Page 48
I remain seated. “Where?”
“La Sirene.” He gestures for me to rise.
I blink. “That is a terrible idea.”
“Yes.” He turns and begins walking toward the door.
“I am listening,” I shout back at him.
“We discuss our Olive. The Collector and we can discuss your brother’s tragic self-denial. I find myself longing to see the woman who caused this much disorder,” he explains with nonchalance.
“You wish to watch the dancers,” I state in a mocking tone.
“I am a supporter of the arts.”
His jest gives my lips a subtle grin. “You are a menace.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Unfortunately, so do I.
Which is why, twenty minutes later, we are seated within La Sirene beneath a ceiling of lantern light and mirrors, watching red velvet curtains part across the stage. The theater glows like a jewel box. The lights reflect from the mirrors, creating an ethereal look.
Gold light catches upon glass, silk, skin, and polished wood. Music rises from the orchestra pit, low and sultry, threading itself through the crowd until even the most arrogant men fall silent.
Lazarus leans toward me. “I understand why Edward returned.”
“Hm.” I shrug my shoulders.
“Do not pretend you are not impressed.” His tone is scolding.
“I am observing.” I gesture toward the stage.
“Of course.” Lazarus sits back, rolling his eyes at me.
The first dancers sweep across the stage in a ripple of jewel-toned skirts. They move beautifully, but I find my attention wandering toward the balcony boxes, the side doors, the curtained hallways.
Where is she?
The thought irritates me. Not because it exists but because it sounds like Edward. Then the music changes, the house lanterns dim and a blanket hush falls upon the crowd. One woman steps through the curtains. Olive. Every thought in my mind comes to an immediate and inconvenient halt.
She wears black lace and deep wine silk, the fabric fitted to her body as though it had been persuaded rather than sewn. A delicate hat rests atop her dark hair, pinned low and elegant. One gloved hand curves around a decorative cane, but she does not need it for support.
It is a warning, a scepter. The stage belongs to her before she has moved a single step.
Beside me, Lazarus slowly exhales. “Oh.”
A reasonable response. The music begins again. Olive moves but not like the other dancers. They perform for the audience. Olive, commands it. Every turn is measured and every glance deliberate. She circles the chair at center stage with the patience of a predator pretending to be prey. The cane taps once against the floorboards. Click.
My pulse answers. How irritating.
She lowers herself into the chair, one leg crossing over the other with such exquisite control that the entire room seems to lean toward her. Her gaze sweeps the crowd forcing men to straighten, women to smile and servants pause with trays in hand. Then her eyes find us and for one impossible moment, I believe the music quiets. It does not, it is only the blood in my ears simply growing louder. Her gaze touches Lazarus first, his usual grin vanishes. Then me. I smile, she replies, raising one brow. A challenge. A reprimand. Perhaps both.
Lazarus murmurs, “She is going to be the beautiful death of us.”
“Undoubtedly,” I mutter softly.
Olive rises from the chair and turns away, skirts whispering around her legs. The movement should be simple, but it feels like the closing of a trap. I understand then why Edward is suffering, not because he is weak, but because he has spent years knowing her mind, and now he must survive the sight of her. A cruel fate yet an undoubtedly delightful one.
