Light Fantastique

by Cecilia Dominic

  The role of Marguerite fell away like a heavy gown. “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”

  A low laugh made her look toward the mirror. “You are wanted onstage, Henriette. But can you handle the role on your own?”

  “Are you offering the smoke again?” Marie asked. She placed a hand over her nose and mouth. “Because I do not want it. I want to tackle the stage without help.”

  “Ah, you are a brave woman. I wish I could watch you, but I need to spend the time in my workshop so I can monitor the musicians this afternoon. I’m concerned about the lack of first violins.”

  “Joh—Maestro Bledsoe can handle it.”

  “You’re on a first-name basis with him now?”

  “It was a slip. We are informal in my group, as you must have observed.”

  “You’re right. If it wasn’t for the accents, one would think you’re all American, not just the dark fellow.”

  Marie almost asked him why he was so invested in the performance but decided not to. She wanted more for him to be away from his lair that afternoon so she could find those damn photos.

  * * * * *

  Chadwick saw Johann rush out of the townhouse and decided to follow him. They needed to talk with Amelie Lafitte. His instincts told him there was another aspect to the situation, but he didn’t know what to make of Marie’s tale of the spirit of the theatre, and he was still skeptical of the influence of the Eros Element. Part of it was not daring to hope, true, but he was a man of science, and all they had was anecdotal evidence thus far. There was the strange night when she had collapsed in her bed and had been impossible to wake.

  He found Johann walking out of the hallway that held most of the dressing rooms, including Marie’s, preceded by one of the young actresses. Radcliffe had helped her with an upset stomach the month before, and she smiled shyly at him but had eyes only for the musician.

  “What are you doing here?” Johann asked.

  “Following you,” Radcliffe admitted. “Trying to keep you out of trouble. Whatever she’s doing, it’s her battle, not yours. Besides,” he added in a low tone so only the two of them could hear him, “isn’t it best you stay away from her lest you place more suspicion on yourself and cause more trouble for her?”

  Johann’s blue-green gaze snapped to Radcliffe’s gray eyes, and he reminded himself to try and keep the bitterness from his tone. If only he’d followed his own advice. But then he wouldn’t be in Europe in the middle of this fascinating mess and possibly within reach of something that could help Claire. For if the Eros Element could manipulate emotions, perhaps he could help her to not react badly when she saw him, and they could rediscover…

  What? The prejudice that had landed them in this predicament in the first place. But he could at least give her back to her mother.

  Lack of scientific method, dammit. There’s no point in hoping. Get your mind back where it needs to be.

  “You wouldn’t let the woman you love go off into danger on her own,” Johann said, then stopped. His startled look said he hadn’t allowed that word to trip off his tongue while talking about a woman very often, maybe ever.

  “She’ll be rehearsing this morning. Madame switched the schedule. You give her too little credit for being able to keep her daughter out of trouble.”

  Indeed, Marie emerged from her dressing room looking determined but without one of her many expressions that gave her the air of being a completely different person. Chadwick wondered if it was a side effect of their work with the Eros Element, but even before they’d discovered it, when he first met her in that little village in the north of France, she’d convinced him she was nothing more than a maid. Even with his belief that everyone was more than others assumed them to be, it had taken effort to not allow his gaze to slide past her, almost like he fought some force.

  Marie nodded to Johann but didn’t say anything. The musician followed her with his gaze until she disappeared, his mouth set like when he played a particularly difficult passage.

  “Ahem,” Chadwick said. “Perhaps we should try our luck with Mademoiselle Lafitte before you have to rehearse this afternoon.”

  The streets had more people on them than when the battle raged, but everyone watched the sky, where airships flew by every so often.

  “That’s new.” Johann sidestepped a woman who seemed convinced it was more important to look up than where she was going.

  “Something’s changed.” Indeed, the air was charged with the heavy thickness of expectation, an imminent change of tide. “Perhaps the countryside is coming to the city’s aid. I doubt the Prussians would have been able to build that many in so short a time.”

  Johann coughed. “Never underestimate Prussian inventiveness. They’re only flying over, not landing.”

  Chadwick looked at him, surprised he didn’t attach some sort of remark about Prussian actresses to his comment about inventiveness. Perhaps he was changing. “They’re staying out of cannon range, so they must be French.”

  They arrived at the address on the letter, which was within easy walking distance of the theatre. That made sense since the family was patrons. The Parisians did love their neighborhoods, which reminded Chadwick of the way Southerners stuck to their small towns, both with their almost blind patriotism for governments that may or may not have their best interests at heart.

  A butler answered the door, and Chadwick was quick to introduce himself as a doctor, and Johann gave his assumed name of Monsieur Sable.

  “Oh, are you here to see to Mademoiselle?” the man asked. His skin had a gray tinge to it, which Chadwick diagnosed as emotional distress rather than illness, an entire household under strain.

  “Yes,” Chadwick said. He didn’t like to lie, but he also didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to speak to the young woman in private.

