“Better than a trial.” Her folded his hands atop the papers and peered earnestly at her. She stared at him for a moment, and for some reason, suddenly, her eyes seemed very cold, very alien. Despite the fact that her eyes should have seemed lovely.
But they weren’t lovely. They were cold.
Ah, but that did not matter, What mattered was in this portfolio. “We will take your story to a newspaper,” he continued. “They will place the truth before the public, and the public will see. This imposter will be routed. There may never need to be a trial, but if there is, many of the jurors will have seen these photographs and they will know the truth.”
“Very well,” she said finally. “You may call your newspapers.”
Nina was not nearly as reluctant as she had seemed. She was, in fact, not at all interested in going to court. A law-suit seemed to her to be an inordinate waste of time and effort, although the threat of one would take little effort on her part, yet would agitate her enemies no end.
But this, the idea of using sensation-craving newspapers to hound her foes—this was sheer brilliance. It was all she could do to keep from insisting the solicitor run straight out and bring in people from these newspapers on the spot.
Instead, she curbed her impulses and pretended reluctance. This was not unlike allowing a protector to “acquire” her. She would make them court her, coax her; she had ample practice in being the one sought after.
She allowed the solicitor to “persuade” her, and to arrange a meeting with a newspaper reporter for the next day. She “reluctantly” allowed him to keep her portfolio. There was only one thing that she was annoyed about; she had been certain she would be able to persuade one or more of her devoted adherents to make the journey to Blackpool to verify her identity, but they all sent regrets. It seemed that her hold over them was not strong enough at a distance to cause them to abandon good sense and speed to her rescue. It might not, in fact, hold them at all. She had never really had occasion to test it. It had always seemed to her that human mortals, the men in particular, were easily manipulated and entranced.
Well it was an annoyance, and something that could be worked around.
What she could do, easily enough, and in fact had, was to order her servants at home to bribe and browbeat one of the stagehands into coming to stand surety for her identity. It was difficult for a poor man, especially one who was no longer young, to look at more money than he could earn in twenty years and not turn it down. So this man, a common fellow named Jannos Durzek, was already on his way here by train and boat. She would have to find a translator, of course. She would have to find one anyway, for the Hungarian and Russian and Czech letters.
All this was running through her mind as she arrived at the solicitor’s office for her meeting with the newspaper man. She had put forth a great deal of effort to look her best, and at the same time, to look every inch the prima. There must be no doubt in this man’s mind that he was in the presence of a great dancer, even if he had never heard of her nor had any ideas about ballet.
The man in question was sitting in the solicitor’s office when she arrived. He took his time about getting to his feet, eyeing her with an insolence that made her seethe. If she had not needed him, she would have slapped that expression from his face, then ambushed him in the night and absorbed him. Perhaps she would anyway, when she no longer needed him. He was a very unprepossessing man, no longer young, yet holding himself as if he felt he were much younger than his actual years. His suit was slightly rumpled, and though hardly of the best quality, was definitely of the most modern cut. Most gentlemen would have considered it a touch too loud. He did not remove his hat, of the type known as a derby, in her presence, a fact that she resented. Perhaps he was ashamed to; his mousey brown hair looked rather thin, and needed a trim badly. His face wore what looked to be a perpetual smirk, as if he considered himself ever so much more intelligent than most of the people he encountered. His complexion was starting to show the effects of hard drinking, and his eyes, narrow and shrewd, were just a little bloodshot.
She allowed him, reluctantly, to shake her hand, then took a seat. Immediately he began going over the papers in her file, one by one, asking her pointed and detailed questions about all of them. Some of his questions were impertinent, and she felt her temper rising. He seemed to be amused by this, and the more amused he became, the more she was determined to give him the punishment he so richly deserved when she no longer needed him.
Finally he shoved her portfolio of papers aside. “I like this story,” he said, bluntly. “I’ll take it on.”
He would not be pinned down to how soon he intended to publish the story—or rather, what would probably be the first of several stories. “This will be a fight,” he warned. “They are not simply going to say, ‘Oh dear, you caught us, it’s a fair cop,’ and reveal the girl’s true name. They are going to demand proof. What you have here—” he tapped the portfolio “—is good, but hardly conclusive; it could all be fabricated and I expect them to point that out. But I’ll think of something you can do, I am sure.”
He was so arrogant! Assuming that she would not be able to think of anything for herself! And how on earth was he remaining proof against her magic-enhanced charm? That baffled her as much as his attitude infuriated her.
She would kill him. She would not merely absorb him as she did with most of her victims, taking them unaware and rendering them unconscious first; she would do it while he was aware and conscious and she would do it slowly.
Oh how she wished she did not need him!
She parted company with him and with the solicitor, once again leaving the portfolio, this time in the reporter’s possession. She was stiffly correct, and as she shook hands coldly with the man, he dared to grin at her. “You don’t care for me, miss,” he said baldly. “Well, I don’t care much for you. I expect you’re accustomed to men dancing attendance on you, and being your lap-dogs. You’re told what a tremendous artist you are, and all of that tommy-rot. Well, to me you’re the same as that girl that you say is using your name, and you’re both of you no better and no worse than the can-can dancer on the boardwalk. All three of you pull up your skirts and kick and show your legs—you and that girl just pretend it’s more refined, which, to my mind, makes the can-can dancer the more honest of the three of you. But I know a story when I see one, and this one is worth chasing after. You need me, and I need you, so you may glare all you like, and I’ll sneer all I like, but the story will still get printed, and we’ll see what kind of a dust-up we can start.”
Rigid with anger, she left, the solicitor at her elbow, apologizing for the reporter, babbling almost, about how his manner was rough, but he was the best in the city, how dogged he was in pursuing facts, and how fair he was in laying them out. The solicitor kept up this babble all the way to the street, where he hailed a taxi for her. As he handed her into it, Nina finally spoke.
“If this were Saint Petersburg,” she said wrathfully, “I would horsewhip him until he bled from a hundred cuts. He is an ignorant peasant. But he has a peasant’s cunning, and I believe you when you say he will write the stories to expose this imposter. But keep him from me. You deal with him. I would rather feed pigs with my own hands than speak with him again.”
Notions of increased fees doubtlessly dancing in his head, the solicitor hastily agreed, and she directed the taxi back to her flat.
The first thing she did when the door was shut and locked tightly behind her was to transform to her true form with a roar of rage. Her garments did not so much tear as burst asunder with the sound of shredding silk. Her servants already knew what to do; they had surely felt her anger for the last hour at least.