CHAPTER 37

If anyone knows how to throw a party, it is the Irish. While Benedict was still laid low by his cold, that had migrated from explosive sneezing to a cough that rattled horribly in his chest, his countrymen had managed to persuade Erik that a traditional Ceilidh was the perfect way to see in 1898. In my opinion, they were right. The English and Americans called it a barn dance, but it seemed to be more or less the same thing. There was food, plenty of drink, and music provided by the talented men and women in Erik's employ. It took place in the performance tent with the musicians on the stage, Seamus standing in the midst of them and bellowing out steps to the groups – or 'sets' – of people in each dance.

"Form an arch and pair one gallops down! Now cast out! Join hands and circle right! And lady's chain! Top couple swing! And form an arch!"

The dances themselves took place in the area that, even after all these years away from the Opera Populaire, I still thought of as the auditorium. The wooden folding chairs had been stacked in the new props tent, aside from the fifty or so that ringed the performance tent so that those who were not dancing could sit and watch.

It was as though the elegant balls I imagined from the fairy tales such as Cinderella had come to life, thrown off their dignity, had a touch too much to drink, and decided to simply enjoy the music and the festivity. It was noisy and busy and a lot of fun. None of the musicians used written music, and although I suspected that Erik would be able to pick up the repetitive tunes on the piano or his own violin, he politely refused. Instead, he sat in one of the chairs with a glass of red wine, one foot tapping on the grass floor in time with the beat. It may not have been the type that he preferred, wrote or chose to play, but Erik appreciated music of any genre. This persistent Irish cheer could lighten any mood. Fortified by Dr. Gotreich's powders and potions, Benedict was able to sit and enjoy watching the dances, although when we joined one of the sets, he had to bow out when a fit of coughing took him over. He waved me back to the dancing when I sat beside him.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Perfectly," he nodded. "Go, dance. Have fun."

And so I did, swept up in the arms of both male and female colleagues as the sets demanded, while Benedict and others too tired by the previous dance clapped along to the music. Mother was magnificent in a long purple dress, her hair restrained in a half-bun that kept it out of her face but left the rest falling almost to her knees in a glossy black sweep. She turned her share of heads that night, and I reflected that this may have been the first time many of our colleagues had seen her outside of the persona of strict dance mistress and Erik's right-hand woman.

At midnight, everyone who wasn't playing an instrument stood in a huge circle, their hands joined. I recognised the tune at once as the carol we sang to ring in the New Year back in France, but as the words to Choral des Adieux left my lips, I found that the English-speakers among us were singing something else, to the same tune: Auld Lang Syne. I would learn later that it was a Scottish poem set to them same tune as Choral des Adieux, and with the same feeling. It was about letting old things go in favour of the new, and looking back with fondness at days gone by. I could see Erik on the opposite side of the circle, one hand being held by Hilton Slaney and the other by eight-year-old Georgiana Anderson, and heard his magnificent tenor in the French words of the old song. Georgiana looked thrilled to be holding hands with Erik, despite his famously fierce temper, and I wondered if he knew that the little girl admired him. It made me smile.

As the song drew to a close, Benedict turned my face to his and kissed me deeply.

"Happy New Year," he murmured.

"Happy New Year," I repeated, feeling my heart flutter like a bird trapped in my chest. I could feel Erik's attention on me, and looked back at him to see he was observing the kiss. When my gaze met his, he sighed and rolled his eyes. It was an acceptance in a way. Georgiana tugged determinedly on his sleeve, and he looked down at her in surprise, then knelt to her level to hear what she was saying. I couldn't hear her words from where I stood, but I can only assume it was "Happy New Year", as the next moment, she put her little arms around his neck to hug him. He looked absolutely astonished, and I couldn't help but laugh allowed at his expression, and even more so when the child planted a kiss on his unmasked cheek to see in the New Year.

xxxxx

1898 began damp and chilly, and I was happy to spend most of it inside one tent or another, preferably in Benedict's tent, and his bed. But there was still work that needed to be done, and even though we were closed to the public, the Imaginarium was still drawing attention.

