"A moment, madame, and I shall retrieve your headdress for you—" Forgetting that I did not wear my usual leather jacket and fighting togs, I wiped my nose across my arm a second time and was dismayed to discover blood smeared along my forearm and dripping onto my cobalt gown. My drycleaners would require upfront payment, and at least half an hour of my time in which to lecture me. I sighed, but such was the cost of my chosen lifestyle. To Madame Baker, I smiled apologetically for my appearance, then wrapped the stage rope around my wrist a final time. With only a touch of fortune, I could catch the escaping thieves in a single swing.
A steel grip grasped my bloody arm. "Like hell," said the fabulous Madame Baker, in raw American English. "You're not leaving me behind, Madame Stone. First, you've just saved my bacon and I want you near me if any of these thugs wake up. Second, that's my hat!"
I stared at her, dazed with bemused admiration. I could argue; I could lay her out and make good my chase; I could bind the unconscious Nazis so they could not trouble her.
Or I could waste no time, and offer her a dashing smile. "As you wish, Madame Baker."
La grand dame's answering smile was ferocious, and I recalled that she was known to keep a cheetah called Chiquita; I thought she had learned that sharp smile from the wild animal, and also thought she would do well at my side in a fight and perhaps in gentler arts. I clenched the rope and made to pull her close, ready to swing, but a change of her weight made me hesitate.
Madame Baker took perhaps one half of a step forward, putting herself just ahead of me on the prow of the Egyptian ship, and took a long, deep, glorious bow to uproarious applause and appreciation from the scattered, standing audience. Her fingers dug into my forearm, pulling me into the bow as well. I joined her, though less gracefully and without the depth or duration. When she stood, it was to await further, forthcoming accolades, but under my breath I murmured, "Madame Baker, I must insist. Come with me or remain for your adoring audience, but the choice must be made now."
She released my arm so that she could wrap hers around my neck. I, in turn, tested my grip on the rope and snugged her against my side with my free arm. What a picture we made, she in gold, myself in blue, whooping wildly—hers inspiring mine—as we swung from the scow. The audience's roars of delight followed us in waves. We came to the backstage floor as one, laughing at the madness of it all as we clutched hands and fell into hot pursuit of our quarry.
Black-uniformed men swarmed ladders reaching for the catwalks high above. They were nearly impossible to see, until a clever stagehand—perhaps the same one who had helped me before—illuminated the backstage with harsh electric lights. I was grateful to be in Paris for this adventure; nowhere else had so many electric lights as to deserve the name la Ville-Lumière. I released Madame Baker's hand and dashed up a ladder, now able to move more quickly than my Nazi prey. I had gained on them by half when the first threw open a door leading to the rooftop and they slipped out into the night.
I was behind them in a moment, gasping at night air so cold and fresh on my bare arms that it seemed to buzz and hum. I had, I realized too late, been a fool: instead of seizing Madame Baker, I ought to have taken a gun from one of the fallen fascists. C'est la vie; I would simply have to defeat them with my wits and my fists, which had never yet failed me in battle. To that end, when Madame Baker flew through the door behind me, I caught the outrageous skirt of her gown, issued an apology, and tore its delicate fabric until her legs were exposed to above the knee and I had a shimmering length of material to twist into a rope.
The rooftop of le Palais Garnier was a vast, flat thing centered by a huge green glass dome lined with copper. The whole of the building was cornered by gold angels who bore instruments and lifted their arms to the sky in musical supplication; behind them both lay the rest of the building and its less dramatic rooftop. We had emerged near the dome; the fascists were already approaching the roof's edge, where they would no doubt slither down and away like the snakes they were. I bound a lasso into the rope as we ran after them, judging the height of an angel's wing for ensnaring. It could be done, though perhaps not by Madame Baker.
