Free Light Fantastique by Cecilia Dominic Page A

to continue the conversation.
    Finally he asked, “And how are you? Do you have your exam results yet?”
    All right, that’s a start, although I wish he’d said he missed me too.
    Lucille’s words came back to her—that she would always come second to his work—and she stalked away from the window.
    â€œThey went well, I think. They’ll post marks at the end of next week.”
    Now she stood within reach of the screwdriver. Has he been thinking of me at all?
    He returned to watching for, well, whatever he was worried about. Iris placed a finger on the tool and mentally directed it to tell her what he’d been feeling and thinking. Profound fatigue overlying anxiety—no surprise there—and a resigned feeling of hopelessness and dark expectations. That’s unexpected. But she couldn’t confront him about it, not now that they were talking. Sort of talking. And the only impression of her was of her bright, fake smile. Seeing it from his perspective made her heart collapse into her stomach—she looked like her mother had when humoring her capricious daughter, but Iris could always see the lack of genuineness.
    Iris closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. She didn’t know what he wanted, what he truly needed.
    That’s my theme, failing those who love me.
    Hands on her upper arms startled her, and she leaned back into him. She tried not to notice that he smelled like he’d been in the laboratory for long hours or to feel the aching tiredness that radiated through his clothing. He must be exhausted if she could feel it from the material, which typically didn’t harbor impressions like hard substances did.
    â€œIn your studies, have you found anything that might be helpful?”
    The frustration in his voice negated the comfort in his hands. “What do you mean?”
    He stepped away and gestured to the aether isolation device, which was hooked up to a small engine. “We have the frequency to stabilize it, or rather the range of frequencies and tones in which it will not fade. We’re still missing something that will help us convert it to a power source.”
    â€œYou want me to help you?” Iris didn’t know whether to be thrilled he wanted to include her or upset that he wanted her mind rather than, well, the rest of her.
    â€œI need you to help me. And I need to sleep.”
    He stumbled out of the atelier. Iris thought about reading another object, but she didn’t know which he had touched most recently and which ones O’Connell had, and she had no desire to invade the Irishman’s privacy. She peeked out of the window, but all she saw was snow falling from the sky.

Chapter Eight
    Théâtre Bohème Townhouse, 2 December 1870
    Marie stayed on the front stoop and watched Doctor Radcliffe dart through the crowd around the fallen man. Some of them looked askance at his dark skin, but the intense expression in his gray eyes moved them out of the way. Patrick O’Connell followed behind him, as always, and eliminated any other obstacles. Maestro Bledsoe ran from the front of the theatre, and Marie shook her head, bemused. Now he was the one without a cloak, but she hung back, the impulse to play the role of premiere femme trying to take over. The muscles in her face settled into a haughty expression, and her shoulders straightened as if to show off her figure.
    She closed her eyes. I am Marie St. Jean. I am not a premiere femme . I am an ordinary but haunted girl.
    What had Iris said about a dangerous spirit in the theatre? Could it be the same one who had appeared to her? Or who she thought appeared to her. Sometimes she couldn’t distinguish between her dreams and reality. But why would she have been napping in Corinne’s— no, my —dressing room?
    Not mine. I am not Henriette.
    She knew what would help, what always did. She would go underground and visit the one person who always saw through