  The butler showed them to a parlor, where Mademoiselle Lafitte lay on a chaise in a pose of classic hysteria, her blonde curls in disarray over the pillow behind her. She moaned and thrashed, and her mother clung tightly to her hand.

  “Doctor Chadwick Radcliffe,” the butler said.

  “Please don’t stand,” Chadwick said. “What happened?”

  “You are American,” Madame said, and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. “Are we in such a bad state that we have to depend on foreign doctors?”

  “Yes, since so many of your French ones have abandoned you. May I examine the patient? You can stay with her. In fact, I would prefer you do so. What happened?”

  “Two days ago, she went to a meeting with the students.” She said students with the inflection of one who was talking about an infestation of rats or insects. “Her father is too indulgent to let her do such things. When she returned, she was very quiet, would not speak to anyone that evening, and then the next morning, this.”

  Chadwick and Johann exchanged glances. That was the meeting referred to in the letter.

  “We are doomed,” Amelie moaned. “We must leave.”

  “We cannot leave, Cherie,” her mother said. “Not with you like this.”

  Chadwick felt the girl’s forehead and lifted her eyelids. There was no sign of illness or injury, not even of intoxication of some sort, but something about her behavior reminded him of what had happened to Marie.

  Amelie opened her eyes, saw Radcliffe, and drew back.

  “Don’t let him near me, Maman! Don’t let the dark man take me.”

  Madame Lafitte stood but didn’t let go of her daughter’s hand. “You must leave. You are making her more upset.”

  “Try to keep her as calm as you can. I have seen something similar recently and will let you know when I find something to help.”

  Madame nodded. “Very well. I would like her to be better in time for us to see the new show at the Bohème. Is it true that Fantastique will be taking the stage again? Amelie greatly admires her.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, and I was thinking she may be helpful if she were to come speak with your daughter. Perhaps a familiar face will bring her out of whatever this is.”

  “Very well.”

  The butler showed them out.

  “What are you thinking?” Johann asked.

  “We need to find out what happened at that meeting. Marie is the best one to do that.”

  “Because the girl admires her?”

  “That and other things.” Chadwick wanted to test his hunch. If what he suspected was true, it would add one more piece to the puzzle that was the Théâtre Bohème. “Have you noticed how she tends to take on roles and get into them more than any other actress you’ve seen?”

  “Yes, but she’s very talented.”

  “Just pay attention to her.”

  “Oh, believe me, I have no trouble doing that.”

  * * * * *

  Johann would never have guessed he’d miss Frederic. If there was a way the other violinist could sabotage him as stand-mate, he’d found it. From altering his bowing technique so it created a certain disharmony coming from Johann’s direction to refusing to find a rhythm with regard to turning the pages, there had been an annoyance every few minutes.

  But Frederic’s behavior didn’t compare to the hatred the other musicians directed at Johann after Frederic’s death. It was a true French coldness, a frosty politeness that pushed Johann away more effectively than harsh words could have. He straightened his shoulders and sat with his back to the rest of the violins, although he could still hear whispers behind him.

  Even worse, Maestro Fouré frowned in his direction frequently. When the conductor called their first break, he gestured for Johann to join him. They walked to the backstage area, and Fouré looked at Johann from under his thick gray brows.

  “Now that you know about the relationship between Mademoiselle St. Jean and me, I hope you will feel comfortable telling me anything,” the conductor said. “Although I have been unable to be a true father to her—and please believe me when I say her mother felt that was in her best interest, so I believe her—I do love her as a daughter and want her to be happy.”

  “I didn’t kill LeClerc.” Johann ensured he looked straight at the conductor when he said it to leave no doubt that he told the truth.

  “I didn’t think you killed him directly, but I wonder if it’s possible your attention made him a target.”

  “How so? Do you think I have friends who are that powerful?”

  “No, but you have enemies who may want you out of the way, and the government is running out of money to pay the guardsmen.”

  Johann exhaled too sharply for it to be a breath, but not hard enough for it to be an exasperated sigh. “I’m never going to escape from that mistake, am I?”

  “You can solve your problems with the Guild, but it will not be easy, and the success of this performance will be key.”

  A small, unfamiliar sensation burst in Johann’s chest—hope. If he could clear his debt, he could pursue Marie. “I’m willing to do anything.”

  “Those are the words of a desperate man.” Fouré frowned. “Or one in love. Tell me, do you love my daughter?”

  Although the declaration had snuck out from Johann’s lips that morning, the words now caught in his throat. He knew he did, but as for how she felt about him—well, he didn’t want to gamble his reputation in case she made a fool of him.

  “I feel very strongly for her,” he said and felt the emotional barrier snap back into place between him and Fouré.

  “So now you’re being cautious? You are still young and stupid, Maestro, if you don’t know what’s worth betting on.”

  “I’ve learned a few things over the past year.” Johann refused to let the older man’s gaze wither him like his father’s had.

