A Curious Beginning

“Pays me!” she snorted. “He hasn’t paid me in a month. If you ask me, he’s on his last legs with this show. And then we’ll all of us be out on our ear.”


“I am sorry to hear that.”

I made to change out of the costume, but she shook her head. “Keep it. You will need something for the act and blue makes me look bilious. It suits you,” she said, her expression sulky.

“I meant what I said, you know. I should like to be friends.”

Her gaze narrowed. “And you’re really not jealous that I used to lie with Stoker?”

“No more than I am of the trousers he wears,” I said cheerfully.

She was not certain if she ought to take offense at that, but it was to her credit that she chose not to. She shook her head. “If he were my husband, I’d want to slit the throat of any woman he’d been with.”

“Then I suppose it’s a rather good thing you are not married,” I replied. “Remind me to send you some literature on the free love movement. I think you might find it illuminating.”

She looked me over again. “You are an odd duck, missus. A face like that, you could be on the stage, making more money than you could count. You could have a duke, if you liked—or even that tubby Prince of Wales. What are you doing with Stoker?” she demanded again.

“I told you,” I said gently, “I simply adore him. It was love at first sight.”

She gave a sharp crack of laughter. “You lie worse than me. I’ll find out what he is up to with you, missus. There aren’t any secrets in this camp. Not from me.”

“I shall consider that a warning.”





CHAPTER TWELVE


In spite of our exchange of barbed words, Salome insisted upon giving me not only the blue costume, but also a cherry pink cape of sorts to go over it and a pair of tights that were more or less the color of my flesh. She also applied the necessary cosmetics. She powdered my face heavily with rice powder and wielded a kohl stick and lip paint with enthusiasm. Her skills were considerable, and I felt a completely different person as I made my way back to Mr. Stoker.

“What in the name of Christ happened to you?” he demanded. His eyes darted to the plunging neck of the costume and flared wide, the pupils quite black against the dark blue of his eyes.

If he found my costume and cosmetics a change, it was nothing to the alteration in his own appearance. Leopold had worked wonders upon him, shaving off the monstrous beard and mustaches, revealing a firm jaw that stood as counterpart to the proud nose and high cheekbones. The beard had, as I had noted before, hidden a perfectly delectable underlip, now entirely visible. His scar ran slim and pale down the landscape of his cheek, over his jaw, and beneath his collar. It sketched a parallel line to his jugular, perilously close to that region of mortality, and I marveled that he had come so close to death and fought his way free. It said a great deal about the character of the man, and I felt—not for the first time—that the fellow I had met was a shadow of what he had once been. The question remained, was the damage irreparable? Life had broken him, but could he be mended?

I nodded towards his freshly shaven chin. “That is quite a change.”

He dragged his gaze up from my décolletage. “As is that.”

“Salome,” I replied dryly. “It is a bit much; you’ve no need to say it. But I did think this would further disguise me should we encounter the baron’s murderer. Mr. Stoker, are you listening? You’ve gone quite glassy-eyed.” I snapped my fingers sharply in his face, and he nodded.

“Yes, I heard you.”

“Good. I suppose I might as well leave this nonsense on until the performance. Now, where are your knives? If I am to do this thing, I must have a bit of practice to make certain I do not lose my nerve in front of a paying crowd.”

He recovered himself then and retrieved his knives, although I caught an unwilling glance or two directed towards my décolletage as we made our way to the little practice ground he had arranged. The cape had covered my legs, but I dropped it once we arrived, and Stoker made a sort of whimpering sound.

“Are you quite all right?” I asked.

“Entirely,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. I hoped he would not find my bared limbs too distracting, but as soon as he bent to his task he seemed to forget me entirely as a person. He moved differently, his very form suffused with purpose and his attention focused with an intensity I had seen only when he was working at his elephant.