9
Théâtre Bohème, 2 December 1870
Marie walked quickly, every step a delightful torture due to the sensations at her core and between her thighs.
Mon dieu, what was that about?
The answer came before she wanted it to: it was her usual pattern. Due to her stupid talent, men saw in her what they wanted. Johann Bledsoe liked actresses—she’d read that in Cobb’s dossier on him—and she was playing a woman who had been caught up in the same great passion she inspired, at least in the sensationalized version of the Hector/Henriette story Light Fantastique told.
She had to stop due to her tears obscuring her vision in the dim passage. There was no point in tripping over her own disappointment and twisting an ankle or worse—she was deep enough in the bowels of the theatre now that no one would
