“I…oh.” That was much harder to argue with. The Ladysmith did seem to average more than its share of violent deaths. “Please, Oliver, don’t tell Mother. She’d worry, and it really isn’t necessary.”
“I can’t make such promises.” He leaned across the table and took my hand. “This is no place for a sweet girl like you, Maggie.”
Widdershins knows its own. But surely that meant important people, like Dr. Putnam-Barnett or Mr. Flaherty. Not lowly secretaries.
“Just give me time to think, Oliver,” I said. “Please.”
“A few days,” he agreed. “Just…your father would never have wanted this for you. I know that without question, and I think you do, too.”
The waiter approached with the dessert menu, ending the conversation. But as I tried to savor my slice of chocolate torte, Oliver’s words lay heavy on me. Because I knew, about the last at least, that he was absolutely right.
*
Thanks to Oliver’s insistence on lingering over dinner, then escorting me home, it was almost midnight by the time I met Persephone outside the Undertow. I hadn’t even had time to change into the sensible dress I’d planned.
Fog rolled in with nightfall, something for which I was grateful as I slipped around the side of the theater. I’d nearly reached the stage door, when a heavy body dropped from above, landing in the alley beside me.
I let out an undignified squeak, before realizing it was only Persephone, holding a short spear tipped with stone. “Wretch,” I said.
She grinned. “You like it.” The grin faded slightly, became something else as her eyes swept over my form. “Land women wear far too much clothing. But the blue is pretty with your eyes.”
Predictably, my face heated. She’d meant nothing by the comment about wearing too much, other than an innocent remark on the differences between our peoples. Still, the thought of being unclothed before her sent a flush of warmth between my legs.
“Is-is everyone gone?” I asked, a bit breathlessly.
“Yes.” She nodded to the building beside the theater. “I watched from the roof. The land dwellers left and locked the door. I’ve seen no guard.”
Hopefully, she was right and the theater was indeed deserted. I took out the candle I’d concealed in my coat. My summoning stone was still in my coat pocket; I’d forgotten to remove it. “Then light this, and I’ll pick the lock. Then we’ll see what—if anything—we can find.”
This lock was a bit more complicated than the ones I’d picked before. As I worked at it, I couldn’t help but imagine Oliver’s reaction if he could see me now. No doubt he would consider Mr. Flaherty a corrupting influence for teaching me.
Odd, that a handsome man like Mr. Flaherty never seemed to have a sweetheart. He’d never brought a lady with him to any of the museum functions. No doubt as a private detective, he’d seen more than his share of love turned sour. Perhaps he preferred to remain unencumbered by any romantic entanglements. No doubt a meeting of the minds, such as he had with Dr. Whyborne, was more satisfactory to him.
“There,” I said with satisfaction, when the lock clicked open.
“Well done, Maggie.” Persephone’s teeth gleamed in the dim light. “Let’s go in.”
The door let onto a corridor, with more doors opening off to either side. Dressing rooms, no doubt, and perhaps the green room or manager’s office. “You know more of the ways of land dwellers,” Persephone said. “Where should we search for Irene and Burton?”
“We won’t find anything near the public areas,” I said. “So either backstage, or in any basement area, if there is one.”
“Down, then,” Persephone said. She shifted her spear in her hand. “Lead the way.”
I did so, doing my best to keep my steps silent. It was impossible, though: my skirt rustled, and the claws tipping Persephone’s webbed toes clicked against the stone floor.
The stone floor, which had been part of the original church. A church such as this would indeed have a basement. More accurately, it would have a crypt.
“Come,” I murmured. “I think I know where to look.”
I found the old stone staircase leading down to the crypt. The stage must have been directly above us. An opening had been cut into the stones of the ceiling, through which ran various ropes for hauling up props. The crypt itself seemed to be dedicated largely to storage: costumes spilled from half-open trunks, furniture for sets crowded in between the raised vaults, and cans of paint for backdrops were stored in niches that must have once held urns. What had happened to the earthly remains of those once interred here? Or—I shivered at the thought—had they simply been left in place, and even now rested beneath our feet?
I took the lead, and Persephone followed. The crypts occupied a small series of rooms, with a chapel at the far end. Other than the fact the prop room was in a crypt, nothing unusual presented itself until we reached the chapel.
The place seemed darker, somehow, and the scent of the sea stronger than it should have been beneath the ground. The light of the candle struggled against the shadows. Reluctantly it crept across the marble floor, the empty alcoves where saints had once rested, until it touched the rusty iron bars of a cage.