Light Fantastique Read online

  She thanked Fouré for escorting her and ascended the steps to take her place in the circle. Lucille appeared from backstage and took the last empty chair.

  “Now,” she said. “Let us begin. We will go straight through. Henri, you have just seen the woman with whom you fall instantly madly in love. Go.”

  Marie automatically flinched from Henri’s direct gaze, but confusion flickered over his features. She guessed how he must feel. He’d been in her last production and had heard the rumors of poor old Maurice, who had supposedly gone mad afterward. She’d heard the rumors from overseas and felt badly, but what could she have done?

  “Henri?” Lucille asked.

  “Ah, right.” He cleared his throat and started his lines.

  When it came to be Marie’s turn to speak, she again waited for the role to take her over, but it didn’t. She felt it try to edge in, but she fought it and instead drew on her stage training, which she found to be rusty. She found herself tripping over words and messing up phrasing that should have come naturally, but exhilaration bloomed in her chest—this was her, not some phantom trying to overcome her.

  “This is not what I expected,” Leigh Sellers said when they took a break after the second act.

  By that point, Marie was sweating. Since when was acting so exhausting? Since I have to actually put effort into it. “The first time actors come together can be rough,” she said.

  “Marie, come here.” Lucille gestured for her to come backstage. “We need to talk.”

  Oh, here we go…

  “My child, what has happened to you?” Lucille asked and put a hand on Marie’s cheek. “Where is your gift?”

  “I’m fine, Maman.” For the first time in years, Marie felt challenged on the stage, and she liked it.

  “Non, you are not fine.” Lucille elongated the I sound into a nasal tone like the Americans used. “You have lost your presence. How am I to fill the seats if you are not acting at the top of your potential?”

  The exhilaration Marie had felt at the thought of finally being a real actress twisted into anger. “Perhaps this is my true potential. At least I’m not going to lose part of myself to this.”

  “If something is worth pursuing, it is worth giving yourself fully to. Now, do you want to keep this role, or shall I give it to Mademoiselle Sellers? She asked to move into it after Corinne left, but I wanted you to have it. Not because you are my daughter, but because you are a talented actress. Or has all that time with that American warped your talent?”

  Marie flinched at the accusation and all the layers beneath it. She glanced at Leigh, who appeared to study the script but who snuck sideways looks at her and Lucille.

  No way is she going to steal my part.

  Marie narrowed her eyes, and Leigh returned her attention to her script. Good. Marie wanted the chance to see if she could be a real actress without losing part of her soul.

  “No, I will keep it. Perhaps I’m just rusty.”

  Lucille nodded and banged her stick on the floor. “Bien. You will continue, but do not be afraid of it.”

  Marie watched Lucille walk back onstage and took some deep breaths. A piece of paper fluttered down to her, but when she glanced up, she couldn’t see anything or anyone moving on the catwalk overhead.

  “The effects of the smoke should be wearing off, so if you choose, you can resume your talent,” the note read. “If you would like to learn to control it, you need to trust me. I can help you do so without substances, but you need a disciplined mind and heart.”

  A chill skimmed over Marie’s neck and shoulders, and she felt the stirring deep inside that meant the role was there waiting for her to call upon it. Could she master her talent, use it without allowing it to eat away at her? Her mother obviously expected her to, but the question was, did she want to?

  What do I really want?

  She’d always thought she wanted a normal life, but she recognized she made that choice out of fear of losing herself. She remembered her first play and the joy she’d taken in being someone else in the ultimate game of make-believe. Then, after she became the star, she reveled in the adulation of the audience after she allowed them to be transported to a different place and time for a few hours. There had always been that soul-fracturing emptiness after. But could she have everything, the stage and her soul? She wasn’t sure if whoever it was heard her, but she held the note up to the shadows and said one word.

  “Yes.”

  A draught stirred the ropes, and a blast of cold air made Marie shiver.

  Merde, what have I done?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Maison Cinsault, 3 December 1870

  Johann and Radcliffe arrived at the house of the newly widowed Madame Cinsault after a long, chilly walk in the snow. Neither man said much, and Johann wondered what Radcliffe’s thoughts turned to. He had seemed restless that day.

  “Something bothering you?” Johann finally asked. The icy sunlight had given way to more snow, and it swirled around them and gave the sensation of walking in a private cocoon.

  “Since the siege began, it’s been difficult to get news of the outside world. I’m concerned about how the war at home is going.”

  “Right, the War Between the States.”

  “Or the un-Civil war,” Radcliffe replied with a wry smile.

  “Is your young lady still in Vienna?”

  “That’s the other problem—I don’t know. If she’s returned to Boston, my friends at home would tell me, but the post isn’t coming through, at least not much of it.”

  Johann found himself interested, if only to take his mind off his own problems. He’d often found that if something worried him, his mind would sort it out if he left it alone.

  “Do you still think that the E.E. will be able to help her?”

  “Now this is where I’m thoroughly perplexed,” Radcliffe said. “I know the professor was already having problems before last summer’s expedition, but it seems to me he should be better by now. Better than he is, anyway.”

