“Cendrillon,” Dalziel said. “Cinderella. And they all resemble, to an uncanny degree, you.”
Prue smeared her nose on her cuff. “Not me. My sister.”
“Very well, then, your sister. But to Grandmother, you must understand, there is no difference. To her, the important thing is that you—and your sister—look like Cinderella.”
Dalziel picked up one of the doll-things. Its face and hands were porcelain, just like any old doll, its yellow hair swept under a tiara. The doll wore a tiny, gauzy-skirted dress embroidered with silver and gold.
“Geewillikins,” Prue whispered. “That’s—that’s just like the dress my sister was wearing in the garden. Except her bodice didn’t have this thing on it.” She poked the sparkly triangle decorating the doll’s bodice.
“Stomacher.” Dalziel turned the doll over. A little golden crank poked out of its back. He wound it up—scritch-scritch-scritch—crouched, and placed it on the floor.
With a whirring sound, the doll spun in a figure-eight pattern over the stones. Its little porcelain arms waved gently, and its smiling-blank face tipped from side to side. Gradually, the doll slowed and then came to a stop. It toppled over sideways.
“Uck,” Prue said. “Who’d want a creepy little thing like that?”
*
The lobby of Salle le Peletier swarmed with gaudy colors. Professor Penrose was easy for Ophelia to spot: he was taller than most of the other men by inches.
Ophelia waded through the crowd towards him. Her feet already had blisters from Henrietta’s slippers.
“Miss Flax,” Penrose said. “Good evening.”
Ophelia couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t really look at her. Probably daydreaming of that paragon Miss Ivy Banks. She probably had feet as tiny as mole paws.
“I’ve got to keep my head down,” Ophelia said. “At dinner, the Misses Malbert convinced their father to chaperone them to the ballet this evening.”
“Again?”
“I fancy it’s not the ballet they wish to observe, but Prince Rupprecht.”
“Ah.”
Ophelia told Penrose about her excursion to the steam-powered conveyance exhibition: how Austorga had lied about being backstage, what Eglantine had said about the stomacher, and how Prince Rupprecht had been so gallant towards the stepsisters.
“Only Malbert has access to the bank box in which the stomacher was locked?” Penrose asked.
“That is what Eglantine claimed.”
“I am certain the employees of the bank would not allow just anyone to unlock the box.”
“Not even a daughter? Or a wife?”
“Well, perhaps, given the proper amount of bribing.”
“I wonder if Eglantine got the stomacher out of the bank, and then she lost it. Or someone stole it.”
“Sybille stole it, perhaps? And Eglantine took it back?”
“Maybe.” Ophelia told Penrose how the Count de Griffe had rescued her from a gory mishap with a steam shovel.
“He rescued you,” Penrose said. “You must be jesting.”
“The count didn’t push me! If it even was a push—and now I’m beginning to wonder—it might have been one of the stepsisters, or Miss Smythe. Neither of the stepsisters enjoyed my quizzing them, and Miss Smythe is a sneak.”
“Stay away from Griffe. He’s a brute.”
Better to steer the topic into a new channel. Something about the count nettled the professor. “What is the interesting news that you mentioned in your note?”
Penrose spoke in low tones, and the buzz in the lobby made their conversation private. “Caleb Grant, for a fee, ah . . . unites members of the corps de ballet with gentlemen of the Jockey Club.”
“Mercy. I was afraid of that. I suppose he got his hooks into poor Sybille, then. I reckon a convent upbringing makes a girl stupid about fellows.”
“Lord Dutherbrook means to introduce me to Grant this evening.”