  “One more thing. Marie is a headstrong girl. Don’t let her go into danger by herself.”

  “Trust me, I’m trying not to. But what did you mean about the first performance?”

  “If it goes well, Lucille might give everyone a bonus. I am willing to give mine to you for your freedom.”

  Johann didn’t know what to say. His father would never do anything so generous, especially not to help Johann out of a mistake.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now remember what I said about keeping Marie out of danger. She’s more like her mother than she would like to admit.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Théâtre Bohème, 5 December 1870

  Marie found herself the subject of curious gazes when she reached the backstage area.

  “Are you going to be able to perform?” Leigh Sellers asked. “I know all the lines if you’re not comfortable.”

  Marie allowed the premiere femme role to overtake her, but she felt that she held it rather than it grasping her. “Your attempt to sound helpful shows that you’re trying to be a good actress, but I’m not going to take you up on your most kind and generous offer.”

  Leigh humphed and stalked off. Marie glanced around, and the other actors looked away.

  “It is good to see you back,” Janelle whispered. “Leigh was sure she would be able to steal your role.”

  “She can try, but she won’t succeed.”

  Throughout rehearsal, Marie felt like the role she played reflected facets of her own personality and experiences. It still tried to overtake her, and she let it to a certain extent, but she did not allow it full control. The only problem—when she struggled with the balance, she forgot her lines. By lunchtime, she was frustrated enough to feel relief when Lucille called for an end to their work for the day.

  “Be sure you are prepared tomorrow,” she told Marie.

  Marie went to her dressing room to see if the ghost was still lurking about. If not, she would sneak into his lair. She was studying her script when a knock startled her.

  “Entree!”

  The door opened, and Doctor Chadwick Radcliffe walked in.

  “They said I would find you here. How are you settling in to the life of the premiere femme of the Théâtre Bohème?”

  It took a moment for her to process his words. She was startled to see him there, and he just didn’t fit in those surroundings. Her mind placed him in the infirmary, not the actors’ hall.

  “Fine, I suppose. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Although she wasn’t sure it was a pleasure. “If you’re concerned as to my mental state, I’m fine.” I think.

  “I’ll get right to the point so I don’t disturb you further.” He gestured to the chair in front of the dressing table, and she nodded for him to take a seat. He settled in and placed his hat on his lap. She noted how precise his movements were, no motion wasted.

  “Does this have something to do with Amelie Lafitte?”

  He smiled, his teeth white against his skin. “Yes, and we need your help and your talent to move us along.”

  Marie shifted to hide the shock of anxiety his words produced, both from the fact she was having difficulty managing her talent and because the way he looked at her and his words at the townhouse made her wonder if he suspected what she could do.

  “I’m not sure I follow, Doctor.”

  “Maestro Bledsoe and I spoke with Mademoiselle Lafitte. She is quite mad, or seems to be, but her mother said she admires you. We hoped you might be able to reach her mind, find out what happened to her.”

  A draught came through the room from somewhere, and Marie pulled her shawl around her shoulders.

  “I can go tomorrow. I need to work on my script.” And find the ghost’s lair.

  “I would caution you not to wait too long lest the young lady go further into her hysterical state before you can speak with her.”

  “And you’re sure I can help?”

  He gave her a measured look that made her wonder what he really wanted to
say. Finally, he told her, “You have certain charms that make you very convincing. I’ve heard of your talent as an actress, and I look forward to seeing it in the upcoming production.”

  “You overestimate my ability. I’m not finding this one as easy.”

  The skeptical lift to his eyebrows told her he didn’t believe her, and she tilted her head. The motion brought on the sense of a mask molding her face from the inside out, and she found herself back in the character of Marguerite the Spy.

  No, no, no, I don’t want this right now.

  “Are you all right, Mademoiselle?”

  “I’m well enough.” Even her voice took on a smoother, huskier tone. “Continue.”

  “You know how Inspector Davidson is interested in the theatre, even more now that he is involved in the murder investigations and is curious about what we were doing for Cobb.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want him to poke around too much, however.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t trust him.”

  “Then help us solve this, and perhaps you can also help clear Bledsoe’s name.”

  The thought intrigued Marie, but she wasn’t sure if it was because she truly wanted to find out or if she acted from the impulses of the spy character who seemed determined to inhabit her body at the moment. However, she felt more in control of whatever it was, like she could push it away if she needed.

  Perhaps the spirit’s concoction or training or whatever is working.

  “Very well, I will help you.”

  “Good. Please let me know when you think you’ll be able to visit her.”

  “I’ll have a messenger bring a request over today.”

  He stood and bowed slightly. “Thank you for your assistance, Mademoiselle.”

  She inclined her head, and just before he closed the door, she heard him say, “Uncanny.”

  Once he left, she closed her eyes and focused on letting go of the part, visualizing it peeling away from her from her head downward.

  “You are improving, Mademoiselle.” The spirit’s voice flowed around her, but she thought she could pinpoint the source from—of course—the direction of the mirror.