Erik called to me as I was finishing pegging my laundry onto a line that connected my tent to my nearest neighbours'. It was the first day of the New Year when we hadn't been peppered with rain, although the wind was strong and sent my cleaned clothes billowing like flags. I had spent the last hour with the soap and washboard, and I was freezing cold, my fingers wrinkled from the water. I had just picked up my empty laundry basked when I heard my name in that familiar, golden voice.

"Miss Giry! A moment of your time."

Erik disappeared back into his own tent before I could protest and I sighed, wondering what he could want. At least it would be warm in his tent, with the wood burning stove. I stripped off my apron and tossed it into the laundry basket, put the basket down by my tent, and trudged over to his, keeping my shawl tight around me against the wind. When I entered, I found that the master of the Imaginarium was not alone. Sitting on the divan was one of the most striking women I had ever seen. She had skin as dark as the coffee I preferred, and a face that would probably be described as handsome rather than beautiful. She was dressed in a dark red gown with a deep V neck, black lace at the collar and cuffs, and her hair was hidden by a dark red scarf wound about her head. There was a gold chain around her throat, and huge gold hoops hanging from her ears.

"Marguerite GIry," Erik said, gesturing to her. "Therese Paris."

He pronounced the name the way French speakers pronounce the city, with a silent S.

"How do you do?" I smiled politely at Therese Paris, and she stood up slowly, looking regal as she drew a dark shawl closer around herself.

"Mademoiselle Paris comes from our next stop, Louisiana. She is here because she is thinking of joining the Imaginarium, along with a number of friends," Erik continued as the woman reached out to take my hand. It was difficult to place her age, since something about her face looked so timeless, but I thought she was older than me and younger than my mother. She did not smile.

"Indeed?" I kept my own smile fixed as I shook her warm, dry hand. "Mister Y is a good man to work for. What is it that you do?"

"Do?" Her voice was surprisingly deep for a woman, with those long Southern vowels and a measured tempo. "What I do is people, Miss Giry. Living or dead, don't make much difference."

"I don't understand…"

"I have a gift," she answered. "Power runs in my very veins. My aunt was Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans."

I blinked. I wasn't familiar with the name, but what little I had read of Voodoo did not cast it in a good light. It seemed to be something to do with devil worship and using doll effigies to inflict pain on people.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?" She asked.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I have never heard of your aunt."

She looked offended. "Well, I doubt now is a time for a history lesson. But perhaps a demonstration is called for."

"An audition," Erik corrected smoothly.

"As you like," she answered, nodding at him, and looked back to me. I shifted uncertainly. What did she mean by a demonstration? Was she about to whip out a doll and stab it in the leg to see if I flinched? Or summon the devil right into this very tent?

"So," Erik sat down in his chair, leant forward and folded his hands on his desk. "What can you tell me about Miss Giry?"

Therese Paris' onyx-coloured eyes moved up and down my body.

"Miss Giry is a dancer," she began, and I felt my eyebrows go up as I flicked my gaze to Erik. "And a Frenchwoman." She smiled at me. "You will like New Orleans, Miss Giry, especially the French Quarter. Ah, Miss Giry is proud of her French heritage, and a little homesick" Her dark eyes were focused on my face as if she were trying to memorise my every feature, and I could feel the hairs of the back of my neck standing up. I wasn't sure what exactly she was doing, but from the little I knew, it didn't seem like Voodoo; there wasn't a chicken entrail in sight.

"She is a Catholic," Therese told Erik, and then smiled. "A lapsed Catholic, and, yes, she misses her home. There is something there that is very precious to her – or someone. A person, someone who has passed. Your father?" She directed the question at me and I swallowed hard. She reached out to me and I flinched back a little, but she simply took my left hand from my throat. I hadn't realised that I was clutching the cross on its silver chain around my neck, so hard that it left imprints in my skin. Therese's long, brown fingers stroked mine open so that I held my hand flat, and she studied the lines of my palm.

