I stood in the wings, peeking out at the darkened house through the heavy scarlet curtains that formed the grand drape. Silent rows of red velvet seats greeted me, flanked by aisles wearing carpet patterned with red and gold vines. I always thought that heaven must look like this theater—soaring ceilings painted with angels, private boxes lining the perimeter, their railings carved and gilded, hung with red curtains trimmed in gold fringe. Three balconies stair-stepped higher and higher, to the far back edge of the house, and above it all soared an enormous crystal and gold chandelier.
Once a year, the chandelier was lowered on its immense system of ropes and pulleys so it could be cleaned—by the first-year apprentices. I remembered polishing the crystals—some so big my small hands could barely hold them. A news reporter once asked Master Fenrey why theater apprentices were forced to do menial labor like this their first few years. Master Fenrey told the reporter that there was no better way to create a love for a theater like the intimate tasks required to care for it. I think he was right—in a way, that chandelier belonged to me now. To all of us.
I gave the chandelier an affectionate smile, then eased back into the wings.
“How are we going to do this?” I asked Dietrich after all the lights were on.
He surveyed the crowded wings and peered up at the catwalk suspended amid the grid of ropes and battens high over the stage in the fly loft—the space above the stage where the lights and scene drops were hung. He closed his eyes, a look of dread washing over his features. I wondered if he had pictured, as I had, Delphine’s dead body dropping from those heights.
I hated her but certainly not that much.
I glanced at her. She, too, was staring at the catwalk with morbid fascination. I almost pitied her.
This wouldn’t do. I clapped my hands together. “All right. How about this, Dietrich,”—his name rolled easily off my tongue—“let’s see if we can at least figure out when the Peacock actually kills his victims. Is he dragging the, um…body up to the catwalk or is he dragging a live person?”
He snapped his attention to me. “Right. Excellent question.” He pulled out the investigative report again, and motioned to Delphine to look at it with him. “I’m not sure he could have carried Sir Alexander’s body easily. He was not a petite man.”
“I don’t think he could have carried Dame Bosworth either,” Delphine said, pointing at the actress’s name in the report.
“Could he have an accomplice?” I asked.
Dietrich frowned. “At this point, we don’t know. But if the cause of death is actually poison or magic, as the investigators suspect, wouldn’t it make sense that the Peacock used it once his victim was already on the catwalk?”
I nodded. “It would be far easier for him that way. So here’s my next question: Do we let him take Delphine all the way up to the catwalk? How far do we have to let him go in order for the police to have enough evidence so the court can convict him?”
Dietrich heaved a sigh and rubbed his hand over his face. “I’ll have to ask.” His voice sounded heavy. I couldn’t blame him—none of us were trained for something like this. I wouldn’t have been surprised at all if Delphine were wishing she’d never volunteered.
But she stiffened her shoulders and lifted her head. “I’m not keen on the idea of letting the Peacock take me all the way to the catwalk, simply because it will make it much more difficult for the police to stop him. But if that’s what it takes, then that’s what I’ll do. The bastard has to be caught.”
Give the girl credit—she might be a diva-bitch, but she had wrought-iron courage. I walked over to the lift that could be raised to the catwalk. Took a deep breath—I didn’t like the lift. The walls were made of metal mesh, giving it the look of a small cage. But I couldn’t think about that right now. “I would think that if he forces you toward the lift, that should show enough intention to harm you. And if he is using poison or some sort of charm, it should be on his person when they arrest him. Wouldn’t that be evidence enough?”
Dietrich considered this a moment. “I would think so. But I’ll still ask. In the meantime, let’s plan for that. I’d much rather not let her get all the way to the catwalk.”
Delphine shivered. “Thank you.”
I walked to my bag and pulled out my sketchbook. “Then I suppose the next thing we should do is brainstorm some ways the Peacock might try to abduct Delphine, so I can start making some defense gadgets.”
While I had been speaking, Delphine checked the time on the watch pendant she was wearing. She suddenly looked anxious. “I’m sorry—could the two of you work on that for a bit? I was supposed to meet someone this evening, and I need to let this person know I will be unable to be there.”
She gave me a meaningful stare, and I realized she must be planning to go to the Coggled Noggin. To tell them she was quitting? Perform? Both? I hoped they had an understudy for her part. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No, that’s not necessary, but thank you. I’ll be fine.”
I raised my brows at her uncharacteristic politeness. I didn’t like the idea of her making the trip alone, but she’d been doing it for the last three years. One more trip didn’t seem to matter. “Go. I’ll work with Dietrich.”
She gave me a small nod, looking grateful. And surprised. Had she expected me to rat her out to Dietrich? She didn’t know I’d promised Nadine to keep her secret. “Is this all right with you, Dietrich?” she asked.
He narrowed his eyes. Maybe she was laying on the politeness a little too thick. Clearly, he thought she was up to something. “If you must, I suppose you’d better go. Will you be rejoining us this evening?” His tone was so sarcastic, I thought he would certainly add “your highness” to the end of the question.
