The words were whispered from the sky, silky and foreboding.
“That’s the crest of the Malediction Club,” he said.
Vale tossed the coin straight up. It never landed.
26
I looked up and muttered, “Why do they always run?”
Vale rubbed his chin. “They are most likely still alive because they always run. It does not matter; we have what we needed.”
“We do?”
“We know the rumors about the Malediction Club are true. Considering Anatole Fermin was an artificer recently crushed, we must assume he is the same madman who tried to kidnap you while wearing one of these pins, yes? Perhaps to take you to the club?”
“I don’t know. This is your crazy city. No one’s ever tried to kidnap me in an elephant before.”
Vale shook his head and started walking. The sun was setting, the purple clouds streaked with blood red and blazing orange. Black columns of smoke rose from the artificers’ roofs, and I was glad enough to breathe the slightly fresher, cleaner air as we crossed the bridge.
We came to a major cross street, and Vale swung out his fist, hailing a rickshaw powered by half a clockwork horse and driven by a monkey of a man perched on its neck like a jockey. Handing me up into the carriage, Vale kissed my hand quickly.
“I have more questions to ask, bébé. Be careful tonight.”
“What? Where are you going? Vale!”
He handed the man a twist of coins and rapped on the buggy, shouting, “Paradis in Mortmartre. Vite vite!”
With a creak and a clatter, the driver began pedaling, and the rickshaw pulled into traffic. I sat up and looked behind me, hunting for a close-cropped head and the wink of bright green eyes.
But he was gone.
Paradis welcomed me back like an angry mother hen. Charline met me at the door, tutting in Franchian under her breath and shedding ostrich feathers from her robe as she ushered me into Blue’s room. The girls were in their final preparations for the night, gluing on their eyelashes and contouring their cheeks and fluffing each other’s skirts. Mel ran up to grab my hands and kiss me on my cheeks as if I’d been gone a long time, and I hunted around her for a familiar blue face.
“Where’s Bea?” I asked, and Mel blushed green. She shook her head, eyes tearing up, and ran out of the room. “What—?”
Blue grabbed my wrist and yanked me to the makeup counter, not gently.
“Don’t poke your nose into nasty things, kid,” she barked. “Might get bitten.”
“I’m not poking for fun.”
She held my chin and turned my face back and forth, wiping off chunks of bludhound gore that Vale had missed.
I tolerated it for a moment before leaning forward to whisper, “Have you heard of the Malediction Club? I think they’re the ones who tried to kidnap me.”
Her eyes went flat as she attacked me with a kabuki brush of powder. “Tsk. The gendarmes will sort it.” Every time I tried to open my mouth to argue, she stuck the brush into it.
I went into a coughing fit, hoping she’d used the new-fangled powder that didn’t contain belladonna. When I could speak again, I put my mouth to her ear and breathed, “The gendarmes burned his body, Blue. They’re covering it up.”
She leaned back, gave me a look so sharp it felt like a slap. “If the gendarmes are scared, you want to pry deeper? Malediction’s no sewing circle.” Pinching my chin so firmly I felt sure she’d leave marks, she lined my eyes and smudged the kohl.
I shook her off. “They tried to take me. They might have my friend Cherie. And I’m not going to stop looking.”
She shook her head sadly, looking a thousand years old. “Bad things happen to girls who get nosy. Make sure you’re not one of ’em, eh?” She spun me around and patted me on the bustle. “Get in costume. Show starts soon.”
“Is Mel coming back?”
The old blue daimon glanced at the ledger I’d seen on my first day in her domain, the one filled with crossed-out names.
“Hope so. Too many don’t.”
I scanned the faces around me, my heart heavy with how many names I hadn’t learned. Had more gone missing in just a week? When had Jess and Edwige disappeared? Why did no one talk about it?
Madame Sylvie’s husky purr rang out over the tumult of the dressing room, welcoming the audience and urging them to clap and stomp and begin their salivating. The girls bustling around me went quiet and hurried to their places. I ran for the ladder and scurried up to my perch, content to wrap chalked hands around the smooth metal of my chandelier and grateful that since my earlier fall, Madame Sylvie had assigned Auguste to check the ropes, equipment, and catwalk before each performance.
I felt safe, so high up. No one could touch me here. This was real. This was solid. This was who I was, what I did. The fame, the gilt, the feathers, the princes, the parties—none of that was real. At the heart of my identity, I was a contortionist, a performer, a dancer in the sky. And although it made me miss Cherie more than ever, I was glad to climb onto the metal cage and get into position, stretching out my limbs and pointing my toes and waiting for the jerk of rope that would lower me into the spotlight. It was good simply to be exactly what I was.
My performance was flawless, every move sinuous and graceful. The applause thundered, the men standing to stomp their feet and whistle through fingers still sweaty from expensive gloves. I bowed, I danced, I linked arms with daimons and kicked high in the can-can that everyone thought I had invented. But as I looked around at the glitter, the glitz, the madness, the daimons’ smooth skirts unmarred by waving tails, I felt a grand emptiness. The caravan may have been boring, but at least it was more real than this seductive farce.
After the last bow, I scurried backstage in the rustling crowd, breathless and weary. A gentle hand on my elbow pulled me aside. I expected Vale, but it was Auguste.
“You’re wanted in the costumer’s, miss,” he said in his usual quiet tones.
Charline and Blue jumped on me at the door, drawing me inside and undressing me with plucking fingers before I could protest. The outfit they tossed over my head was barely half a bed sheet, draped like a toga on a nymphomaniac Greek goddess and secured with tiny gold buttons at the shoulders. They pulled the pins from my hair and lured it to tumble down my bare back in dark waves and slipped sandals on my feet.
“What the hell?”
Madame Sylvie appeared in the door to look me up and down as if I was a show dog, as if she was hunting for faults or bared teeth. “Hush. Tonight is the night.”
Charline stepped to Sylvie’s side. Their avid eyes made my blud run cold, their horizontal pupils unblinking and their arms crossed. Sylvie’s flesh-colored powder completely creeped me out; surely that didn’t fool the men? Or perhaps that was why she mostly stayed hidden in her room—who knew what her skin truly showed?
“Tonight’s what night?” I asked.
Charline smiled too brightly. “The night.”
Blue darted in with her brush, painting my lips with a blood-red Cupid’s bow. Her own mouth was drawn down in a frown, darker blue in the wrinkles.
Madame Sylvie’s eyebrows shot up in drawn-on arches. “You know what to do, n’est-ce pas? Where everything goes? In theory if not in practice?”
I went stock-still, frozen. They still thought I was a virgin. And they still thought I was for sale. And apparently, they had finally earned a price high enough to ensure that they got a receipt, elephant or no.