20

Alone in the empty theater, I took out Mama’s box of letters from her flat at Tavistock Place and traced the inlaid chips of stone and glass. I hadn’t even read them all. I hadn’t been able to bear the entire stack, but perhaps Jack, who had no attachment to my mum, could dig through and find something useful. It was the least I could do for him.

I made my way across Covent Garden and climbed the steps to Jack’s top-floor flat. When he popped out in answer to my knock, I handed him the box and explained where I’d come across it. “Perhaps you’ll find some interesting bit, a clue, or even a threat from someone. Do with the information what you will, but I would like it all returned to me when you are done.”

He lingered against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So I have your permission? Your express permission to do whatever I wish with this information?”

Immediately I sensed the danger of agreeing. “Nothing public, no scandal. No newspaper or gossip column or anything like that.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “You have my word of honor.” Then he exhaled and lowered his hand, face solemn. “Thank you . . . for this. It’s terribly kind of you.”

“You practically demanded my assistance.”

“Yes, but you’re not one to comply. Not easily, anyway.”

A wry smile. “I do so love to prove you wrong.”

“I see.” A grin twitched over his face as he looked me over and set the box just inside. “Ready for the audition?”

“I’m never ready.”

“Remember, though, you have a secret weapon this time. How is that Psalm coming?”

“Easier than I expected, actually.” I’d spent hours already with my Psalm book and pencil, writing choreography in the margins. “We’ll see how it works when it matters most.”

“Ah, so the rare moment of proving me right this time.”

“Don’t become used to it.”

He leaned against the doorframe again. “I’ve given some thought to my hero, actually. Because I know you were wildly curious about the ballet.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve come to the decision that if Philippe is to play the lead, you must be the one to dance opposite him.”

I laughed. “You’ll have a fine time convincing Bellini and Fournier of that.”

“No, truly. I think it must be that way, and you can have your dance with Philippe Rousseau at last. What do you say? You, dancing the part of Delphine Bessette, your father’s legendary partner, and Philippe . . . well, Philippe would be dancing as the man she loves.”

I caught my breath, smiled with concerted effort, and tried to appear unaffected. “That sounds rather nice.”

“Quite fitting, don’t you think?”

I sighed. “I don’t suppose you could tweak the ending a bit, could you? A little less fire and a little more happy?”

He gave a gentle smile. “Fortunately, we have the right to our own endings—off the stage, at least.”

When he appeared to want to ask me something, a question I knew would be uncomfortable, I gave a nod and turned. Leaving that unusual box in his hands, I backtracked down the stairs and through the street, sorting through Mama’s story in my head. What would Jack Dorian think, after reading all those letters, of my mother? Of my parents’ romance and its tragic ending? Would it solidify everything he believed Mum to be, or would he sense the same thing I had about their whole story?

It was not quite right. Something didn’t make sense about their grand romance and the years of separation. All these letters, alongside the deep affection she’d felt for my father and the very truth of her nature.

I happened upon Philippe at the little café when I stopped for a bite, and he invited me to sit with him. “You look a bit peaked. Is everything all right?”

I released a long breath, looking into my deeply tangled heart. “A little excitement. Unexpected dramatics behind the scenes. Nothing out of the ordinary for a theater girl.”

“Then I’m certain it’s nothing you can’t handle—with confidence.”

I smiled, settling into the conversation like a warm cup of tea. Where Jack Dorian was the wild circus and tigers and free-falling on a trapeze, Philippe was all ballet and beauty and order with things as they should be. I felt at home with him.

Conversation drifted easily over lentil soup and centered on the upcoming production.

“He’s chosen a Shakespeare for the next production, you know.” Philippe stirred the broth and sipped.

“Oh.” I straightened, pulling on my mask of sophistication. “Midsummer Night’s Dream, I hope. I always thought it deserved a ballet.” As if I’d actually read the thing.

“The Winter’s Tale, actually.”

“Well, then.” I’d never even heard of that one. I edged a glance up at his face. “I don’t suppose there’s a North Wind role in that one, is there? It sounds the sort to have one . . . perhaps.” My heart thudded nearly out of its cage at the hint that now lingered between us. How bold I’d grown.

“Thank heavens, no. That was the worst costume I ever donned, and it would please me to never wear it again. I was combing sparkle from my hair for over a week.”

“Surely there was something you enjoyed about playing that part. Some trivial little . . .”

He bowed his head, a sudden blanket of awkwardness upon him. “Suppose we speak of your productions. I’ve told you most everything about mine.”

I stepped back from the edge of the cliff and heaved a sigh—of both relief and disappointment. It truly must have meant very little to him. Obligation and gratitude, with nothing magical about it. “There’s not much to tell for mine. I’ve never been principal.”

“Then I suppose you’d best practice. Auditions are in a few days. Are you ready?”

I squared my shoulders. “Yes. Yes, I believe I am.” All I needed was a loft and a trapeze. Well, and an empty theater. That would help.

“Splendid.” His smile was intoxicating. “Perhaps I shall see more of you on the stage as you climb the ranks.”

“I do hope so.” I looked up into his face, trying to see even a trace of Marcus de Silva, but I did not. Where my father wore disinterest like a heavy cloak, Philippe was watchful. Alert and aware. Where my father was a turned back, Philippe was an offered arm.

He stood to escort me when we’d finished. Two blocks we walked in silence, then he cleared his throat. “About Jack Dorian. I assume you were . . .”

“Thrown into his presence. Quite unceremoniously, I might add.” Well I remembered that walk through the cemetery, the exit that Philippe had observed. “Circumstances brought us together, time and again, and he’s proven . . . helpful.”

“Hmm.” He studied me as we walked.

“He’s been a fine friend.”

He remained tense beside me, his face a mask of unease until we reached the boardinghouse. He turned to me at the door. “Forgive my intrusiveness, Miss Blythe. It’s no business of mine if you’ve attached yourself to Jack Dorian or anyone else.”

But it was.

“I’d just hate to see such a rare girl end up with the likes of him. Jack can charm nearly anyone.”

I offered a prim smile to cover the churning inside. “You’re in luck, because I’m not simply any woman.” Why must he speak so of the man who’d been such fun, who’d trotted me about the circus and forced me past my fear of heights? He may not be the finest choice for a suitor, but he made a most amusing and sincere friend.

Philippe’s face relaxed into a solemn smile, and he parted from me with a nod and a friendly “good day.” But his words had tainted the beautiful memory of the last few days, the freedom and delight I’d found in Jack’s presence, and I couldn’t bear it. The little-girl part of me wished everyone could get along and my favorite people all liked one another as much as I did.

Yet that wasn’t life. That wasn’t drama and theater.