“Sure, missy. Just don’t leave.” Then he skulked off to the other performers, leaving Enne alone with the woman.
The performer sat on the chair by the vanity. “What are you drinking?”
Enne looked down at her glass and was surprised to find it empty once more. “It was gold.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t start too young, sweetie. That’s how they trap you. And you’re tiny as a teaspoon.” She motioned for Enne to sit beside her, and Enne collapsed in a very unladylike fashion. When she leaned back, the room spun around her like a carousel, so Enne shook her head and kept herself upright.
The woman plucked the empty glass out of her hand. “I’m the vedette here—the lead performer. My name’s Demi Salta.”
Enne giggled. She couldn’t imagine herself wearing an outfit like Demi’s when she danced. “Enne Salta.”
“Ah, well, a cousin wouldn’t tell on me for a little preshow ritual.” Demi winked, pulled a joint out of her pocket and lit it. The smoke was the color of marigolds. Demi coughed for a moment, then relaxed into her chair. “I like your jacket,” she said.
“Thank you,” Enne answered. She liked it, too, though she felt guilty imagining some girl in the city who was without her fur coat. But it was also very pretty.
“I’m looking for my mother,” Enne said—or rather, blurted. She liked Demi, and she’d always enjoyed the atmosphere of backstage, but she was here with a purpose.
“Well, she’s not back here.” Demi smirked.
“I don’t know where she is,” Enne admitted. “She’s been missing. Her name is Lourdes. And Séance. And she—”
“Maybe you’re not looking in the right places,” Demi said, letting out a drag. “Where else do you think she could be?”
Dead, a voice whispered in Enne’s head, and she whimpered. The voice wasn’t usually so loud. She could use a glass of water, or better yet, a bed.
“Don’t do that, don’t do that,” Demi ordered wildly. “It’s bad luck to cry backstage.”
Enne shook her head. “I’m not going to cry.” It was as much a command to herself as it was a reassurance for Demi. Just as she’d felt so often since yesterday morning, she was right on the edge of tears, a touch away from shattering. But she was growing accustomed to the feeling. Even after two drinks, she wouldn’t cry.
Outside, in the cabaret, the music changed to something faster. Demi swore. “I only have a few more minutes. I have a routine, you know. It’s not easy going out there if I have all my wits about me.”
“I’m sorry,” Enne murmured with a small sniffle.
“Oh, you’re so depressing. People come here to have fun, sweetie.” Enne frowned—she could be fun if she wanted to. Demi stood up, set down her joint and coiffed herself in the mirror. She handed Enne a tube of red lipstick. “This will look good on you. Anyone ever told you that you look like a doll?”
Enne grimaced. “A few times.” With a tremendous amount of pleasure, she pictured Sedric Torren overturning his breakfast, lunch and dinner across the city. Enne applied a layer of the lipstick and eyed herself in the mirror, wondering, once again, if the City of Sin was turning her into a bad person.
She dismissed the thought and helped herself to the other makeup Demi had on the vanity. Makeup was always soothing, and besides, she knew Sedric deserved everything he was getting.
“What do you usually do to prep for a show?” Demi asked, patting down her false eyelashes.
“I repeat my mother’s rules to myself, over and over.” She had never admitted that to anyone. Not that it was shameful. It just made her sound...vulnerable. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d done it. Demi was a stranger, but maybe that was precisely why.
“Her rules?”
“She has these rules about how to behave, about things like getting lost, or showing emotion, or—”
“You mean street rules,” Demi said. She handed Enne her powder compact, apparently happy to share her products. “Like what the gangs say.”
Enne stared at Demi for a moment, almost uncertain she’d heard correctly. Lourdes’s rules were precious to her, and she didn’t like to imagine they belonged to anyone else—let alone that they had begun somewhere else. And the more she remembered Lourdes repeating those phrases to her, claiming they were about etiquette, the more cheated she began to feel.
Instead of getting upset, Enne pressed some powder on her forehead and mentally filed that thought away as a question she would ask Levi later.
She should find Levi now. She was wasting time, playing with Demi’s makeup. But Reymond had told her to stay here, and somehow she knew, deep down, that there were no answers waiting for her out there in the Sauterelle. Only more strangers and more disappointment.
“Every time I perform, I smoke a little of this,” Demi explained. “But that’s a terrible idea. Don’t start it. It’s already stained my teeth yellow.” She tapped its excess ash into the tray, and Enne tried not to crinkle her nose. It didn’t smell as good up close. “Before they got me into this, I was a little more self-sufficient. I could get that natural flush all on my own.” She held up two fingers and winked at Enne, who blushed. “Pleasure isn’t just for the boys, you know. You don’t even need lovers at all if you get good enough at it.”
Enne, in fact, had not known, and turned over Demi’s words curiously.
Outside, the audience clapped, and Demi straightened, took a last hit of Mistress and headed toward the stage. Enne stared around the empty dressing room. She supposed she would need to find Reymond, rather than wait for him to find her. But she was tired of searching, and the room wouldn’t stop tilting.
“Well, come on,” Demi urged. “You won’t find your mother while moping drunk in here.”
“I’m not moping,” Enne grumbled, following Demi without thinking.
They walked onto the darkened stage. The audience whispered and whistled, waiting for the next act to begin. Demi placed one hand on Enne’s shoulder and peered through the crowd.
“There,” she said, pointing at a young man near the front. “Go talk to him. He’ll know your ‘rules.’”
As the lights turned on and the music began to play, Enne scampered off the stage. She considered ignoring Demi’s suggestion—Enne was exhausted and doubted it would lead anywhere—but she hadn’t traveled all this way to quit just because she was tired and admittedly a little drunk.
The young man sat by himself, twirling his finger over a glass of red wine. His hair was corkscrew curly, peeking out from underneath his top hat. He put on a salesperson’s smile as Enne approached.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for someone,” she answered, her words slightly slurred. “Her name is Séance.”
“The writer?”
Enne perked up and slid into the chair next to him. Maybe he would turn out to be a promising source after all. “Have you seen her?”
“I don’t go looking for trouble, missy,” he said. “You don’t look like you do, either.”
“I was told writers like her come here.”
“They did, when they were alive.” He looked at her pointedly, and Enne, again, felt herself standing at the edge of that cliff. She was tired of feeling this way. Angry for feeling this way. She could no longer tell if she needed to sob or to scream. “Maybe there’s something else I can do for you,” he offered. “You need a job?”
“I’ve got a job. What I need is information.”
“Ah, but the Orphan Guild can always get you a better job.”
“The Orphan Guild?” The name sounded familiar—maybe something she’d read in her guidebook. Likely something to avoid. She looked around the room for an excuse, for an exit.
“Not from the city? Most people would know the Orphan Guild. It’s the name of opportunity.”
“I’m not an orphan,” she said defiantly. Not an orphan. Not a doll. Not a lost cause.