Floats the Dark Shadow (27 page)

Theo frowned. “But they didn’t help me stop it.”

Carmine leaned forward. “More cards will give a clearer picture. Let me give you another reading. Take what help you can, Theo.”

“Not now.” Not ever would be better. The cards had allure when they were a charming myth, something half-believed for the pleasure of it. Not as a premonition of horror. Theo pushed away her chocolate and stood. “I promised Averill I would visit him after the protest.”

Carmine stood as well. “I still want to walk with you.”

They left the shabby little
café
, crossed the Pont du Carrousel, strolled alongside the Louvre, and continued into the gardens of the Tuileries. The cool green of the ordered park and the rain-like music of the fountains helped soothe Theo’s frayed nerves. “Look, the
giroflées
are blooming.”

Carmine smiled. They knelt briefly to sniff the fragrant wallflowers. Their bright gold contrasted with the vivid scarlet of the geraniums and charming faces of the purple pansies. As difficult as it had been to relive yesterday, Theo was glad she’d shared her unhappiness with Carmine. Sensing her mood, Carmine linked an arm through hers and they walked in silence through the gardens and along the boulevards, sharing the comfort of each other’s presence until they reached the entrance to the Charrons’ residence.

Carmine kissed both Theo’s cheeks and walked back toward the park. Theo remained outside, still hesitating. She hungered for Averill’s comfort, the sound of his voice, his touch—yet the thought of him feverishly writing his poem about Alicia was a physical pain that made her shy away. But she had promised, so she went up the steps to the door and pulled the bell.

Her favorite of the maids, Bettine, greeted her warmly and asked if she was joining Madame Charron’s gathering. Theo heard skittish laughter from the parlor. The sound cut across her nerves like a serrated blade. It was Friday, and every Friday her aunt’s friends took turns playing hostess at their cocaine parties. The drug was quite the rage with Parisian society ladies, having taken over from morphine. They considered cocaine quite harmless, but Theo knew it could be utterly destructive. When young Henry Faraday inherited the ranch she had called home, he sold off everything—the house, the land, the horses she loved—and partied for a year. Much of the money entered syringes. Another chunk went for liquor bottles and loose women. The rest to gambling. And for the car, of course, the one he crashed and died in—too drunk to crawl out before the gasoline fumes ignited and burned him alive.

Theo looked askance at the parlor, dreading that sharp, artificial exuberance. “No, Bettine,” she began, but just then Aunt Marguerite appeared in the salon doorway. She looked startled to see Theo but beckoned to her. There was no escape.

“Do I look presentable?” Theo whispered to Bettine.

“Yes, miss. Everyone else in tea gowns, of course,” the maid warned.

Theo entered the parlor with its traditional
Toile de Jouy
wallpaper of frolicking shepherds and shepherdesses and its plush red velvet sofas. Vases of fragrant pink and white tea roses were set about on the tables with artful casualness. Theo greeted her aunt formally and was introduced to her friends. She was glad she had not worn black for Mélanie today. Her muted lavender shirtwaist was a suitable color for mourning but would not lead to questions she did not want to answer and answers these women did not want to hear. She perched on the nearest chair, hoping she could flee soon. Tea was being served in the best sterling service. On the table in front of the largest sofa, a platter of elaborate petit fours was all but untouched. With their smooth marzipan coating tinted in various pastels, they looked exquisite but hardly real. On a separate table, jeweled hypodermic needles were laid out. The atmosphere was hectic, the women laughing too much, their movements quick and nervous.

“It seems a sprightly party, Madame Charron,” Theo lied, smiling too brightly at the ladies gathered in the parlor.

“Sprightly indeed.” Her aunt’s eyes glittered with excitement. To the others she said, “Theo is quite artistic, you know. She is the ward of my brother-in-law, and he permits her to study painting.”

Permits?
Theo prickled.

A woman in chartreuse ruffles straightened her already perfect posture and frowned severely. “The world of modern art is degenerating.”

Beside her, a lady in puce said fervently, “True, but women can help lead it back onto its true path of virtuous ideals. We have forsaken our spiritual mission.”

Theo fought the urge to argue. What miniscule chance she had of changing their minds would shrink to zero with the cocaine buzzing through their veins. Her aunt was unhappy enough without Theo making a scene. Instead she composed a painting in her mind with the wildly clashing colors of the gowns lurid against the red velvet sofa. She put the petit fours in the center, sugary sweet, their pastel tints vapid versions of the bright green and pink dresses.

