“Your teacher is here,” Fran?oise said, delivering a freshly laundered pair of ballet tights and a leotard.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Phoebe replied, noting the date on the doorframe in red ink. Freyja had asked her to stop scratching the wood in favor of a felt-tip marker that smelled of cherries and unidentifiable chemicals. “I’ve grown, Fran?oise.”
“You still have a long way to go,” Fran?oise replied.
“I know, I know,” Phoebe said with a laugh. Fran?oise was not talking about her height. Even so, Fran?oise’s criticisms did not sting as they once had.
“Do you need help?” Fran?oise asked.
“No.” Phoebe could manage dressing herself now without popping all the buttons off her blouses and buggering up the zippers.
She peeled off her pajamas and bathrobe. Both were silk and kept her from waking up at night itchy and raw-skinned. Phoebe was still uncommonly sensitive, even when compared to other young vampires. Fabric, light, sound—they all had the potential to make her irritable. But Phoebe was now aware of these triggers and was able to manage them most days.
Phoebe slid the tights over her legs, keeping her fingernails free of the mended patches that reminded her of previous attempts to wrestle with the slippery nylon and Lycra. This time she got the blush-colored hosiery on without a snag, a hole, or a wrinkle. Next came the black leotard with its skinny straps that went over her shoulders. They’d snapped in two several times and been replaced. Phoebe adjusted them so that the neckline of the leotard fit properly. Then she checked her silhouette in the mirror and picked up her toe shoes.
She’d been taking classes with a tiny Russian vampire with long legs and big eyes for several weeks now. Phoebe and Madame Elena practiced in the mirrored ballroom, which had excellent acoustics and a resilient wooden floor. Madame Elena’s son, Dimitri, a mousy-looking vampire who appeared to be in his early thirties, accompanied them, pounding on the keys of Freyja’s grand piano with a determined air.
Ballet had been an important part of Phoebe’s childhood, but she hadn’t touched a tutu for more than a decade. Though she had adored the music and the calming rituals of getting ready and doing warm-up exercises at the barre, followed by the exhilaration of jumping and turning, her teachers hadn’t thought she showed much promise as a dancer. Both Phoebe and Stella liked to excel at their activities, and Phoebe had moved on to tennis instead. At the time, she felt there was no point spending so much time on something she would never be good at. Now she had nothing but time.
After the incident with Stella, Freyja had thought that Phoebe needed a wider social circle and more exercise to smooth out her volatile moods. To everyone’s surprise, Madame Elena had a passing acquaintance with Phoebe’s childhood ballet mistress, Madame Olga.
“Good arms, terrible feet,” Madame Elena had said with some regret.
In Freyja’s ballroom, inscribing delicate circles with her toe and stretching out her vampire limbs, Phoebe was able to work her body to the point where it almost felt like she’d done some exercise. After a steady ninety minutes of controlled movement combined with the grandest of jetés and an exhilarating series of fouetté turns, Phoebe was pleasantly relaxed and her muscles ached. The aches and pains, she knew, would disappear in a matter of minutes.
“You are making progress, mademoiselle,” Madame Elena told her. “Your timing is still abominable, and you must remember to turn out from the hips, not the knees, or you will break your legs in two.”
“Yes, madame.” No matter what Madame Elena said, Phoebe agreed with her so that the woman would return.
She waved Madame Elena and Dimitri off, remaining safely in the shadowed confines of the front hall where the light would not reach her. All that time among the mirrors with Madame Elena had given Phoebe a headache, and she put on her dark glasses again.
“How was your lesson?” Freyja asked.
“Wonderful,” Phoebe said, riffling through the mail on the table. There was no mail for her. There wouldn’t be until after ninety days had passed. Still, it was her habit to check. “Where’s Miriam?”
“At the Sorbonne. Some conference,” Freyja said, airily dismissive. She linked arms with Phoebe, and the two strolled toward the back of the house, where Phoebe had taken possession of a room that overlooked the garden.
Freyja felt every female vampire should have a space of her own in the home that was set apart from the boudoir where she slept, bathed, and entertained intimate visitors. With twenty-four hours to fill, it was important to develop routines that moved one about and gave structure and substance to the day. At Freyja’s insistence, Phoebe had gathered up some of her favorite things in the house and taken them down to the old morning room, now known to all as “Phoebe’s study.” The Roman vase was there that used to be in the front hall, as well as a particularly nice Renoir that reminded her of how she felt when she was with Marcus. It was soft and sensual, and the dark-haired woman picking roses looked a bit like her.
“You finished your painting!” Freyja exclaimed, looking at the canvas propped on the easel.
“Not quite,” Phoebe said, casting a practiced, critical glance over the work. “The background needs adjusting, and I think the light is still too strong.”
“You think all light is too strong, Phoebe, and yet you are drawn to it in your art as well as in your life.” Freyja inspected the painting closely. “It’s really quite good, you know.”
Like ballet, painting was something Phoebe was pleased to pick back up.
“What I’m learning will be a huge help when I go back to work. To Sotheby’s.” Phoebe tilted her head this way and that to change her perspective on the piece.
“Oh, Phoebe.” Freyja looked sad. “You know you will never work at Sotheby’s again.”
“So you all say. But I’m going to have to do something other than paint and dance, or I’ll go mad,” Phoebe said. “You may have been a princess, Freyja. I never was.”
“We shall find you some good causes,” Freyja said. “They will occupy your time. You can build schools, join the police, take care of widows. I do all of those things, and they make me feel useful.”
“I don’t think I’m police material, Freyja,” Phoebe teased. She was growing fonder of Marcus’s aunt with each passing day.
“You didn’t think you’d remembered how to plié,” Freyja reminded her. “You never know where the path of your life will take you.”
“There’s always Baldwin’s collection to catalog, I suppose,” Phoebe replied. “Not to mention making an inventory of Pickering Place. And Sept-Tours.”
“You can make a list of everything in my house when you are finished with those. And don’t forget to take a look Matthew’s house in Amsterdam. The attics are filled with the most enormous canvases covered with dead white men in ruffs.”
Having seen some of the places where Matthew kept his art, which included the downstairs loo at the Old Lodge, Phoebe wasn’t surprised.
“But you must do more than hunt for treasure, Phoebe dear,” Freyja warned. “You cannot save the world or everyone in it, but you must find a way to make a difference. My father always said that was what vampires were put on earth to do.”
34
Life Is But a Breath
16 JULY
We were just finishing up with the twins’ baths when Marcus rocketed into the room. Marthe was steps behind, looking concerned.
“Edward Taylor’s in the hospital,” Marcus said to Matthew. “Freyja says it’s a heart attack. She won’t tell me where he is, or his condition.”
Matthew handed Philip’s towel to Marcus before taking out his phone.
“Miriam?” Matthew asked when it connected. He put it on speaker so we could all listen in.
“Freyja shouldn’t have called you, Marcus,” Miriam said sourly.
“Where is Edward now?” Matthew asked.
“The Salpêtrière,” Miriam replied. “It was closest to the flat.”
“His condition?” Matthew said.
Miriam fell silent.