As this statement appeared to be plainly and glaringly false, Marcel and the others remained silent, waiting to hear more. Magnus walked down the steps, trying to look like he was amused by this turn of events.
“She’s very good, isn’t she?” he said. “I cater to many tastes, much like you. And I happen to have a client who wishes to do to the queen what she has been doing to the French people for many years. I was hired to do a complete transformation. And I must say, at the risk of sounding immodest, that I have done an excellent job of it.”
“I have never known you to be modest,” Marcel said without a hint of a smile.
“It’s an overrated quality,” Magnus replied with a shrug.
“Then how do you explain the fact that this woman claims she is, in fact, Queen Marie Antoinette?”
“I am the queen, you monster!” she said, her voice now hysterical. “I am the queen. I am the queen!”
Magnus got the impression that she was saying this not as a way of impressing her captors but as a way of assuring herself of her own identity and sanity. He stepped calmly in front of her and snapped his fingers in front of her face. She fell unconscious at once, slumping gently into his arms. “Why,” he said, calmly turning toward Marcel, “would the queen of France be wandering down this street, unattended, in the middle of the night?”
“A fair question.”
“Because she wasn’t. Josette was. She had to be complete in every way. At first my client wanted her only to look like the queen, but then he insisted on the entire package, as it were. Appearance, personality, all of it. Josette absolutely believes she is Marie Antoinette. In fact, I was doing a bit of work on her in this very regard when she became afeared and escaped from my apartments. Perhaps she followed me here. Sometimes my talents get the better of me.”
He set the queen gently on the ground.
“It also appears she has a light glamour on her,” Marcel added.
“For mundanes,” Magnus said. “You can’t have a woman who looks exactly like the queen passing through the streets. It’s quite a light one, like a summer shawl. She was not supposed to leave the house. I was still working.”
Marcel squatted down and took the queen’s face in his hand, turning it from side to side, sometimes looking at the face itself, sometimes at the neck. A long minute or two passed in which the entire assembled group waited for his next utterance.
“Well,” Marcel said at last, standing back up. “I must congratulate you on an excellent piece of work.”
Magnus had to brace himself in order that his sigh of relief would not be seen.
“All of my work is excellent, but I accept your congratulations,” he said, flicking a careless hand in Marcel’s direction.
“A marvel such as this, it would be such a success at one of my gatherings. So I really must insist that you sell her to me.”
“Sell her?” Magnus said.
“Yes.” Marcel leaned down and traced his finger down the queen’s jawline. “Yes, you must. Whatever your client paid you, I’ll double it. But I really must have her. Quite stunning. Whatever you like, I will pay.”
“But, Marcel . . .”
“Now, now, Magnus.” Marcel slowly waggled a finger. “We all have our weaknesses, and our weaknesses must be indulged if they are to flourish. I will have her.”
It wouldn’t do to imply that this fictional client was more important than Marcel.
Think. He had to think. And he knew that Marcel was watching him think.“If you insist,” Magnus replied. “But, as I said, I was still working. I just had a few finishing touches left to do. She still has a few unfortunate habits left over from her previous life. All of those Versailles mannerisms—there are so many of them—they all had to be stitched in like fine embroidery. And I hadn’t yet signed the work. I do like to sign my work.”
“How long would this take?”
“Oh, not long at all. I could bring her back tomorrow . . .”
“I would prefer she stayed here. After all, how long does it take you to sign your work?” Marcel asked with a light smile.
“It can take time,” Magnus said, responding with his own knowing smile. “I have an exquisite signature.”
“While I deal in used goods, I do prefer ones in pristine condition. Don’t be long about it. Henri, Charles . . . take Madam upstairs and put her in the blue room. Let Monsieur Bane complete his signature. We are looking forward to seeing the final product shortly.”
“Of course,” Magnus said.
Slowly he followed the prostrate queen and the darklings back inside.
After Henri and Charles put the queen on the bed, Magnus locked the door and slid a large wardrobe to block it. Then he threw open the shutters. The blue room was a third-floor room, a sheer drop down to the receiving courtyard. That was the only way out.