  “It took him a long time to get over Lily,” Johann pointed out. “And he didn’t kill anyone that time.”

  “Right, but I’ve also noticed Patrick slipping back into some old habits, ones he’s worked on changing since we met.”

  They arrived at the Cinsaults’ house, and Johann knocked on the door. A butler opened it and looked them up and down.

  “Madame is not receiving visitors,” he said.

  “We just have a few questions for her,” Johann said. “We’re with the theatre.”

  “Madame does not want her husband’s murder turned into a play. You English do that enough with your own crimes. There’s no reason to bring that filthy, disrespectful habit here.”

  “It’s not like that,” Johann told him and stuck his boot in the door when the butler tried to close it. “We’re trying to figure out what happened. Would you please tell her that Maestro Sable and Doctor Radcliffe are here to see her? The doctor assisted Monsieur Cinsault, or tried to.”

  “I will tell her. Wait here.” He shut the front door on them, leaving them to rub their hands and stamp their feet in the cold.

  “Bloody French,” Johann cursed under his breath.

  “You didn’t really think this through, did you?” Radcliffe asked. “I thought you had a plan for how to get in.”

  “Plans are a waste of time. Ah.”

  The front door opened, and the butler, with an even more aggrieved expression, stood aside for them to enter.

  “Madame will speak to the doctor,” he said. “You, Maestro, are not to say a word.”

  Intrigued, Johann responded, “I will respect Madame’s wishes.”

  The butler led them into a parlor, where Madame Cinsault sat. Although at the older end of middle-aged and dressed in unflattering black satin, she still had the almond-shaped eyes a
nd long neck of a classic French beauty. Her gray-streaked dark hair was pulled back in a twist, and she studied the two men with a look that made Johann feel like a side of beef in a butcher’s window. He guessed what the motive in the murder had been, but he waited for Radcliffe to speak.

  “We are very sorry to intrude on you during this difficult time,” Radcliffe said.

  Madame Cinsault waved away his apology and fixed her gaze on Johann. He noted the absence of any sign that she’d been crying.

  “You are probably wondering why I don’t want you to say anything, Maestro Sable.” Her voice was pitched low in a seductive purr. “That’s because if you were to speak and be intelligent, I would fall again into the kind of temptation that killed my husband. Luckily for Doctor Radcliffe, I have a policy against dallying with men who know more about my insides than I do.”

  Johann had to bite his lip not to reply or give her a charming smile, as that devil inside him wanted to do. The kiss he’d shared with Marie flashed into his brain.

  “And what temptation was that, Madame?” Radcliffe asked. He looked relieved.

  “The kind that makes me recognize you as dark and exotic, Doctor. I do thank you for your assistance to my late husband, but you know as well as I that there was nothing to be done for him.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  She dropped her gaze, and her dark lashes lay thick on her creamy cheek. “I might. I don’t know.”

  “How?”

  She glanced back up at him. “It’s an old story, Doctor. Love begets jealousy, and crimes of passion occur.”

  “So your lover killed him?”

  She shrugged. “I am telling you this to clear my conscience because I know you are not the police. Inspector Davidson has already been around, you see. As for which of my lovers it could have been, I don’t know who had the nerve to wield the knife.”

  Johann turned his head to hide a smile. He recognized her need to be in control and knew she would choose men who wouldn’t challenge her too much.

  “Did anyone indicate they wanted to?”

  She laughed, and the sound coiled in Johann’s center and made him want to grin in response. I am not interested, I am not interested. He wanted to respond to the invitation in her eyes, so he focused on what he found off-putting about her, which was pretty much everything except what she pulled out of him.

  “Oh, they all did when I told them I was too comfortable to leave him for them, but I knew they wouldn’t. Or I thought I did.”

  “Did your husband know about the affairs?” Radcliffe asked. His gray eyes were serious, and sweat beaded along his hairline. Johann wondered if he, too, felt whatever surrounded Madame Cinsault. The temperature in the parlor certainly didn’t warrant perspiration. Like most of Paris, this household conserved its coal. The air was barely warm enough to take the worst edge off the cold.

  “Of course. He had his own indiscretions.” Now her eyes glistened. “We had a thoroughly comfortable arrangement, gentlemen. I will be honest with you and tell you I mourn that as much as I mourn him, probably more, for now society’s dictates of a widow’s behavior will limit me.”

  Radcliffe wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Do you think one of your husband’s mistress’s husbands could have killed him?”

  She shrugged again with classic French je ne sais quoi. “I suppose it’s possible. I wish I could help you there, gentlemen, but he was discreet, as I was, so I can’t give you any information as to who he was dallying with. As long as we were both home for dinner, it didn’t matter. If you would like to look through his things, be my guest. I didn’t allow the inspector to do so.”

  Johann guessed Inspector Davidson didn’t respond to her the way she wanted. In spite of her obvious charm with whatever enhanced it, Johann had also lost the initial pull of attraction to her. There was too much of a sense of a spider sitting in the middle of its web waiting for its next prey. And a man had died, either directly or indirectly because of her.

