Club L’Or, Paris, 16 May 1868
Marie entered the club, and although she kept her cloak around her and hood drawn, a murmur followed her like the foam at the crest of a wave—“Fantastique! It’s the actress from the Bohème. But what is she doing here?” She knew her cheeks must glow as brightly as the lamps in their beaded red silk shades, which cast everything in a lurid, ruddy glow, but she pressed on. She didn’t know what she felt, only that the emotion originated somewhere in the center of her pelvis, clawed its way through her stomach, and clogged her throat, from where it scratched at the corners of her eyes. But she held her head up as her mother had always taught her.
“You are a fatherless female from a culture no one understands. You have nothing and everything to lose, so must never
