Clockwork Phantom

Chapter 3-3

The next day, Marie sat on her bed in her old room at the townhouse and gazed out the window rather than at the script on her lap. Rain fell from the sky, glazed the windows, and slicked the surfaces of the trees and street below. A strange large shadow swooped overhead, but when she craned her neck to see it, it had already gone.

“You’re supposed to memorize all that by when?” Iris asked. She sat at the only desk, which she had taken over once starting school. With the addition of a cot for Iris to the room, there wasn’t space for another. Marie didn’t mind—she learned best when sitting in nontraditional positions, or at least whichever ones her skirts would allow. She much preferred the clothing she’d worn when she trained to be a female guard, but she didn’t like the circumstances of her employment, so she supposed this was a fair trade-off.

“The show starts in a week, so I need to have all of it memorized by the end of the weekend.”

“Music and everything?”

“It’s no different from you learning all the different sizes and shapes of Greek vases because of what you want to be. I can’t imagine learning all that, but your brain soaks it up. Mine does that with lines. Maybe I just want to be someone else.”

Or someone else wants to be me.

She’d never been able to explain it, only that when she was preparing for a role and on stage, she felt possessed by whatever character she played. And when the production ended, she felt like she left part of herself behind.

Iris rubbed her eyes. “I’m exhausted from studying, but I don’t know what else to do. Exams are over, but I feel I need to do something.” She glanced up, and Marie guessed she thought about Edward, whom they all worried about. He hadn’t been down for a meal in days.

“Me too.” The edgy feeling had started earlier that morning, but Marie didn’t know how to explain it or where it came from, only that it had been off and on the past few weeks. “I’m going to find a corner in the theatre to look over these.”

Or not look over them without witnesses to scold me for avoiding my work.

Iris stood. “I can leave if you need me to.”

“No, stay here, I’ll go. Perhaps you should organize your notes so they’ll be ready for you to pick up next term.”

Iris grinned like Marie had just proposed the most brilliant of ideas. “Yes! That’s exactly what I’ll do. You’re a genius.”

Marie left Iris to her organizing, which already looked like an explosion of papers over every surface of the bedroom. She crept down the stairs so no one would accost her. Or maybe she moved slowly so someone would interrupt her on her fool’s errand, for she didn’t want the part of Henriette.

She emerged into view of the front door just in time to see it close behind Bledsoe, and her errant mind wondered if he was going to see Corinne. Not that he’d find her if she’d managed to make it on to the airship the night before. Marie shook her head. The privateers would have their hands full with that one.

When Marie emerged into the halfhearted light of the cloudy morning, she reflexively stilled to listen for the bass sound of cannon or engines. Of course the airship had long since sailed, but she and other Parisians always paused to see and hear if there was smoke on the horizon or other signs the Prussians had engaged the French troops, if they would invade or finally be turned back to slink heads-down to their homeland. Everyone knew something would have to happen one way or the other soon with winter coming on and supplies in the city running low. Meanwhile, they pretended life went on as usual, just with fewer imported luxuries to be had.

In fact, the city had an air of forced gaiety—look, the people seemed to say, we’re not letting your silly invasion dampen our spirit. It made for irrational behavior, but it also helped fill theatre seats, even if tickets were half the prices they used to be with the economy of the city half shut-down. Still, with most of the theatres having been converted to hospitals, the Bohème drew good crowds since they were one of the few still running.

A fine mist clung to Marie’s hair and clothing, and a chill breeze made her quicken her steps. She went in a side door just beyond the portico leading to where noble theatre goers left their drivers and carriages. Or if they were nice, just their carriages. Marie tried not to think about how she sneaked out that door and was bundled into a carriage by her former patron. Those memories carried too much regret, both for her and her mother.

See, Maman? This is why I cannot take the stage again.

She knew no one would be in Corinne’s former dressing room and turned in that direction, but then she stopped. That was the star’s dressing room, the one her mother wanted her to take. Was she doing it again, responding without intention to a role that had been thrust upon her? She closed her eyes, and the litany she had come up with long ago materialized in her brain and whirled around like a little aether cloud. She clung to its light, which pierced the haze of her anxious thoughts.

I am Marie St. Jean. I am twenty years old. I have brown hair and hazel eyes. I like pain au chocolat and cappuccino. I am myself, not my role. I am Marie St. Jean…

She opened her eyes to see she now stood in the hallway in front of the dressing room she wanted to avoid. Had she walked here without recognizing she did? Panic shot in an arrow’s line from her stomach to her throat, to which she raised a hand. Wait, that wasn’t one of her regular gestures, was it? The script fell to her feet, and when she knelt to retrieve it, she saw the stage direction on the page in front of her—“Henriette: raises hand to throat.”

“Are you having difficulty, Mademoiselle?” a soft male voice asked with an American accent. Marie wasn’t one to faint, but the hallway swam in front of her eyes, and the last thing she saw before she blacked out was a metal death’s head leering over her.