“You are fortunate that your
guardien
indulges you so,” Puce said archly, “but of course he is also a painter.” From her tone Theo could not tell if the woman thought he was her father or her lover.

“Yes. He understands the artistic impulse,” her aunt answered for her.

“I am very fortunate,” Theo affirmed. She knew how lucky she was to have been given this world. She had freedom and money enough to keep that freedom. But if she had to, she would tend bar and paint on her own, as she had in Jagtown on the fringe of Mill Valley.

“Theo is living in Montmartre now,” her aunt said, rather slyly, Theo thought. Hoping to stir up some controversy? Theo saw disapproval on most faces, but at least one duplicated the envy she sometimes saw in her aunt’s eyes. Then her aunt touched Theo’s arm and gestured to the hypodermics. “Two of us bought new accessories. Tell us your opinion.”

“Show me your new…accessories,” Theo said, feeling utterly hypocritical. But she could endure another few minutes before making her escape.

“I found this at—”

“Don’t tell her where you got it,” her aunt said sharply. “She may be biased by the maker.”

Theo knew that argumentative edge. With great caution she examined the gold syringe set with peridots and emeralds. Beside her, Aunt Marguerite proudly displayed a silver syringe set with moonstones, opals, aquamarines and turquoise. At last Theo said, “The gold is a beautiful, balanced classical design and is perhaps the most technically excellent. But the silver has an innovative beauty that I find more appealing.”

That seemed to satisfy them, if not provide a clear victory. Theo begged for tea to distract them from further discussion. She guessed that her aunt’s prize came from L’Art Nouveau, Theo’s own favorite luxury shop, filled with gorgeous objects in the most modern and inventive styles—glass by Tiffany and dazzling jewelry by Lalique. Her uncle would not see it, or her aunt would have bought something more conservative.

“I knew you would love it,” Aunt Marguerite whispered conspiratorially as she handed Theo her cup of tea. Her aunt smiled with delight, and for a moment Theo saw the vivacity that must have once sparkled in her. That vibrant Marguerite should be holding salons for poets and artists, not cocaine parties for bored ladies of the bourgeoisie. The Marguerite that Theo liked was all but crushed by evil Uncle Charron. She was not permitted to hold any opinion that differed from his—unless it was frivolously feminine enough not to threaten his authority. Perhaps Theo could encourage her to live vicariously a bit more. She would invite her aunt to help her choose a new dress from a creative designer in one of the less expensive boutiques.

As if to prove she had a happy marriage, Aunt Marguerite began to brag about her children. She emphasized Francine’s docility and spoke fervently of how pleased Averill’s father was with his success at medical school. Theo knew how well he did depended on how ardently he was pursuing a poem and how much absinthe he drank. It was his sister Jeanette who’d urged him to quit school, to leave home before their father broke his spirit. Become a poet. He’d listened to Jeanette and left, despite his mother’s tearful entreaties to stay. But when Jeanette died, he yielded to Marguerite’s tearful entreaties to return.

When the conversation flagged, Theo begged a headache. Her aunt excused her. “You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you? You won’t want to miss a chance to see Eulalie—” she gave Theo another sly sideways glance. “—or Averill. I don’t think either of them is home just now.”

Did her aunt know she was attracted to Averill? Could she possibly approve? Theo managed a bland smile as she rose. “Thank you, Madame Charron. Your meals are always delicious.”

She left them to their gossip—she was probably the main topic now. In the hall, she asked Bettine when Averill was expected home. It did not matter so much now that she was committed to dinner, but she was surprised when Bettine gestured down the hallway. “Monsieur Averill is at home, mademoiselle.” Bettine gave a nervous glance down the hall then whispered, “He is in his father’s study.” No one was supposed to go into Uncle Urbain’s study unless invited.

Theo thanked Bettine and made her way to the end of the hallway, bright in the glow of the crystal chandeliers. She hesitated, then knocked lightly at the door of the study. “Averill, it’s me,” she called, wanting him to know it wasn’t his father.

After a long pause, Averill responded, “Come in.”

Theo turned the handle of the door and went inside.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I, whom some call poet,

within the muted night

I am the secret staircase;

I am the staircase Darkness.

Within my deathly spiral

the shadow opens its dim eyes.

