A Darkness Strange and Lovely

afternoon of horrors.” She paused at the bathroom doorway and finally glanced back at me. “Trust me, Mademoiselle Fitt. I know these things.”

“A-all right,” I stammered. Even though I was determined to avoid the ball—Jie still needed finding, and Oliver . . . who knew when he would return? But in the meantime, I could at least enjoy a bath.

Her lips curved up, making her bright eyes crinkle. At that smile, my chest loosened. Some of my earlier worries pulled back, almost as if . . . as if I were using my magic.

And it occurred to me that maybe friendship was a better balm for my problems than magic.

Chapter Nineteen

I floated on air. Giddy. Positively brimming with joy and perfection. My gown was beautiful, andI was beautiful—more beautiful than I had ever been in my entire life. The bloodred color of the fabric made my skin glow and my cheeks bright. My hair was coiled and curled, and roses were tucked in at the back.

Madame Marineaux had spent the entire afternoon with me, helping curl my hair, pulling my stays until I could hardly breathe—yet, oh how tiny my waist was after!—and pinching my cheeks to add color.

Now we rattled in her carriage on our way to the ball—a ball! My very first ball, and in Paris no less. Oh, how proud Mama would be if she were here to see this.

Or—my brow furrowed—would she be proud? Something was wrong with that thought; but before

I could identify precisely what, Madame Marineaux gestured to the window.

“We are almost to the Palais Garnier. I think you will like what you see.”

I slid across the velvet bench seat and swept aside the matching curtain. “You have such a lovely carriage, Mad—ohhh.” I stopped speaking, too enthralled by the gleaming and golden palace at the end of the street. As party guests alighted from their carriages and glided toward huge archways that marked the building’s entrance, bright streetlights bathed them in an ethereal glow.

And as our own carriage slowly rolled closer, the full splendor of the palace came into view—the giant golden angels flanking its sides, the copper-domed roof, and the elaborate faces and statues that peered out from every spare inch. All I knew of the palace was that it was meant to be a theater—yet we had no theaters even half as magnificent in Philadelphia. Even the lovely Arch Street Theatre I had visited with Clarence seemed a drab, tiny thing in comparison to this.

“Come.” Madame Marineaux’s sweet voice broke into my gawking. “We must make our grand entrance. An old lady and a stunning young femme.”

“Old lady!” I cried. “Hardly! You look positively perfect tonight.” And I meant that. Madame

Marineaux’s gown was a vivid black silk—so unusual yet so striking against her pale skin and dark hair. I was elated to be spending the evening with a hostess as remarkable as she.

A footman opened the carriage door and helped me bustle out. Other guests sailed past, all of them in pairs and chattering happily. Drifting over their conversations was the faint sound of a thrumming waltz. A breeze caressed my bare shoulders, sweeping beneath my curls.

It was a perfect night. I had no cares in the world. Only this delicious buzzing happiness in my chest.

Madame Marineaux swished past me toward the columns, her face beaming as she declared, “The ball calls us, Mademoiselle! Let us dance and dance until our feet hurt and the sun rises!”

Dancing! I gathered up my skirts and traipsed after her, my heart singing at the thought of real dancing! I had certainly learned the waltz, the mazurka, and all the other popular dances, but I’d never had chance to do them! As we approached, the music grew louder, and I could see dancers soaring past on the second-floor balconies.

But staring out from above those balconies were staid, golden statues of composers, and I grinned up at Mozart as he watched me approach. It was with such silly distractions in mind that I finally reached the wide steps leading to the Palais Garnier’s entrance. I followed Madame Marineaux up through an archway, and after passing through a wooden entryway, found myself in a high-ceilinged hall, where dim lantern light flickered over life-size statues of more composers.

Madame Marineaux whirled around quite suddenly, her gloved arms outstretched. “Oh, I almost forgot! You must take a dance card.”

I blinked and then realized she held a palm-size white booklet with a delicate cord attached to the spine. I gasped excitedly and snatched it up. My first dance card! I flipped it open and scanned the list of all the dances—we were currently on the polka redowa.

“I shall introduce you to everyone,” Madame Marineaux continued, clearly enjoying my pleasure, “and then I am certain all the men will be vying for a dance with the pretty American girl.” She hooked her arm into mine, our enormous skirts pressing inward, and gave a long, contented sigh. “I have been so lonely until you came along, Mademoiselle Fitt. It is . . . wonderful to have a companion once more.”

“But . . .” I looked away from the card. “What of the Marquis?” At that name something tickled in the back of my mind, yet when I tried to pinpoint why, the feeling flittered away like a hummingbird.

Madame Marineaux tugged me into a walk, leading me toward an archway. Beyond was an enormous staircase, glowing golden and warm. “I adore the Marquis, but a man is no replacement for one’s female friends. Nor is he a replacement for my m—” Her lips puckered. “My first man.”

“I . . . I am sorry.”

“Do not be! Did I not tell you only two days ago, c’est la vie? And look.” Smiling, she pointed to a bronze statue beside the stairwell. Beneath its elaborate candelabras stood two men in deep conversation. “There is a friend of mine, and”—she flashed her eyebrows at me—“he has a very handsome son who I am certain will wish to escort you to the dance floor.”

After our introduction, the young man, a Monsieur Something-or-other, did escort me. Up and up the stairwell we went. The music grew louder with each step, and my fingers traced along the balustrades. At the first landing the stairs split in two, and the monsieur—who prattled endlessly in

French and did not seem to mind that I neither understood nor listened—veered right.

The moment we reached the second floor, however, we were forced to slow. People were everywhere. Women clad in all shades of a pastel rainbow hung on their black-suited partners. As we waited for the crowds to thin, the young man took my dance card, withdrew a pencil from his waistcoat, and scribbled his name beside the galop. I grinned delightedly as I slipped the dance card’s cord around my wrist. My first dance! And with such a dashing gentleman on my arm . . . except, I felt there was someone else I would rather have on my arm. But for whatever reason, I could not remember who.

I brushed it off, intoxicated by the atmosphere. My escort said something and motioned to our left.

Yet before I could even try to comprehend his French, he was tugging me through a dim doorway and into a round room with a bright sunshine painted on the ceiling. Mirrors adorned the walls, magnifying the light from a gold chandelier and reflecting a flushed, bright-eyed me.

I had just enough time to evaluate if my roses were still in place in my hair (they were) when my escort pulled me through the tiny room and into an alcove crowded with men. They debated in excited

French, hands wild and mustaches wiggling, as completely disinterested in the dancing going on beyond as I was in their debates.

Fortunately, my partner was of the same mind, and we finally managed to wedge ourselves into the ornate ballroom just as the first strains of the galop began.

And moments later, with his gloved hand on my back and his other hand clasping mine, we sashayed onto the dark-wood floors. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, dripping with light and illuminating all the swirling faces. My partner smiled; I smiled.

The dance passed in a blur, and I barely had time to catch my breath before Madame Marineaux had a new young man to meet me—and to sign my dance card. One after another, I waltzed, polkaed, skipped les lanciers, and hopped into another galop. And one after another, my partners’ faces blurred together. . . .