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Théâtre Bohème, 4 December 1870
The next morning, Marie stepped into the crisp air of the alley behind the townhouse. Since it was Sunday, the street was quiet, and she knew the chances of her being disturbed were minimal. She had a ghost to find and give a piece of her mind. She didn’t care whether it was a true specter or a man pretending to be one—he had gone too far with the snow on her face and the note in her bedchamber.
The more she’d thought about it, the angrier she became, and sleep had eluded her much of the night. She’d been manipulated enough by her mother. She wasn’t going to take it from anyone else.
In the light of day, the snow from the roof lay scattered on the ground even after the morning’s deliveries, which were fewer and fewer as the siege went on. When she loo
