No one bothered me as I worked. No one knocked on my door or called my name or demanded my attention or help. Cabaret stars, apparently, were allowed to sleep in. I luxuriated, reading the newspapers and gossip magazines Limone had kept in a slippery heap by her bedside. Paris was a place of beauty, intrigue, sensation, and melodrama, worlds away from Criminy’s quiet caravan, where Emerlie’s whispers were the only true source of scandal. Fashion in London was clearly years behind Paris, which was odd, as they were less than a day away in a fast airship. With dresses and the disappearance of bustles on my mind, I turned a page in my new notebook and sketched costume ideas for Blue and practiced signing “La Demitasse” with an ink pen, just in case cabaret stars were required to autograph things.
One time in the caravan, I had asked Jacinda if her writing could make me a star and had been disappointed when she tried to let me down gently. Now I was a star, and I had no idea what that meant, except that dozens of men wanted to do raunchy things to me, and if I did well enough, I might find myself stolen by kidnappers in scary masks—and that was my goal. And yet all I could think about was a half-Abyssinian brigand’s eyes, his hands on my waist, and the prickle of brick against my back as he kissed me. A dozen different hungers held me, things I shouldn’t have wanted yammering over the one thing I needed most: my friend safely back by my side.
A light knock on the door startled me, and I huffed a “Yes?”
“La Demitasse?”
It was Charline, wearing a painted smile that was at least half false. While she must have loved the monetary benefit I would bring to the cabaret under her tutelage, she had to hate that I had tricked my way to the top instead of earning respect the old-fashioned way. I couldn’t keep the snark out of my own smile. At least Sylvie had accepted her defeat gracefully. The bagload of silvers cleaned up off the stage last night probably helped.
“Entrez, Charline.” No more Mademoiselle.
“Did you sleep well, chérie?”
“Very.”
“I’d like to discuss tonight’s show.”
My grin widened. “I’d love that.”
She cleared her throat and pulled out her red notebook, and I noticed that it matched mine exactly. So they’d given me one of her private stash; no wonder she was annoyed. “What we must decide is whether to replicate last night’s act or try something entirely different. Of course, it will not be such a . . .”
“Surprise?”
Charline pinched the bridge of her nose. “Indeed. It won’t be a surprise. But it doesn’t inconvenience the rest of the girls, and we already have the equipment and music. I’m sure you’ll want to work with Blue on costuming, and I did have some ideas.”
She held out her notebook, and I held out mine. The two drawings had nothing in common whatsoever, and laughter burbled in my chest as she fought the urge to screech at me in her typical manner.
“Look, Charline. I refuse to wear a hat shaped like a coffee cup, even if it works with the name.”
“But this costume you propose is . . .”
“Utterly indecent?”
“Unprecedented.”
“This is Paris. We set the fashion. So let’s set it. Besides, very little skin is revealed. They’ll see more when the other girls dance than they see when I contort.”
Angry mauve spread over Charline’s gold skin like ink on tissue. “Must you be utterly contrary at every juncture, mademoiselle?”
I shrugged and settled back against my pillow. “Why not? Someone needs to. You don’t become a star by doing the same thing everyone else is doing. N’est-ce pas?”
“Perhaps. But you don’t keep the established clientele by suddenly changing everything they’ve come to expect.”
“So keep everything the same.”
She smiled in triumph.
“Except for my act.”
The smile died.
“My act should be last, and it should start the same way, on the hoop. Or maybe a trapeze. Lower me to eye level, I’ll do my thing, then bring all the girls out to dance the can-can together with locked arms. Easy.”
“And for the costumes?”
A brief image of one of my favorite childhood movies flashed through my head, and I grinned. “Dress them as forks, napkins, salt cellars, sugar bowls, teacups. Like a giant table, putting on a show just for the diners. Inviting the audience to be our guests.”
One eyebrow went up as she considered it. “I regret to say that it’s not entirely horrible. Perhaps instead of a hoop, you could emerge on a giant chandelier?”
I nodded eagerly, imagining it. Me, sliding down the rope to a majestic chandelier of gold and jewels, slithering around it as it slowly descended to the floor. Paris had surely never seen its like, and that was exactly what I was hoping for in my act.
“It will take a week to prepare this grand finale. Until then, can we count on an exact replication of last night’s sensation?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“But I have a rider.”
She cocked her head. “Do you require . . . a horse? Perhaps a saddle?”
I laughed. I guess she’d never heard of M&M’s, either. “It’s a list of demands. I want posters of me. And a better costume for the interim.”
She snorted a very Franchian snort and rolled her eyes. “Both requests are already in process. We are not idiots, mademoiselle. If the people want you, we shall give you to them, and gladly.”
“Excellent.”
I nodded and sipped my blood, picking up a magazine. Recognizing that she’d been released, Charline spun on her slipper and left, muttering under her breath in Franchian. Her last line bothered me still. I had felt powerful all morning, knowing that I had proven myself, made a good bet, and cast myself one step closer to the stardom I’d always craved.
But her carelessly tossed words reminded me who was really in charge of my future: the people. More specifically, a slavering crowd of rich, lustful men who weren’t accustomed to being told no. Were they really so different from the slavers who had stolen Cherie? The duke’s response had been amusing, but the fact remained that he hadn’t written “I appreciate your rejection and respect your empowerment,” he had simply upped his price.
I was still for sale; the bids would just have to get a lot higher.
The show went off without a hitch that night, and the crowd’s mad yammering and stomping filled me with elation and terror. The purple daimon dude, Auguste, ushered me out of view before they could storm the stage and tear me apart, his hand wrapped around the top of my arm, gentle but firm. He was like a bouncer, Mel had informed me, working many of the cabaret tasks that couldn’t or wouldn’t be performed by the girls. But Auguste didn’t escort me to my room upstairs. Instead, he dragged me down the opposite side of the wings, through a maze of hallways, and outside into the starlit night.
The air was chill and as clear as the air in a Sang city could get, and I opened my eyes as wide as possible, until I blinked away tears. I hadn’t been out of doors since I stepped into the catacombs with Vale, and Paris was ridiculously, impossibly beautiful. The City of Light merged the pictures in my world mixed with the topsy-turvy paintings of absinthe-riddled artists to shimmer with brighter-than-life colors and energy and movement. The effect was beyond distracting.