“It matters less than you might think,” she said, bending down to kiss me on the forehead. “I’ll be living through you every time you step onstage.”
Pulleys creaked, and I lifted up into the air until I was at the same level as the massive crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room. Kicking my feet, I began to swing back and forth.
“Too much vigor,” Monsieur Johnson shouted. “You look like a child at play, not a queen.”
I slowed my momentum.
“Uncross your ankles!”
I did so.
“I didn’t say spread your legs,” he shouted. “You’re Virtue, not some Pigalle harlot!”
My mother snarled something I couldn’t hear and the man blanched. “Please keep your knees together, Mademoiselle de Troyes,” he said, tone contrite. “Otherwise the audience will see up your skirts.”
He nodded to the musicians, and they began to play. Taking a few swift breaths, I inhaled deeply, and then I sang.
For the first verse, I was alone on the stage, but then the dancers made their way out from the wings. They did not make it far before Monsieur Johnson called a halt. “Softer, mademoiselle,” he said to me. “This is not the theatre.”
We started and stopped another dozen times, while the man shouted instructions and criticism, keen to have perfection from the professionals before he brought in the untutored ladies of the court. The rough plank of the swing was hard, and my bottom grew numb even as my back began to ache.
Would the mark on the castle move if the spell were performed again, I wondered. And what would I do if it did?
“Again!”
The map spell had given me clues to how Anushka was achieving immortality, but I was at a loss of what to make of them. I was certain the mark at the castle had been the living, breathing witch, but that didn’t bring me much closer to discovering her identity. I was sure Marie knew who she was, but I was just as sure she wouldn’t volunteer the information, especially to me. If I could get a strand of her hair, it was possible I could take the knowledge from her mind with magic, but getting the hair would be no mean feat, given I hadn’t so much as seen her since our first meeting.
“You call yourselves the best? This is a disaster! Again!”
We finally made it all the way through the first piece without interruption and were rewarded with grudging praise. Turning to my mother, Monsieur Johnson began to speak in earnest, and I gave off swinging. My back ached fiercely, and I swallowed away the malaise swimming in my stomach.
What linked the dead women? Why had Anushka chosen them among all the other souls living on the Isle? It was possible they were entirely random, but my gut told me otherwise. If there was a pattern, it was possible I could predict who was next, and that had to be worth something.
Leaning backwards, I cracked my aching back, my eyes drifting over the paintings of women hanging to the left of the stage. Their hairstyles and clothing were old-fashioned and strange to me, but what caught my eye was something all too familiar. My heart lurched, and I jerked upright, twisting on the swing to stare at the painting of a young woman.
Letting go with one hand, I touched the necklace at my throat, twin to the one the artist had rendered. But that paled in comparison to the fire of exhilaration that seared through my veins as I took in the writing on the plaque beneath it.
I’d seen that name before.
Twenty-Eight
Cécile
“This way,” I whispered, trotting toward the foyer’s entrance. Chris hurried after me, ladder slung under one arm.
“What happens if we get caught in here?” he asked. “Aren’t there guards patrolling?”
“Sabine’s distracting him, and besides, we’re not doing anything wrong,” I said, easing the door shut. “But I’d rather not have to answer any questions about why we’re here, so keep your voice down.”
In truth, my bigger concern was what my mother would do if she knew I’d sneaked out in the middle of the night. With my luck, she’d probably start chaining me to the bed every evening. But it was worth the risk. There was no other time I could reasonably drag a ladder in here to look at the rest of the paintings, and I needed to confirm whether my suspicions were correct.
While Chris set up the ladder, I circled the room with my lamp, examining all the portraits that were at eye level. I had the map and my neatly written list of names, and I compared the little engraved plaques below each painting as I went. “Estelle Perrot,” I murmured, lifting the lamp so I could better see her face. “I found one.”
Chris hurried over. “She’s wearing your necklace,” he said.
“I know. So is Ila Laval. She’s in the one to the left of the stage.” I gestured in that direction, but of course it was too dark to see. “My mother told me it’s a family heirloom.”
We were both quiet, the implications of that hanging heavily between us.
“Who are all these women?” Chris finally asked, touching the gilded frame.
“Mostly ballerinas,” I said, making a note next to Estelle’s name. “But some of them are sopranos.”