"She is a very creative individual, and a wilful one. She has a sweetheart," she smiled at that. "Irish. Why, Miss Giry, I do believe you are in love." Her long nail traced one of the lines. "Miss Giry has a secret that shames her. Something deep. Dark." She frowned at my hand and felt a chill down my spine. "She is not the woman she shows the world, there is something that stains her soul. And tragedy, so much tragedy. In the past and in the future."

"That's enough!" I snatched my hand away. "I think you've auditioned long enough, Mademoiselle Paris." I kept my tone as polite as I could considering that what I wanted to do was slap her. "If you will excuse me, I have tasks to perform. Sir." I nodded to Erik.

"One moment, Miss Giry," Erik said as I reached the tent flap. "I want your opinion on whether we should allow Therese and her companions into the Imaginarium. What do you think?"

I turned and looked carefully midway between them.

"I think you're a monster," I said, and left.

xxxxx

I was unhappy but unsurprised when the announcement was made that Therese Paris would be joining the Imaginarium, and I was not afraid to admit to myself that I was, for want of a better word, spooked. She came with what I can only describe as an entourage, a group of men and women who seemed to view her with reverence, and made me remember what she had said about her aunt being a Voodoo queen. I was extremely surprised that they all spoke French as well as English. The dialect was different and the accent strong, but French was still French, no matter how alien it sounded to my Parisian ears. They came with caravans and their own tents, bright colours and strange music. Something about them made me think of death, made me ponder morbidly upon mortality, and my own role in the ending of lives. I wondered how Erik could stand their presence; he had far more souls on his conscience than I had on mine.

Therese and her followers made the American contingency uncomfortable as well, but for an entirely different reason. I had so little experience of racism that it shocked me, and Erik was as surprised as I was when several employees asked that the Galley be separated into black and white seating areas. I bewilderedly wondered where those such as the Mexican Eve and the Chinese Mrs Chang were supposed to sit, since they did not fit into either category. Erik dealt with the issue quickly and succinctly, by gathering everyone in the Galley and delivering a short speech.

"We are the misfits," he told us. "We are the people who are rejected, feared and despised by society. We have enough of that from the outsiders, and have managed to turn that attitude to our advantage. I will not tolerate it from within my own ranks. What someone looks like, what colour their skin is, holds no interest for me. It is their talent and skill that is important. If any of you do not like such inclusivity, you may leave my employment at once."

No-one chose to leave, but the segregation still made its presence felt, although that may have been as much the fault of our recent black colleagues as the longer-standing white ones. Therese and her friends kept close together, both in public and in private, gathering around one table in the Galley at mealtimes and making no effort to mix with the rest of us. Even when one of the men, Maupertuis, was discovered to be a magnificent dancer and partnered with me for an act, he kept himself to himself, and did not indulge in idle conversation.

Maupertuis was six inches taller than me and extremely well-muscled, obvious by the fact that he often danced topless. His head was completely bald, and he had liquid dark eyes and slightly crooked ivory teeth. The number we danced together was a ballet piece, although not even Mother could glean from Maupertuis if he had ever taken part in ballet before. If not, it was a natural and remarkable skill that he possessed. We performed a pas de deux from a ballet adaptation of Tristan and Isolde and it had been choreographed to highlight the passion between the two leads, as well as the conflict at the heart of the story. The trouble was that Maupertuis, as handsome as he was, did not seem to have a passionate bone in his body. While all the dance steps were technically correct, I felt exhausted by carrying the performance alone and having to emote enough for two. It took Mother a few rehearsals before she finally lost her temper with him, kept us practicing long after everyone else was eating their evening meal, and told him what she and audience expected to see from this dance: danger, romance, fire.

He did not speak to her, he just nodded, and when we began the dance again it was as though another being had stepped into the man's dark skin. His hands grabbed and guided, strong and firm, and when he dipped me, his mouth met the delicate skin of my throat and made me gasp. The dance was a love scene between us, erotic and bold in the way he gazed at me, his lips parted, the way he touched me, held me with his fingers lingering slightly too long over my limbs and breasts. I could feel the heat between us, and when the dance was over we held the final post, gazing at each other, both of us breathing hard.

