CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Philidor

HE COULDN’T SLEEP knowing that the creature was in the room above him. Standing there, alone in the dark, the only witness

to her existence the furnishings and the moon, which glared down upon him and grew his restlessness. There was nothing for it but to get up. The desire was strong, illicit even, and infected him with a notion of otherworldliness, that perhaps if he snuck in silently or peeked unseen through the ajar doorway, he may just surprise her sitting at the window in the moonlight, wondering what sort of life she had been given. The whole notion was fanciful. But still. He would get up, look in on her and then, if still unsettled, go through the account ledger again.

The floorboards on the stairs were cool, a welcome sensation after the hot sheets that had enshrouded his twitching feet. He’d no need of a blanket over his shoulders but went as he was, clad only in trunks. He turned his lamp low and watched his silhouette stretch as he moved, so that he was pleased, proud even, of his profile. He stopped to admire it, running his hands over his chest and stomach, congratulating himself on his slimmer form that circumstance and lack of money had brought. He had used all the money from the bank on this venture, supplies and materials, lodgings, securing the theatre; there was no fat to spend on extravagant suppers – or women. Thank heavens for his arrangement at the Strand.

When he opened the door of Marie’s workshop, it didn’t squeak. He’d been careful to smear lamp oil on all the hinges in their lodgings without Marie’s knowledge. He slipped inside and extinguished the lamp. The moon was already in full and open admiration of the woman standing in the centre of the room. The dress. The skin. The hair. It was all so real. So breathtakingly, horrifically real that he had to tell himself, under his breath, that she was not real. He inhaled her scent: oil, paint and something else, an elegance, a regal essence that was intangible yet present. The bare skin of his chest tingled, brushing her arm as he circled and recircled her. Her perfumed hair quickened his heart and stirred further the beguiling twinge of desire. For to be so close to this woman, this queen, and be touching her was logically impossible, but his senses intuited otherwise. This was what his shows were about: weaving a spell of deception with sleight of hand, with smoke, mirrors, cloths of silk and shadows that hid and suggested all manner of things. His necromancy that summoned visions of the departed was largely thanks to the mechanical contrivance of the magic lantern, which he was replacing with the Argand lamp. Even more effective in its image projection apparently. Yes, this figure before him was just a fully formed version of this technique. But the final test would be if this creature actually worked. If his great experiment was able to come to life.

He’d agreed with Marie to wait until the morrow. But he gave his word away without thought all the time. It was past midnight, and Marie would likely not take well to being disturbed. Waking her would be unkind. He would wind Antoinette now, while the moonlight gleamed upon her skin and made her eyes resonate with a depth that the harsh daylight would betray as glass. He reached up above her neck, noting the tiny indentation between the base of her skull and the beginning of her spine. Such a lovely, soft dip, and then the compact metal handle of the key was between his fingers … He stopped. He didn’t know why, only that he didn’t want to break the enchantment of stillness by seeing her jerk or flail in the gloom. He paused, savouring the tension of anticipation. It needed release. He touched her. Slid his hand under her dress and between her legs, and for a moment it was real. She was warm, soft. His eyes widened. Did she blink? Was that a sigh? Then he turned away, taking one last look as he closed the door to seal her in.

He stood for a moment in indecision, looking out his bedchamber window. The roofs were a dishevelled stretch of grey and purple fields, the shambled slate of the poorer dwellings competing with the smooth slate of the high street townhouses. He couldn’t summon the energy for the Strand now. But he was still wide awake. Aroused and needing release. Perhaps it would be worth paying Druce a visit. She was so eager to please, and her winks and pinches made it clear she offered more than lodgings.

Heavens, was that Druce out there now talking to that gentleman? Surely she had no interest in antiques and artefacts, or it could be about the rent. Whatever it was, the fellow looked impatient to leave. Yes, he dropped his books and then his carriage blocked Philidor’s view. A moment later it pulled away. Druce made her way back across the road, and Philidor stroked the bridge of his nose. He could afford at least one extra coin tonight.