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She also knew four months ago when she made the deal with Lalande that at some point the check would come and she would have to settle it.
Still, back then, it was all so nebulous. And he was just an insignificant little man, one of so many whom she saw periodically and forgot just as quickly. She barely remembered his name. She would not be able to pick him out of a lineup. What could he, in all honesty, do to her? How steep could his price really be?
Well, nobody tells you that you have indeed sold your soul to the aforementioned devil until he comes to collect. The collection for Juliette started the moment she and Katarina walked into Palais Garnier, hand in hand, three weeks after theSwan Lakeopening night, and saw Madame Rochefort, of all people, hauling boxes full of knickknacks that looked disturbingly like Francesca’s out the back door.
Before Juliette even opened her mouth, Madame Rochefort was shaking her fist in the direction of the third floor and mumbling curses.
Inquiries seemed impossible, and once the shoe mistress finished calling someone the son of the biggest prostitute in Paris—why do most swear wordsrevolve around the probably innocent mothers?—she finally came closer to them.
“How can he do this when Francesca is not here? That bureaucrat fils de pute! She has not even woken up yet. Mais ce n'est pas possible.”
And then, without another word, she turned on her heel and was gone, something rattling in the boxes she was dragging.
Katarina’s face held that look again, the vacant one, the one that could turn into fight or flight at any moment. Juliette tugged on her hand, bringing it to her lips, and Katarina blinked as if startled out of her thoughts.
“How about we go check what’s happening upstairs?”
Katarina’s mouth twist could not even begin to be described as a smile. “I think, judging by the boxes filled with awards and trophies which Francesca treasured and would not allow to be discarded this way, that Lalande dismissed her.”
Juliette bit her lip and tried to cajole her lover to follow her.
“Yes, but how about we not jump to conclu?—”
“If the Empress’s guess is that Francesca has been fired, she is dead on the money, darlin’. Give her the teddy bear, she hit the bullseye.”
They both looked up, Katarina bending her entire body upward rather than just her neck. They had talked about so much during their three weeks together, but this one issue Juliette had no idea how to tackle. She had a feeling it was such a slippery slope that she’d need skis to descend it afterward.
She almost swatted at her persistent intrusive thoughts. Gabriel was hanging off the third floor’s stairwell rail looking down at the two of them.
“I’d appreciate you coming up here. When you’re done admiring my Adonis-like countenance, of course. Pretty please?”
He waved at them, his gestures jerky and so unlike his normal graceful self, Juliette hurried, taking two steps at a time.
The sight of a completely dilapidated office, one where she had spent so many hours, one where she had been chastised, praised, where she had made her stand to save Katarina?—
“Ah, the culprit returning to the scene of the crime, Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel?”
Lalande’s voice was sly, the pleasure in it, the gloating, unrestrained. Next to her, Gabriel and Katarina looked uncomprehendingly between the two of them.
“I imagine you have already been informed, since you cannot set foot in this establishment without hearing entirely too much gossip, that Madame Bianchi has been relieved of her duties, effective immediately. The new Creative Director of Paris Opera Ballet is en route. I shall assemble everyone before morning class to introduce?—”
“Shouldn’t Francesca be present for a lawful dismissal?”
Juliette had no idea whether that was correct. But in order to process all the events occurring around her at the same moment, she needed to stall for time. Lalande was a talker who loved attention. A true stereotypical villain, pontificating before the demise, either his or his prey’s.
“You are raising a wonderful point, and to answer your question, no, she does not have to be present. Technically, she could have come in this morning and found out that way, but I chose to proceed in a more expedient manner because we simply do not have time. The dysfunction of this company has reached epic proportions?—”
“Swan Lakewas named the production of the decade byLe Monde!” Gabriel took one step forward and Lalande instinctively mirrored him by taking one back.
“Swan Lake, in its current iteration…” Lalande made a pause after the word and wiggled his bushy eyebrows suggestively. “Is a niche show with a limited run time. The company may have ‘a revolutionary ballet,’ but it is scandalous and shall not be staged for long.”
Juliette felt a tearing in her chest. Had Francesca known? Had she simply ignored the homophobia that had once again reared its ugly head and stopped art from reigning free? Had she chosen to ignore it?
Lalande coughed theatrically to hide his smug grin. “In any case, it will not fix years of negative reviews, mismanagement, and more importantly, budget issues that amount to millions of francs. It’s a beautiful swan song. Pun intended.” He grinned, and Juliette felt a chill run up her spine. “Who will answer for the massacre ofDon Quixote? For staging and then scrapping a world classic? For butchering it to the point that it was unwatchable?”
The gallic gestures were in full swing, Lalande posturing and flinging himself from one corner of the room to the other.
“The new sets alone were thousands of francs! Who will answer for that? You think one successful ballet will suddenly drag this entire building out of the swamp and rot it had been dwelling in for years?”
