“That little scamp over there at the end,” Prince Rupprecht said, “is Pierre, Colifichet’s little delivery boy and apprentice, here to view the fruits of his master’s labors, to learn, to dream, yes?”
Pierre, who was well within earshot, looked over. His expression was dark; he must’ve understood everything, which meant he spoke English. Purple shadows circled his eyes. His blond hair was cropped close, and he had extraordinarily large ears. He was about Ophelia’s own age—far too old to be referred to as a little scamp.
“Fruits?” Penrose said. “Labors?”
“Why, I believed that was why you sent up your card,” Prince Rupprecht said. “To make the acquaintance of the gentleman who designed those stupendous stage sets. Mechanical, every last bit. Much more of a spectacle than pasteboard props moved around by ropes and pulleys, would you not agree?”
“They are indeed stupendous,” Penrose said to Colifichet.
“Yes, wonderful,” Ophelia said.
“They are not perfect, non, yet I did my utmost.”
“Are you a regular designer for l’Opéra de Paris?” Penrose asked. “I did not realize they—”
“I am an employee of no one.” Colifichet twiddled bony fingers.
“Of course not!” Prince Rupprecht said, spilling brandy on his lap. “Spilt drink. Rain is on the way.”
“I daresay the rain has already arrived,” Penrose said.
“Are you superstitious, Prince Rupprecht?” Ophelia asked.
“It is what comes of having peasants for nursemaids. They filled our heads with magic and tales.” Prince Rupprecht stared down at the droplets on his lap with a creased brow. Then he looked up at Penrose. “Lord Harrington, I have heard tell that you are afflicted with superstitions of your own. That you hunt down relics of a most peculiar nature, yes?”
“Good heavens,” Penrose said in a mild tone. “Who told you such nonsense? I am a professor.”
Colifichet said to Penrose in an impatient tone, “I have a shop on Rue des Capucines. Colifichet and Sons. Perhaps you have heard of it?”
“Finest clockwork toy shop in all of Paris,” Prince Rupprecht said.
“Toy shop,” Colifichet said, flushing, “is not the term I prefer. I invent and create automata. My grandfather built the shop, but in those days it was strictly a clockmaker’s.”
Ophelia tried to think why clockmaker rang a bell.
“My grandfather once made an engraved pocket watch for Napoleon Bonaparte,” Colifichet said.
“How remarkable,” Ophelia said, attempting to remember when Napoleon Bonaparte had lived.
“Not really. Bowing down before aristocrats was never what I wished for myself. I wish to create more. More beauty, more ingenuity, even the semblance, oui, the poetic semblance of life itself. Life, indeed, perfected.”
“Life, I daresay,” Penrose said, “at least, judging from that garden in Act One, made fantastical. Phantasmagorical, rather.”
“If only I could make clockwork ballerinas, too,” Colifichet said. “Did you see that wretched display in scene two? Like a troupe of dromedaries.”
Prince Rupprecht grunted his agreement.
“I work so hard, so very, very hard,” Colifichet said, “and those girls destroy it all with one cumbersome arm out of place. My work, my sweat, my blood!” He curled his lip. “Wasted. I would like to kill those girls, sometimes.”
Ophelia and Penrose traded glances. “Pardon me, Monsieur Colifichet,” Ophelia said, “but is the Marquis de la Roque-Fabliau a student of yours? A student of clockwork inventions?”
“Oui, my only student. The marquis is eager to learn, and, well, how could I say non to such passion?”
Sounded like Malbert paid handsomely for his lessons in clockwork.
Meanwhile, the Count de Griffe had lumbered close to Ophelia.