“Will you still be here in about an hour and a half?”
She couldn’t be planning to perform, then. Not enough time.
Dietrich looked disapproving. “It will take you that long to talk to your friend?”
Oh dear.
I leaned my sketchbook on the floor against the lift. “It’s something she promised for Nadine—Dame Fairchild, I mean.”
He whirled to me, pointing at the lift. “This is what she promised for Dame Fairchild.”
I put my hands on my hips. “If you were to ask Dame Fairchild, I’m sure she would urge you to let Delphine run her errand. Just this once.”
He looked from me to Delphine and back. Finally, he huffed and raised his hands. “Fine. Go. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’d better be ready to rehearse tomorrow evening without interruption.”
She curtseyed and thanked him. She even shot me a relieved smile before hurrying from the theater.
When she was gone, Dietrich scowled at me. “Diva-bitch. Is that the term you all use?”
I giggled. “In this case, I think she had a good reason. And coming from me, you know it must be true.”
He smiled, his green eyes twinkling, good humor restored. “It’s like dealing with my sisters.”
This caught my attention. No one knew anything about Dietrich’s personal life. “You have sisters?”
His smile faded. “I did. I mean, I do.” A note of deep sadness sounded in those words.
Damn. I never knew what to do when someone was sad. Couldn’t think of the right thing to say. Making jokes was so much easier. But even I knew that would be rude at the moment. “Well, uh…I suppose we should do some brainstorming?”
He gave me one more smile, this one tight and small. “Right.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I had thought to role-play with Delphine to come up with some possible ways the Peacock might try to abduct her, so we could examine the best options to defend against it. Or ways to escape from him once he does take her.”
“You mean, you’d pretend to be the Peacock and grab her?”
“Yes.”
My stomach turned over. I didn’t know if I could do that kind of brainstorming. Not wit
h him. Not so close to the stage and the lift. But then I thought of Delphine. Willing to go with the Peacock all the way to the catwalk if necessary. I wasn’t going to be outdone by the diva-bitch, no matter how nervy she was. “That sounds fine with me.”
He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Just came to stand behind me. “Ready then?”
I nodded, willing myself to breathe. I could do this. I could be brave, too.
He wrapped one arm around my waist, and his other hand cupped lightly over my mouth. “In this situation, you’d still have your hands free. What would you need in order to escape?”
He didn’t hold me roughly, but a whimper burst from me anyway. Gentle as he was, it still took me back. Back to a time when a man with a knife and no gentleness at all had captured a small eleven-year-old in much the same way. Dragged her from her room, down the fire escape. Took her far from her sleeping roommate, from the safety of the theater.
I was that girl again, no matter how I told myself it was ridiculous. My heart raced. I should fight, like I should have fought back then. But now, as then, the fear paralyzed me. And shame. If I hadn’t wanted to be taken, why didn’t I struggle?
He said something else—I think he called my name. But I couldn’t respond. Trembles started deep inside me, vibrating out. Hot tears slid from my eyes, tumbling down my cheeks. They leaked into the spaces between his skin and mine, and immediately, he let me go.
He turned me to face him and touched his tear-dampened hand, comprehension flooding his face. “My God, Minx,” he breathed, his eyes glowing soft with concern. “Who hurt you?”
I scrubbed away the humiliating tears and shook my head. I couldn’t talk about it. Especially not with him. I clenched my jaw and glared defiantly at him. “I’m fine. Just tired. Let’s work.”
“No. Not if it’s going to cause—”
“I said I’m fine!” I turned my back to him. “Delphine’s not going to die because I’m a coward. Do it.”
I braced myself to be grabbed again. He swore under his breath. But when his arms came around me a second time, it was an embrace so tender, my tears fell even faster.
He held me against him, rocking gently side to side. “I would never hurt you. It’s all right. I’m not him. I’m not him.”
The terror warred with a longing to trust him. I leaned my head back against the soft velvet of his smoking jacket. It would be so tempting to stand there and cry out six years of pain and fear. But it would be too intense, too overwhelming. And I couldn’t do it—not in front of him. I willed the tears to stop, pressing them down deep inside me. I had years of practice at that.
“Chwaer fach hush,” he whispered, the words melodic and unfamiliar to me, “ni fyddaf yn gadael i'r tywyllwch yn mynd a chi. Peidiwch a bod ofn i mi.” His breath was warm and I felt his lips moving against my hair as he spoke.
Part of me was terrified. But I was so exhausted, so dreadfully tired—not just in body, but in spirit. Too weary to be afraid. Too weary to fight. My brain said he was safe, even if my soul didn’t yet believe it.
I sagged against him. His arms tightened around me, supporting me. His hands rubbed my arms, a slow, comforting rhythm.
Was this what it was like to be held by someone good? I drew an unsteady breath. Sharp longing pierced me. A beautiful man was holding me. A man I found attractive. It should have been a thrilling, romantic moment. I actually wanted it to be. Turning my head to rest my face against his jacket, I searched for something I couldn’t even name.
