11
In the next two weeks, Katrina wondered what was wrong with Helen's eyes. Every time the girl looked up from her sewing or cleaning, the older woman would suddenly look away and blink as if they hurt or itched.
"Do you need to see a doctor? Your eyes move all the time," Katrina asked soberly one day. Marie looked up from her letters with a strange look.
Helen cleared her throat. "No, dear, I'm fine. It happens if there're strange things in the air, but I daresay it'll clear up before long."
"What if it doesn't? Will you have to wear a patch?" Katrina pressed, recalling seeing a man who had been missing an eye at a circus once. "Will it be a black patch or a white one?"
"If I ever wear a patch I shall have one of every color, so that it will always match my clothes." Helen said somberly. "And I promise to have you help me embroider and bead the ones for nice occasions."
The idea seemed to puzzle Katrina, but she accepted the promise and took a costume to Madame Tessa. Marie threw her hands in the air. "Really, Helen! Colored eye patches!"
The younger sister looked after the girl with a bright smile. "I hadn't the heart to just drop the conversation. She was so genuinely concerned."
"Don't you think it will give her nightmares?"
Helen raised a flaming eyebrow. "I hardly think you need worry about that, Ria darling. Besides, I think you'd best concern yourself with that returned tenor and how we shall survive tonight's program."
"I'm the one singing, not you. Leave it to me, and stick to your paintings."
"But my dear, I just clutch my walking stick every time I hear you, as if I'm singing too. The honor of the D'Arcy name rides on you every appearance you make."
"Then you should have said something before I became a singer." Marie snapped, turning to ponder the writing on an unopened letter. "Speaking of, how is Mother faring?"
Helen dropped her paper pad to her lap. "She hates the neighbor to the right, says he's got unwholesome intentions, though he can barely walk or see. I almost think she'd be the better for some kind of excitement. Perhaps I should introduce her to Erik?" The last question was posed softly to herself so that Marie, thankfully, didn't hear it. The soprano was reading the letter now, and looked over to her sister.
"I think I should have Mama for a visit. Would you feel slighted if she came right away? I know I promised to keep you to myself, but…" She waved a long hand vaguely.
Helen snorted and returned to her sketching. "For heaven's sakes, Marie, she's my mother. That's not exactly entertaining the whole of Paris and avoiding my company. It would do her good to put her nose where it doesn't belong again. Like why Katrina carries a noose."
Marie swore and went pale. "She can't mention it, or the pistol, or the ghost! Helen, Mama will die of a fit if Katrina says a word about those things; we must have a talk with her. Oh, but girls are so indiscreet! What am I to do? Should I give Katrina a holiday?"
The younger woman was laughing in earnest by the end of this speech. "Katrina is as silent as a grave when she has to be, Ria. Just sit her down, tell her what Mama won't like to hear, and that will be the end of it. Good gracious, the worst that will happen is Tomino arriving uninvited."
"Oh, I'd forgotten about the dog," Marie said frowning.
"For such a hardnosed singer, you are dreadfully flustered," Helen gouged, wondering why her one tree wouldn't quite fit in the distance.
Just before Marie realized she was being teased, Katrina slipped around the door, and cleared her throat. "Is there anything else before luncheon?"
Marie snatched a card, wrote a hurried note to her mother and prepared it for sending. "Post this, would you child? I have something to discuss with you after you come back."
Katrina wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, took the message and money for the post. She promised to be back in time to help prepare the meal, and ran lightly out of the opera house. The wind was turning cooler and she reflected that she ought to have gone for her coat. The Masquerade would be soon, and she wondered what Marie and Helen would go as. The idea of Siamese twins amused her fancy for several blocks. At the office, she found herself the only child in about six grownups. They smiled at the solemn look on her face as she stepped in line, waiting her turn. A man entered after her, and took his place directly behind her. When she reached the high desk, she could barely poke her fingers over to hand up the letter.
"Have you the money for postage?" The worker asked kindly, having small children of his own. He leaned over to see her face, and was greeted with a rather indignant look that said, 'of course, did you expect me to send it for free?'
She reached into one of her rather well hidden pockets, courtesy of Uncle Erik, and set the coin on the counter. The man smiled and bid her a good day, then went a little glum on seeing the gentleman behind her. "I would have thought your master had better sense than to start up his hunt again."
"My master," said the man evenly, "has a good reason. It is for me to obey."
"Well, I'm sorry for you, that's all I can say." The worker handed over a bundle of letters and a package.
Katrina was waiting by the door while a group of rather giddy and very young women entered, obviously absorbed in an over-perfumed letter. One of them saw the girl watching and waved dizzily. "Hello, Kat, running errands for Mademoiselle Le Soprano?"
"Hello, Meg." Katrina said, knowing better than to say more with the rest of the trope de ballet present.
The gentleman shook his head and held the door for the child. "May I walk you a few blocks?"
