Free Commedia della Morte by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

easier to be free if one is rich, which, fortunately, at present, I am.”
    “A good thing for me, and my troupe, as well,” she said, sounding a little disappointed for reasons he could not fathom. “And my troupe and I have work to do.”
    Realizing that she wanted to leave, he lifted her hand and kissed it before he rose. “Come. I’ll help you dress.”
    “More a lady’s maid than anyone in my troupe,” she said. “I’m grateful. Trying to dress properly without any help is an ordeal.”
    “How do you mean?” he asked.
    “Just tightening the laces requires tying oneself into a knot,” she said, demonstrating the acrobatic posture needed for her to be able to tighten the laces of her corset. “The women trade off assisting one another to adjust their stays.”
    “Is that a satisfactory arrangement?” he asked, taking care not to sound too curious.
    “We manage well enough most of the time,” Photine said, being deliberately vague.
    Da San-Germain came up behind her and took the undergarment in hand. “Let me do this for you; there’s no need for you to tangle yourself so uncomfortably when I am here.” With a few twitches, he settled the corset in place around her and began to pull the laces. “How tight do you want these?”
    “Tight enough. I’ll let you know.” She stood straight to help him work. “That is tight at the waist, but not too tight. The same tension will do all the way up the laces.”
    “Very good,” he said, continuing at his self-appointed task.
    A minute or so later, she said, “You do this very well.”
    “Fashion makes demands: one learns to accommodate them.” He thought of the extravagant body cosmetics of the Athenian youths in Socrates’ day; of the elaborate wrappings of a formal toga in Imperial Rome; of the embroidered paragaudions of Byzantine fashions; of the stiffened silk caps of the professors at Lo-Yang, before Jenghiz Khan began his campaigns; of the complicated head-dresses of the Bohemians, five centuries ago; of the elaborate cartwheel ruffs and jeweled cod-pieces of the Elizabethan court, two hundred years past; of the grand court clothing in the mud and mire of Sankt Piterburkh not quite a century ago … He tied the laces at the top of the corset and tucked the ends inside the undergarment. “There.” He bent and kissed the nape of her neck. “Will that do you?”
    “You accommodate more than I would have expected,” she said archly as she bent awkwardly to gather up her petticoats and skirt, dragging the ties up to her waist and securing them quickly.
    “What would you like me to do now?” he asked, regarding her with interest.
    “That’s very nice, but I would like you to lace my bodice, if you don’t mind?” She found herself marveling at his accommodation; his response was all she wanted, appreciative and gallant.
    He picked up her bodice and slipped it over her head. “Will this do?” He tugged on the laces to get her approval of his adjustment.
    “A little tighter,” she suggested, and stood still, feeling the bodice-back close over the laces of her corset.
    “As you wish,” he said, and complied.
    When she felt him tuck in the bodice-laces, she swung around to face him, her thoughts no longer on the transports they had shared such a short while ago, but on the coming preparations for Racine’s great tragedy. “So, Conte. Tomorrow we begin to prepare the Phaedre. Will you want to watch us rehearse? The first few days are not likely to be very interesting—more stage movements and working out the placements of the properties and scenery, but you’re welcome to join us.”
    “I may,” he said. “Unless you would prefer that I wait a day or two, when you are more familiar with how you will play it.”
    She leaned toward him to kiss his cheek. “I don’t know how a man of your rank can be so understanding of our needs, but I thank you for it.”
    “You forget I’m an exile; you and I have more in common than you