“Do you suspect there is a connection?”
“Probably not. I’ve been told that every Paris debutante worth her salt is having her gown for Prince Rupprecht’s ball made by Madame Fayette. The funny thing is, this is just a theater costume, so why was it made by some fancy dressmaker? Most theaters have their own costume masters and mistresses and they sew all the costumes right inside the theater. This is so finely made, too. It needn’t to be so fine. No one in the audience could tell the difference—they’re too far away. And dancers tend to perspire right through their costumes. The gaslights up there are hot. This delicate gown’s not going to last a fortnight.”
A woman spoke loudly in French, in the corridor. Ophelia and Penrose locked eyes. The voice was just outside.
Penrose grabbed Ophelia’s hand and pulled her behind the folding screen. They crouched. Ophelia’s buoyant crinoline and skirts nearly knocked Penrose sideways.
The door creaked open.
The silk panels of the folding screen were old and stained, and there was a rip in one. Ophelia squinted through the rip.
She saw a lady’s legs clad in white dancing stockings. Polina Petrov, most likely. She bent before the dressing table and poked around in a drawer, muttering to herself in Russian.
*
Housewifery, it turned out, was a tedious business. Maybe that’s why Ma had never taken a shine to it.
Beatrice had gone off again, leaving Prue to watch an iron cauldron of water. When it boiled it would help take the burned food bits off the dinner pots. Beatrice’s cooking made a lot of burned bits.
Prue crouched on a stool at the hearth, gazing into the twinkling cinders. Her eyelids drooped.
A thud on the kitchen door made her eyes fly open.
Another thud.
Just to be on the safe side, Prue picked up a heavy stone pestle as she passed the table.
When she cracked the door, the first thing she saw was a wide expanse of scarlet cloth, white ruffles, brass buttons. Her gaze roved up—way up—to the face.
“Oh.” Prue’s shoulders sagged. “It’s you. I near didn’t recognize you in that getup. What’re you doing, going to a fancy-dress ball?”
It was the ogrelike feller from that afternoon. His smile was, if not exactly kind, leastways the first smile Prue had been given all day.
“Would you come with me, miss?” he said.
“Why, no.” Behind the door, she hefted the pestle in her hand. “I got work to do, mister. What’s it you want? Beatrice? Because she’s off somewhere.”
“No indeed, not Beatrice. My lord and lady wish to speak with you.”
“Me?” Prue edged the door closed.
The man put out a hand and stopped the door. “I must insist.”
“No, siree.” Prue shoved the door harder. “What do some lord and lady want me for? I’m just a—a nobody. Ain’t even from around here. I’m from New York. You got me mixed up with somebody else.”
She was fair certain she knew who she’d been mixed up with: her dead sister. Sybille.
“There has been no mistake.” The man butted the door wide with a big, scarlet satin knee. Prue staggered back and plopped down hard on her rump. Pain shot up her spine. The door crashed against the inside wall and the stone pestle rolled away.
Before Prue could take a breath, the ogre slung her over his shoulder. She tried to scream but just like in a nightmare, nothing came out.
*
The Russian ballerina continued to rummage about her dressing room, searching for something. Miss Flax watched her through the rip in the folding screen. Gabriel, for his part, watched Miss Flax. He was unable to tear his eyes away from a small section of the side of her neck where her smooth skin met her elaborately twisted hair.
What would it be like to kiss that spot?
The ballerina slammed a drawer and padded out of the dressing room.
“Miss Flax,” Gabriel said.