"What is that?" she demanded as we ran, and I realized the soft buzz I had felt upon exiting the warmth of the opera house was not simply cold, but indeed the air itself vibrating with the sound of engines. In front of us, our Nazi game flung themselves from the rooftop without care; I did not even see them catch hold of ropes to rappel safely to the ground. We were nearly upon the rooftop's precipice ourselves when finally we saw the answer to their reckless actions.
Slow, low-flying biplanes roared past la Palais Garnier. Painted as red as the infamous Baron's and decorated with the spiderlike swastika, they caught their falling comrades in flybys. Offended outrage rose in my chest. They had been very certain, these Nazis. Biplanes were old, used in the Great War and replaced now with faster, single-winged aircraft. But for tonight, for an incursion into France to steal a headdress from a singer, surely the Nazi commanders had concluded that their old planes would suit, and sent a bevy of them forth to drop off and collect their troops. Naturellement, they had not anticipated my presence, nor that any single person could foil them all. Ah, but they had never met a Spirit before; I knew from adventures past that those of us born to shape the century had gifts beyond the ordinary.
I was not ashamed to admit I put some of those gifts on fine display as I leapt from the rooftop with my golden lasso in hand. I knew an exhilarating handful of heartbeats wherein I had no mistress save the wind: I was free of all constraints, unable to feel even gravity's call. This was flight; this was the thing that humankind had longed for since time immemorial.
I landed on the curved upper wing of a biplane with grace and elegance: on one knee, the other foot and both hands planted firmly against freezing metal, with my skirt blowing around me like a cobalt storm. It was my dearest hope that Madame Baker saw that glorious and dramatic landing, for no sooner had I accomplished it than I was obliged to fling myself face down and cling to the wing like an insect afraid of being blown away. The plane banked sharply at my arrival, then spun upward into the sky, trying to shake me off. I was thrown back and forth, my grip loosening with every wobble, but I soon had the rhythm of it: when the pilot drove the wing opposite me toward the earth, the air itself pinned me in place before I was nearly flipped headlong upon the reversal of that tilt.
When, for the third time, the pilot drove the opposite wing downward, I let my golden rope unfurl. Roaring wind captured it and snapped it down and back, around the plane's upper wing. I lurched for the free flying end, seizing it in cold fingers just as the pilot realized what I was doing. He flung the plane to the opposite pitch, trying to dislodge me, but now I was effectively bound to the wing—so long as my grip held. Eyeing the city lights speeding below and the terrible distance there was to fall, I vowed that my grip would not fail me, and did my best to perform an unconcerned wink and smile at the pilot.
Rage contorted his features as inventive invective spewed forth. Only then did I truly notice that a second man sat in the plane's passenger seat, whence the guns could be operated. Indeed, he was struggling to bring them around to an angle from which he could fire at me, and I dreaded that he might carry and soon remember a sidearm. The pilot became secondary in my concerns, and as the plane pitched again I made no effort to hold on to anything but my rope. Its silken length zipped down the wing to catch violently on struts, the freedom of play it granted allowing me to meet the plane's passenger with the flexed heels of both feet. He was not secured and the force of our encounter wrenched him from the plane. Screaming, he made the very fall I was trying so conscientiously to avoid.
The pilot leveled the plane again, which threw me away from him, but the silken rope did its duty and held me to the wing. I scrambled up, buffeted by wind, and realized the pilot dared not tilt the aeroplane again for fear of depositing me atop him. I had no such concerns, and, cat-like, began to creep toward him. He turned a look of savagery on me and withdrew a pistol from the cockpit.
He could not hit me easily; I had the advantage of movement, though I wished that I had tied the rope to something rather than trust my own strength. I doubted I would be afforded the opportunity now. The first shot, fired in anger, flew wild, but the second was more carefully aimed. He sighted along the pistol and I, crouched on the wing, waited to determine which way to fly. But then surprise wiped rage from his face and I, more fool than I knew, followed his glance upward.
A crash heralded the arrival of another player in our performance, and a woman leaned over the wing's trailing edge to hit me in the face.