She turned her great, clear brown eyes on him for a moment. "Where are you going, sir?"
"To the Opera, I'm afraid. My master has business there that cannot wait."
"Then we can walk all the way together. My mistress is employed at the opera."
They continued in silence for several feet, when he asked uncomfortably who her mistress was. She told him, and they lapsed into silence again.
Katrina's eyes were never still, taking in the women bustling on supposed important shopping, the men absorbing in their work or papers, couples absorbed in each other, and children chasing each other, ignorant of all else. The man watched her, looking at the multi-colored hair that sprang about its owner's face rebelliously, and the wide eyes, looking at the world as if every shade were a gem of surpassing worth.
"Shouldn't you be out on a day like this?" He asked at last, feeling it was polite to venture some comment.
"I forgot my coat, and there is a performance tonight. Mademoiselle would never let me off on a performance night unless I was ill." She skipped lightly around a few dead leaves happily. "I shouldn't like to miss hearing it anyway. What's your favorite opera?" She turned her eyes on him, genuinely curious.
"I…I don't know, I haven't given it any thought." He said, perplexed.
The girl walked backwards a few steps to warm her hands out of the wind. "I like Magic Flute, but there aren't any singers for the Queen of the Night. Monsieur Jacques has been rather busy, so I doubt he'd want to look for one." The matter of fact statement brought an idea to the fellows head.
"Tell me; has it to do with the unfortunate death of the lead tenor?"
"I suppose, though I don't think he considers it unfortunate. No one could tell him anything, and he cost as much as he brought in. Pierre was rude to everyone and mean to the lady singers. He made all the dancers cry."
The practical tone was a little chilling on the surface, the considering the age of the child it was understandable, the man reflected. It was likely she was only repeating what gossip went around the theater. Yet, the eyes were something strange, something new. He couldn't quite place it, but it was odd.
"Do your parents work at the opera?" He inquired, somewhat absentmindedly.
She shook her head. "Mother never cared for opera. Besides, they are dead now." Katrina had learned the art of stating that fact quickly and simply to avoid a great deal of wasted pity. People always looked so awkward when she told them her parents had died, and she was always glad to be done with it when it had to be said. "My uncle lives near the opera, and says it's alright that I work for Mademoiselle D'Arcy. I think he likes her and her sister, but I don't think he wants to talk about it. He glares so if I bring it up. Why is that, do you think?"
"Some people like to keep their feelings to themselves," The man offered, feeling he had overstepped his ability in this conversation. He was greatly relieved to see the opera a head, and strode a little longer. The girl kept up without a murmur.
They entered to find Marie shouting at a man in a strange hat, who stood there impassively. He was rather dusky in complexion, and just above the average height, though his slender frame made him look a little taller. Helen was standing back from the scene with Jacques, both with perplexed expressions. The stranger turned as the man with Katrina walked up.
"Ah, Darius, I'm glad you've returned. This is Mademoiselle D'Arcy, and we've been getting to the bottom of the death of the unfortunate tenor." His tone was obviously put on for the woman's benefit and sent her into an instant rage.
Katrina gazed up at her as she swore, trembling with vengeful passion. Seeing the great eyes, Marie snapped, "I suppose your uncle never says those words? Well it's time you learnt them!"
"He only says them when he thinks I can't hear," Katrina offered, feeling like laughing and hiding at the same time. Then, thinking more was expected of her, she asked, "Where did you learn them?"
Marie's mouth opened and shut a few times before she stormed off, Helen shot Katrina an approving glance and followed. Jacques made a vague apology and offered the use of his box to the gentlemen. The man accepted, and turned to the little girl. "I should leave if I were you; this is no place for a young girl."
Katrina scuffed her shoe along the rich red carpet that would be lifted for the Masquerade. She wasn't really sure how to reply, knowing who this man was. He was the Daroga, the Persian, the hunter who followed Uncle Erik. She could see he meant well, but she knew her silence was required. "I don't think I can go, sir. I'm Mademoiselle D'Arcy's maid and it's a performance night."
"Then I suggest you hide during the performance, or you'll end up like the tenor," he warned.
She frowned and shook her head. "Pierre wasn't murdered by the opera ghost, if that's what you're after. He died of a heart attack after drinking too much, didn't he, Monsieur Jacques?" She took the manager's hand, and looked up.
It was the first time he really noticed her, even after the incident in Marie's dressing room, he hadn't thought the child of any consequence. Now, he saw her as a missing piece to the puzzle that made up the opera. He felt that somehow, she was as important to the running of this building as he was.
"It is true, sir, he even chased this girl and Mademoiselle Helen in a most deplorable fashion that night. Why, this child was even taken ill for the next two days!"
The Persian smiled almost sadly at that. "I see that history repeats itself. Tonight at the opera, then?" He nodded and walked away, leaving Katrina feeling that she had just dodged a bullet.