There was a round of applause and I jumped; I had quite forgotten that we were not alone, that some of our colleagues were watching the rehearsal.

"Much better," Mother said. "Our audiences will like that."

Benedict Adler did not like it at all. He caught me by the arm as I exited the tent when the rehearsal was over, sweat still beading on my skin.

"What was that?" He demanded.

"What was what?" I asked. "That hurts, let go."

He released my arm at once and stood glaring at me, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

"With Maupertuis," he said. "I saw you."

"You saw me what? Dancing?"

"Dancing?" He repeated the word in a voice full of scorn. "If you can call that dancing. I'm surprised your mother allows it, it was such a blatant display of brazen flirtation between you two."

My mouth dropped open in astonishment.

"We weren't flirting, we were dancing in character," I responded at last. "The characters are supposed to be star-crossed lovers, like Romeo and Juliet."

"No one will have trouble believing that," he snapped, and I thought I could smell beer on his breath. "You looked like you were ready to tear his clothes off – what little he was wearing."

My cheeks were beginning to flame scarlet and I was sure every eye within five miles was upon us.

"We can't discuss this here and now," I hissed. "I have to get washed and changed."

"We'll have this out now," Benedict insisted.

"Very well, but not here. Come on."

I rushed to my tent with Benedict stalking behind me, his anger singing between us like a discordant note in a symphony. He followed me inside and I wished he would give me some time to wash, change and gather my thoughts together. My hands were shaking as I poured water from a pitcher to basin and very carefully set it down.

"Tell me what the matter is," I said as I dipped my washcloth into the basin and brought it to my throat.

"You're making a fool of me!" He exploded. "With that shameless display! You're supposed to be mine! I want you to tell Madame Giry and Mister Y that you're refusing to take part, give that piece to someone else."

I lowered the washcloth and glared at him.

"Benedict, there was nothing to be ashamed of in that dance. We were performing the piece as it is choreographed."

"He was touching you!" He snarled. "And you seemed to be enjoying it well enough!"

"We were performing, Ben." I tried my best to keep my temper. "We're not actually lovers, I'm not being unfaithful to you. I'm just playing a part."

"You play a lot of parts in your life, Meg," he told me. "It makes me wonder which one I fell in love with."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I don't think you have been completely honest with me," he replied. "You have secrets from me."

I threw the washcloth into the basin and put my hands on my hips.

"You fell in love with me," I said. "You know the true me better than anyone else, maybe even my mother.

"You do a lot of things for her."

"Yes, I do. She's my mother."

He stood staring at me, his right hand curling into a fist and then relaxing again every few seconds as if he were squeezing something hard.

"You need to stop dancing with that man," he said finally. "You need to stop draping yourself all over him like you want to bed him."

"For goodness sake," I exclaimed. "It's not real, Ben, it's something I have to do for my job!"

"Like letting that fair manager in France take your virginity, that was for your job."

His words were like a shard of ice driven into my breast, and I reacted instantly, striking him across the cheekbone so hard that my palm stung and he took a step backwards. There were tears gathering in my eyes but I was determined that he would not make me cry.

"Don't speak!" I hissed when he stared at me in astonishment, one hand to his cheek. "I don't want to see or hear you!"

I grabbed the nearest shawl and threw it over my rehearsal outfit before heading for the tent flap.

"Where are you going?" The Irish accent made my skin crawl.

"Away from you!" I answered before I could stop myself.

"This is your tent!"

I didn't care. I just knew that I had to get as far away from Benedict as quickly as I could. I had thought he was perfect, that he understood me and accepted me, as damaged as I was. But tonight's display threw everything askew, as though I had only been seeing a charming image shown to the world. Could it be that Benedict was as much a monster as anyone else in the Imaginarium?