He stilled, his heart thumping beneath the velvet of his jacket. His breath quickened. For a crazy moment, I imagined he had pressed a kiss to my hair. Was he attracted to me, too?
No one had ever found me attractive—not in my own form.
Except…possibly Raymond.
With a deep intake of breath, Dietrich let me go, nudging me to stand on my own. I heard him step back. Without turning, I put a hand to my chest. What had just happened between us?
“Better now?” His voice sounded thick.
I nodded. I couldn’t look at him yet. “Thank you,” I whispered. I searched for something neutral, boring to say. “What language was that?”
“Cymric.”
Then I did peek at him. He looked dazed, too.
“Cymric? But your name is Prussian.”
“My mother was Cymric. I learned both languages.”
“Oh.” Then, “What did you say to me?”
His cheeks flushed. He didn’t look like he intended to tell me. I inhaled, my mind quickly improvising all the things he might be reluctant to repeat in Mercian now.
He finally gave me a tiny, embarrassed smile. “I said, ‘Hush little sister, I won’t let the darkness take you. Don’t be afraid of me.’” He looked at the floor. “I apologize, Minx. I shouldn’t have been so familiar toward you.”
Disappointment slid over me, like old, thickened oil. Little sister? Ugh.
But I couldn’t be impolite. I steeled myself to touch his arm. “That was sweet. You don’t need to apologize. I’m…not afraid of you anymore, Dietrich.” It was only a small lie.
His eyes met mine, dark and mysterious again. “I’m glad.”
Sister.
What a dim-witted, rusty, dented cog I was.
Chapter Twelve
We didn’t do anymore brainstorming that night. I was exhausted and Dietrich seemed to need some space. The next day, I was restless and distracted in my classes. But I filled four sketchbook pages with ideas of how Delphine could defend herself against the Peacock. I couldn’t wait to get to the tech studio and start making some prototypes. Delphine and Dietrich rehearsed on their own that evening while I worked on my designs. I didn’t see Dietrich at all that day, and it was just as well—what had happened between us backstage confused and unsettled me. And I was still smarting over his “little sister” comment.
The following day, we had most of the afternoon off to work on our final-year projects. To complete our apprentice program, we would have to pass oral and written exams given by the Theatrical Guild. But we also had to produce an original full-length play that would be judged by members of the Guild. We were each put into production teams. I was in charge of set design and prop construction for my team. Raymond was our playwright. Twice a week, we had the entire afternoon to work on our production, but most final year apprentices—especially the team leaders—ended up putting in many more hours on top of that. Our futures depended on creating the best show possible.
Raymond had been fretting about the script for our play. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up with a bad case of writers block. Not good, since none of the rest of us could do any work until we had a script. I had wanted to go to the library’s reference room anyway to look at newspaper archives relating to the Peacock murders, so I suggested he come with me to research some possible ideas for our production.
We spent three hours at the reference room. As we exited the library through the huge, arched double doors and walked down the wide marble steps leading to the street, I couldn’t hold back a sigh.
Raymond adjusted the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder. He wore a very plain sack suit and a tweed cap. “Research didn’t go well?”
“It was all right.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Did I say anything was wrong?”
“You sighed. It was a ‘something is wrong in Minx-land’ sigh.”
I gave him a quick smile. “Aren’t you perceptive.”
“I just know you.”
Warmth like the glow of stage lights spread through me. No one knew me like Raymond and Thea. Their friendship meant everything to me. I didn’t say it to them often enough, but I liked to think they knew anyway.
“I love the library, and I hate it too,” I told him.
“That’s a little crazy.”
I shrugged. “It’s so beautiful, and it’s the biggest library in the empire. Eight floors of books. More books than I could read in my lifetime. It
’s a paradise of books.”
“Sounds like true love to me. What’s the problem?”
We reached the sidewalk, bustling with late-afternoon pedestrians. Some were fine ladies out for a stroll with parasols and maids and cute little dogs trotting along. Others were nannies pushing baby carriages and shouting to small children to stay back from the street. Some were business men and women hurrying home from offices or factories.
I kicked a small rock along the brick sidewalk, trying to put into words how I felt about the library. “Because no matter how much improved my life is, even if I’m a Theatrical Guild member that could afford a membership, I’ll never be good enough or upper-class enough to get one. They’d never let a lowly theater worker be a library member.” I groaned. “All those books, just out of reach. It’s a nightmare.”
“Well, we are the royal water closet, after all.”
I snorted. “I know, I know. Hand-painted in the Orient, encrusted with jewels, set upon a dais of marble—”
“But it’s still where the piss and shit goes.”
“Right.”
It was a long-standing joke in the theater about our odd place in the world. We were the top point of the Jewel of Society, but we would never, never be upper class. The aristocracy might invite our star actors and directors to their parties—but only as status symbols, just as one might bring out the best silver at dinner to impress a guest.
“At least the library lets us use the reference room.” Raymond’s voice held false cheer.
I gave a sarcastic little whoop. “At any rate, that was why I sighed. No matter. How did you get on? Any great ideas for our play?”
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