Ophelia leaned forward and peered through the glasses. “Good gracious,” she whispered. “It’s the same gown Sybille was wearing. Yes, the same gown exactly, except shorter. Same ivory tulle, same embroidery.”
Penrose spoke in low tones, so the other men in the box wouldn’t hear. “Whoever made the girl’s gown must have seen that costume. Are you certain it’s identical?”
“Fair certain, but perhaps we ought to go backstage after the ballerina changes and have a closer look.”
They waited. The act dragged on. Ophelia tapped her throbbing toes. At last, Cinderella appeared onstage once again in her raggedy costume.
“Let’s go,” Ophelia whispered.
“Please excuse us,” Penrose murmured to Prince Rupprecht. “My cousin requires a bit of air.”
Prince Rupprecht nodded without taking his eyes from his gold opera glasses. The Count de Griffe sent Ophelia an ardent glance as she and Penrose slipped by.
10
Ophelia found the backstage entrance handily, through a door around the corner from the lobby.
Backstage, no one paid them any mind. Tight stairs and meandering corridors brought them to the busy rooms adjacent to the stage. The music sounded muffled. Dancers chatted or stretched. Men in shirtsleeves rushed about, moving bits of scenery. Ophelia led the way through tables covered with stage properties and into a corridor lined with doors. Each door had a brass nameplate.
“The dressing rooms,” Ophelia said. “What was the prima ballerina’s name?” She stopped before a door at the end of the corridor, just before a corner. “The one dancing the role of Cinderella.”
Penrose drew the programme from his breast pocket and scanned it. “Polina Petrov.”
“That’s what I thought. Look.” Ophelia tapped the nameplate on the door: Polina Petrov, étoile. She looked left and right. The corridor was, for the moment, empty. For good measure, she looked around the corner.
Her breath caught. She nipped back around the corner. “Austorga!” she whispered. “Prue’s stepsister. What is she doing back here?”
“Indeed. She is, presumably, a young lady of gentle breeding.”
Ophelia nodded. Well-bred ladies never ventured backstage. Well-bred gents, certainly, but not the ladies.
Ophelia looked around the corner again. Many paces away, Austorga was speaking to a thin, elegantly dressed woman of about forty years, with striking black eyebrows and a pointy nose. The woman appeared to be annoyed, and Austorga was getting worked up.
“Can you hear what they’re saying?” Ophelia asked.
“No. And we might consider hurrying if you wish to investigate that costume before the end of the second act.”
They darted inside Polina Petrov’s dressing room and shut the door.
Polina Petrov’s dressing room was catawampus and smelled of greasepaint and talcum powder. Gas globe lamps hissed softly on either side of the dressing table mirror. Jars of face powder, hairbrushes, curling tongs, and rouge were scattered across the top. A sagging divan overflowed with garments, and a folding screen concealed a corner of the room.
Penrose held a battered ballet slipper up by its ribbon. “Good lord, this smells like my brother’s basset hound.”
Ophelia went straight to the garment rack. She pulled out one of the costumes. “Here it is. Yes. It’s exactly like the one Sybille was wearing in the garden. Sybille’s was longer, and not quite as—as decorated-looking, I suppose.” She touched the silver and gold embroidery on the skirt.
“What could she have been mixed up in?” Penrose said. “Playing at Cinderella. Why?”
“What if she was some sort of understudy for the role in the ballet? Or what if she wished, for some mad reason, to be Cinderella? Wait a moment.” Ophelia frowned. “I know why this costume looks more decorated—it’s the bodice. Sybille’s bodice was much simpler, just plain, ivory-colored silk. It hadn’t got this thing on it.” She ran her fingertips over a large, triangle-shaped panel on the front of the bodice. The panel sparkled with crystal beaded flowers stitched on with gold thread.