Penrose gingerly rubbed the back of his head, where Hume had conked him with the spoon. “Yes. Yes, that would certainly be—”
“You don’t think Prue is—that she’s a goner, do you?” Fury suddenly bubbled in Ophelia. “I’ll find who took her, and I’ll—I’ll make them sorry!”
“We’ll go to visit Colifichet in his shop. That is the first order of business. He has evidently seen the stomacher. He knows, because of the ballet, that the stomacher is related to the story of ‘Cendrillon.’ And most important, at one point or another Colifichet must have encountered Sybille Pinet.”
22
COLIFICHET & FILS, the gilt lettering on one of the arched windows read. The carriage stopped at the curb.
“Are you ready, Miss Flax?” Penrose asked.
“Do you think he’ll be all right?” Ophelia gently touched the turtle, who she’d placed on the seat. “The little fellow hasn’t so much as glanced out since I picked him up in that kitchen.”
“You rescued him from certain death. Perhaps he requires time to recover his equilibrium.”
They got out. Lustrous teal velvet lined Colifichet’s display windows. Toys of gilt, enamel, silk, colored jewels, brass, and human hair nestled in the velvet. There were monkeys in jesters’ costumes, a doll seated at a tiny harpsichord, a crouched tiger, several grinning acrobats, a rabbit with a drum, and a donkey in a three-piece suit. But no Cinderellas—although there was a Wicked Wolf, covered in what looked like real dog’s fur, attired in Granny’s nightgown and cap.
“I’d never give one of those things to a child in all my livelong days,” Ophelia said.
“They would surely inspire nightmares,” Penrose said. “And you haven’t yet seen them wound up and whirring about.”
Inside, the shop smelled faintly of the grease P. Q. Putnam’s Traveling Circus had used to slick the carousel gears. A portly shopkeeper in a green coat was helping a lady at a display case. The shopkeeper placed a tiny camel on the countertop. Slowly, and with a soft clicking, it walked across the counter.
The shopkeeper said something in French to Penrose.
“He says he will assist us in a moment,” Penrose said to Ophelia.
They waited.
A slim form emerged from the rear of the shop.
Pierre, Colifichet’s apprentice. He appeared to be searching for something behind one of the counters.
Ophelia made a beeline for Pierre. His eyes flared. “Just the gentleman I wished to see,” she said in an imperious tone. “Or, one of the gentlemen—pray tell, boy, where is your master, Monsieur Colifichet?”
Pierre’s jaw drooped, sullen.
“Where is Monsieur Colifichet?” Ophelia repeated. “I know that you speak English—Lord Harrington here told me as much.”
“Monsieur Colifichet is working,” Pierre said. His eyes darted to the shopkeeper, still nattering to the lady customer, then back to Ophelia. “Why is it, madame, that you wished to see him?”
Ophelia ignored Penrose’s warning glance. With Prue missing, this was no time to mince words. “It concerns the matter of a stomacher. Cinderella’s stomacher, to be precise. Oh yes—and two disappeared ladies, and two murders.”
“A stomacher? Murder?” Pierre cocked his head. “Mais oui, that sounds precisely the sort of thing in which my master would be interested.”
Ophelia and Penrose exchanged an amazed look.
Pierre lowered his voice. “I have, in truth, noticed a stomacher in Monsieur Colifichet’s workshop.”
“Hidden?”
Pierre nodded, and leaned closer. “In a cabinet. Locked up. Is it important?”
“Very,” Ophelia said.
“I shall bring you to my master, but I am certain he will not admit to possessing the stomacher.”
Pierre beckoned them behind the counter and through a curtain. The shopkeeper didn’t notice. Pierre led them down a gloomy corridor and paused in front of a closed door.