coming through here and didn’t want to chance discovery. I wonder if Zokar and Saphira have moved.
A prick of anxiety that she’d lost her friends to the crowding of the underground passages before she could say goodbye stabbed through the barrier the role tried to place between her true self and her pretend self, and she balanced the two in her awareness. Now if only she could get rid of the thugs.
“If this is your home, your decorating leaves much to be desired. But then, you’re not French, so you don’t know any better.” Keep bantering until you come up with a plan.
The shadows behind the erstwhile kidnappers shifted, and in a moment they found themselves surrounded by men familiar to Marie from Zokar’s camp. These men carried handguns and longer knives.
“The leader is expecting you,” one of them said with a wink. “He’s wondering why you’re running late.”
“As you can see, I’ve been detained.” Relief washed the role away, and Marie gave the one who spoke a smile that was hers alone.
“No harm meant, Mademoiselle.”
The way the leader of the thugs sneered through her title, that he knew she wasn’t a Miss but rather a Mistress, told Marie he must come from Cobb. Lack of respect from his men, or rather respecting her only because she’d been his plaything, had been one of the most irksome parts of working for him. And one of the things she would never tell her mother, although she knew Lucille suspected.
Cobb’s hired hands sheathed their knives and sauntered down one of the passages. Their attitude confirmed their employer.
“Friends of yours?” the young Roma man asked.
“Hardly, but I’m not going to be able to avoid them forever. Although if I’m going to have to deal with Cobb, I’d rather do so on my terms, not his.”
The Roma men surrounded them and ushered them down a different passage, not one Marie recognized. They took so many twists and turns she knew she wouldn’t be able to find her own way out. Johann put a possessive hand on her waist, and she almost moved away but thought better of it.
Might as well enjoy his attention while it lasts, even if he does see me as just another actress to use. Like Cobb did.
“Are you sure they work for Cobb?” Iris asked and interrupted the bitter train Marie’s thoughts wanted to take. “How did he find us?”
“He and my mother have one disturbing thing in common—they know how to get information.” And they know how to use me for their own ends.
With that heartening thought weighing down her mind, Marie almost missed the savory smells of the camp that always felt like a homecoming.
&
nbsp; “What is that?” Johann asked and sniffed the air. “That smells amazing. How are they able to get spices and goat meat with the rationing?”
The leader glanced behind him with a scowl. “We are not taking more than anyone else in Paris, Monsieur. We have had to fight for everything we have, and we knew to conserve our own resources when the siege started rather than act like those who thought it would be over in a month.”
Instead of his usual genial expression, Zokar greeted Marie and the others with a frown.
“You brought more than just her,” he said to the man who had led them through the underground. “What are these gadze doing here?”
“I’m sorry, Zokar,” Marie told him. “They’re with me. Your men helped us to escape a trap.”
“They’re good men.”
The individuals in question disappeared into the even more crowded encampment. Marie wondered again why Zokar never suggested she allow herself to be courted by one of them. Zokar led them to his tent, where Saphira stood over a pot of something savory-smelling. When they approached, she started ladling the stew into bowls.
“Oh, we couldn’t,” Iris said. “Please keep the food to feed you and your family.”
Saphira ignored her and held out a bowl.
“It’s fine,” Marie told her. “Hospitality is very important to them. Just take it.”
“Thank you,” Iris said, and Saphira nodded with a smile.
Soon they were all seated around the little fire, and Zokar looked each of them over. His gaze lingered overly long on Johann, whose genial expression faltered under the intense scrutiny.
“Are you an honorable man?” Zokar asked.
Johann straightened, and Marie held her breath. Would he make one of his typical smart remarks?
“I’ve made mistakes in my past,” he said, “but I’m trying to move past them.”
Light Fantastique Page 21