  The butler showed them to Monsieur Cinsault’s chamber, which consisted of a sitting room and bedroom. He hovered at the door, likely to ensure they didn’t steal anything.

  “You’re more versed with this sort of thing than I am,” Radcliffe murmured. “What exactly should we look for?” His words puffed from his mouth—the chamber had obviously not been heated since its occupant was killed.

  Johann rubbed his hands together and then gave up and put on his gloves. “Tokens from women, I suppose, although they’re more likely to receive gifts than give them. Letters as well. If he and Madame had an understanding, he wouldn’t have worried about her finding them.”

  They looked through the room as quickly as they could—it was bitter cold—but didn’t come up with anything. Then Radcliffe asked to see the study, but that, too, was a chill, dead end. Soon they stood in the snow that had piled on the front step.

  It’s almost more comfortable out here away from that strange woman.

  Not that he was one to not appreciate a willing female, but something about her put him off. Yes, she’s too good at playing the game. I prefer women who are more honest. Or innocent.

  Now that wasn’t a comfortable thought. He put it away, and they walked toward the street in silence. Once they stepped on to the sidewalk, Johann relaxed, and Radcliffe’s shoulders lost some of the protective hunch they’d had.

  “What a strange house,” the doctor said. “I’d heard the upper class French were looser about certain things than the Americans and certainly the English, but that was creepy.”

  “I agree.”

  Before Johann could say anything else, a voice from behind them asked, “Did you learn anything, gentlemen?”

  Johann turned to see Inspector Davidson, and he did not look pleased to see them there.

  * * * * *

  After she let herself into the staff entrance with her student keys, Iris found herself keeping to the walls like a rodent anxious not to be seen. As with many of the museums, the Louvre was closed to the public to conserve coal during the siege. It lacked more than it held due to the most valuable objects having been taken out of Paris or hidden underground in case of Prussian shelling. Now boxes of arms and ammunition lined the walls where cases had once held displays of precious artifacts.

  The lack of either people or the ticks and clanks of the steam heating system made for a thick layer of silence, like dust in a room that hadn’t been opened for years. She stopped, took a breath and straightened her shoulders. Monsieur Firmin, who ran the Ecole d’Archaeologie and who was also head of the classical collections at the Louvre had said the students could visit to do their own research during the break with what little was left, but they should either bring their own coal for heat or expect to be chilled. Being English, Iris didn’t mind the cold so much, and thanks to Madame St. Jean’s generosity, she had comfortable clothing.

  Or as comfortable as possible. Something about the cold in the museum seeped through her many layers.

  Iris flexed her fingers, which tingled with the familiar desire to touch the objects around her and sense what previous handlers had thought and felt, usually just impressions. A few things gave her sharp enough images and emotions to propel her into past scenes, and she’d had to learn to be careful when she was with others not to go into a trance as she followed the threads of memory into the past. She wasn’t entirely convinced that objects were only solid, dumb masses, at least not all of them, not the way they held on to the memories, sometimes the spirits, of their creators or what they represented.

  In the Classics storeroom in the basement, she nodded to the waving kore statue, which had since been verified as having been sculpted during a later period in memory of a beloved slave girl who had perished in the Roman arena. Iris had known those facts already but had enjoyed the challenge of proving intellectually what her touch-sense told her.

&nbs
p; Well, aside from the ire of the other students, who had deemed her a showoff and a teacher’s pet. Indeed, it had been a hard lesson that she should keep her enthusiasm and knowledge, of which she had more than the other students even beyond her unusual talent, to herself. Her father had trained her well, and now she was happy to be alone at the museum so she could fully revel in her abilities.

  Or was she? The air carried the sharp-edged scent of smoke, and she sniffed, turning her head in different directions to determine where it came from. Although she didn’t desire to speak to anyone, she needed to make sure the fire was of the friendly, contained sort and not the rambling destructive kind. She followed her nose to a hall lined with offices, where light shone under only one door. She squinted to assess its quality. She didn’t realize her curiosity had carried her to stand in front of the office in question until she heard a voice say, “Who’s out there?”

  Iris recognized the gruff tones and replied, “It’s me, Iris McTavish, Monsieur Firmin.”

  “Have you come to do me in, then, like poor Anctil? You’d better open the door and be done with it.”

  Iris wanted to turn and flee, but she knew that would be disrespectful, no matter how she didn’t appreciate his attempts at humor. She didn’t find his jokes about her role in the former curator of the Renaissance collection’s death funny, but she didn’t know how to tell him, either.

  Perhaps he’s grieving and this is how he’s dealing with it.

  She opened the door and walked in to find the fire thankfully contained in the grate and Monsieur Firmin sitting behind his desk with what looked like an ancient manuscript in front of him. She couldn’t see the writing clearly enough to tell, but it looked like one of the near Eastern ones. Possibly a form of Greek.

  Iris didn’t think she’d ever seen Monsieur Firmin smile, and his face held an even deeper scowl than his customary one. The electric lamp on his desk cast the planes of his already severe features into harsher relief, and Iris thought an impression might make a good beginning of a grimacing ceremonial mask.