walks of life and all nationalities. Violet had never been able to decide whether the spirits truly spoke through her mother or whether she was simply an extremely gifted mimic. All in all, people came to see Celine perform, and even the most skeptical left entranced by her.
“Then why the costumes?” Celine asked.
“To attract punters,” Violet explained patiently. “They’ve not heard of us here. Once they’re inside the theatre,
“Jacobi always used to say that,” Celine said. “Tiresome man.”
“He was right.” Whatever Violet thought of Jacobi now, he had understood the importance of showmanship. “You must admit that we did very, very well in London as the Bastiens, the frail mother and her daughter, her guide.”
“The guide part is real, you know. I rely on you, dear Violet.”
Her mother did. Any thought that Violet would leave her—to travel, to be a wife, to do anything—was met with terror and weeping. Celine needed her Violet. How could she survive otherwise?
But while Celine was a slave to her weak health and her gift, she could also be keen-minded and strong as an ox when she wanted something.
“I still don’t understand why we had to leave London,” Celine said again. “We’d have found a way to come up with the rent. We had another performance at the end of the week.”
Violet didn’t answer. Neither she nor Mary had told Celine what had happened with Daniel Mackenzie, or the true reason they’d fled in the night.
Violet hadn’t seen any mention of Mr. Mackenzie in the newspapers here, but the French papers didn’t always take much notice of what went on in England. The few English newspapers she’d glimpsed had not screamed out about his death. For the most part, though, Violet was avoiding English newspapers, to preserve the fiction that she and Celine spoke little English. Even here, inside the boardinghouse, they spoke only French.
The story for the stage Violet had wrought was that Celine—now Countess Melikova, a widow—had been forced to flee Russia when her gift for clairvoyance was deemed too dangerous. She’d left the splendor of her late husband’s manor house for a peripatetic existence in France, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland, giving readings and seances for coin.
Violet was now Princess Ivanova, the countess’s deceased best friend’s daughter. Princess Ivanova had left a string of broken hearts behind her from Saint Petersburg to Budapest, and had been forced out of Russia because four men had fought to the death over her. She’d been told never to return. The princess and the countess had agreed to travel and live together, and here they were.
Violet and her mother had used the personas once before, in Italy, where they had worked well—at least, until the winter had turned unusually bitter, sending tourists home. Violet and her mother had moved to a milder climate then and transformed themselves into Romany women.
Violet turned to the window again to avoid her mother’s continuing questions about why they’d left London. Violet had relived the dreadful moment in the dining room of the London townhouse again and again—her fear clearing to reveal Daniel giving her a look of confusion before he fell to the floor.
He alone of the gentlemen that night had been kind to her. He’d discovered Violet’s secrets, but instead of being outraged and exposing her, he’d laughed and been interested.
And the kisses . . . Violet remembered the smoke on Daniel’s breath, the touch of his lips. His gentle kiss in the upstairs room had awakened fires in her—fires, not fear. For the first time in her life, Violet had kissed a man without terror.
Why, why then had she struck him when he’d tried again in the dining room? She wished she could be transported back to that moment, wished she could change her split-second decision. In the new scenario, her hand would never have landed on the vase, and she’d not have swung it, not seen his blood . . .
Violet had left him on a doorstep like unwanted trash. A man, a human being, and Violet had left him alone, ready pickings for any thief.
The kind doctor or a constable must have found him, Violet told herself once again. Found Daniel, found out who he was, sent him home to his family.
Violet’s breath caught on a sob. She didn’t want him to be dead. She wanted that night back, to slow down with him and get to know him, to hear his warm laughter one more time.
The police would be investigating what had happened. They’d learn that Mr. Mackenzie had been to the house Violet and her mother rented. Violet had been right to flee, or else she, Celine, and Mary might be in a prison cell right now.
As always, Violet had done what she’d had to do. She couldn’t take it back, and she had to move on. She and her mother would perform, they’d count the takings, and they’d survive. That was Violet’s life.
Her tedious, empty life.
Daniel stared down at the note he received from Ian a few days after he’d sought his uncle’s help. The thick sheet of writing paper bore the one word in careful script, nothing more.
“Could you be more specific?” Daniel said to the air.
“Sir?” Simon appeared from the back parlor, which held two-thirds of a motorcar and not much else. He’d been helping Daniel reseat the pistons. Daniel had wiped his hands and come out to answer the door, finding a delivery boy with the note.
“Never mind,” Daniel said to Simon. “My uncle Ian can be so very cryptic. If he says they’re in Marseille, they’re in Marseille. Fancy a trip to the south of France, Simon?”
Simon looked doubtful. “Never been, sir.”
“Your chance to go now. I need to send off some telegrams. Kill a few birds with one stone.”
Simon didn’t answer, having, in the last few days, come to realize that Daniel talked a mile a minute in several different directions and didn’t always expect a reply.
Even as Daniel readied himself to go, looking regretfully at the motorcar before shutting the parlor door, he wondered why he should bother. Violette’s volatile reaction to his kisses meant she wanted nothing to do with him. The fact that she or someone in her household had carried him out and left him on the street reinforced that fact.
Then came the memory of Violette in the curve of Daniel’s arm, her lips puckering around the black cigarette. He hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of her red mouth. She’d tasted of honey, smoke, and desire. One sip of her had made Daniel want more, and more.
In the dining room, Daniel had wanted to kiss her again, then lift her to the table, pull their clothing aside, and lose himself inside her. Something in his heart had craved her, and it craved her still.
Who was Violette Bastien, and where the devil was she?
The concert hall was nearly full. Violet liked to see bodies in every seat, because theatre owners sometimes demanded a larger percentage of the take if they didn’t fill the hall. But it wasn’t bad tonight. Theirs was a new show, and the bored expatriates and wealthy French of Marseille wanted novelty.
The lights went down and the curtain opened on their simple tableau. Violet’s mother sat on a curved rococo-revival chair, her back straight, the train of her old-fashioned black bombazine gown trickling to the floor. At the last minute, she’d declared she would wear the turban after all, and its shimmering brocade shone against her graying black hair.
Next to Celine was a table holding an empty glass and a pitcher of water, and Violet was walking to the table as the curtain opened. Violet had dressed in a fashionable dove gray gown, covering her face with a sheer black veil that hung to her waist. In addition, she’d donned a blond wig so that wisps of pale hair occasionally curled below the veil. The wig itched a bit, but the fine, fair hair completed the illusion.
In the advertising for the show—and the word of mouth Mary had begun—it was hinted that Violet must keep her face hidden, because one glimpse of her incredible beauty drove even the calmest gentleman insane.