~ Victor Hugo

HERE NO lamp shone and heavy burgundy velvet curtains muted the sun. Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior, Theo inhaled the opulent scent of books, their expensive paper, ink, and leather mingling with aromas of pipe tobacco and lemon-polished wood. Ahead of her, the massive carved desk gleamed dully. But no one sat behind it. Papers were scattered across the top, their black-spattered whiteness striking in the gloom.

There was a soft noise off to the side. Theo turned. Averill emerged from the dark corner of the study, his shirt white as the paper.

But something…someone…lay in the room between them.

A woman. Naked. Hideously murdered—her body cut open from throat to sex, the exposed organs glistening horribly like entrails on a butcher’s block.

Theo lurched back toward the door, fear and disbelief choking the scream rising in her throat. Only a gasp escaped.

Averill gave a sharp bark of laughter. Hard as a slap. “She’s wax.”

“Wax,” Theo rasped, her mouth so dry she could barely hear herself. She saw now there was no blood. None on what she had imagined was a woman. None on Averill. The edges of the open body were smooth.

He turned on the newly installed electric lamp. Artificial brightness illuminated the thing lying between them. It rested in a display case with sides that lowered, leaving the figure reclining in full view. The cavity showed larynx and lungs, heart and intestines. Inside the womb, a tiny child. The wax skin gleamed softly.

“She looks real,” Theo whispered.

“A month ago…a week ago…you would not have thought she was human.” His eyes glittered with accusation. “You would not have thought I could murder someone.”

“I had no time to think. I was shocked.” Anger burned over her shame. “After what we have both seen, do you truly blame me?”

Averill looked ashamed now. He lowered his gaze, shook his head mutely.

She gestured at the figure. “What is it?”

“She is my father’s most prized possession—an anatomical Venus from Italy.”

“She looks like a Botticelli,” Theo said. The red gold hair evoked the Renaissance painter. Even the shape of the body resembled the work she had seen in the Louvre.

“A slaughtered Botticelli—very neatly slaughtered.” He gestured to where the front of her torso sat propped on a chair, small perfect breasts, curving rib cage and rounded belly. A lid of molded wax.

Theo stepped closer, horrified and fascinated by the perfect creation, so incredibly detailed. The face showed tiny russet hairs inset for her eyebrows and eyelashes. A rope of pearls was woven through her long hair and another circled her neck demurely. She reclined on a long cushion of pink velvet that matched the pink flush of cheeks and lips…and the soft pink of the lips revealed beneath the auburn curls between her legs. Her face was turned toward Theo, her green glass eyes half-open, her lips parted slightly.

“She would win a prize at the Salon, wouldn’t she?” Averill asked. “She’s just the sort of erotic image they dote upon. So perfect they can pretend she’s the ideal of beauty—even if they go home and…” He stopped himself.

“She’s obscene.”

“Isn’t she, though.” He picked up the missing section. “She wears a breastplate, like Jeanne d’Arc, but a breastplate of her own waxen flesh. Lift it off and see the hidden treasure trove. Replace it—” He lowered the section back onto her, “—and you have a wax sculpture beautiful as a Renaissance Venus.”

“Thank you,” Theo said, relaxing a little once the gaping cavity was covered. Yet once you knew her secret, it was difficult not to think of the butchered version.

“You’re welcome.” It was almost a sneer. Theo winced at the harshness. This close she could smell the absinthe on his breath. “Tell me, Theo, is this Venus a victim…or a seductress?”

“Averill…” She faltered.

“Father used to keep her in his office.” Averill lifted an edge of the figure’s ribcage to release a curl trapped in the seam of the body. “He showed her to me to lure me into medicine. He knew a young boy would be fascinated by such a replica. It’s a favorite theme in painting too, you know—the dissection room. Doctors gathered around the corpse of a beautiful whore, eager for the pillaging.”

Theo fought a surge of queasiness. Averill was angry at her, trying to upset her. “You didn’t mention her before.”

“Why should I have?” He was sneering again, bitter and impenetrable. She hated when the absinthe dragged him into its shadows. He raised the sides of the case and enclosed the anatomical Venus back inside her glass coffin.

“You told me so much,” she whispered, her heart twisting at his coldness.

“Father brought her here after you left.” Averill’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “Maybe he knew how much I missed you.”

“I did not want to leave
you
,” she said.

“I didn’t want you to leave—but I helped you.” His hand was hard on her wrist, pulling her closer. She forgot how strong he was sometimes. His gaze was still accusing. “From the first, I could talk to you.”

“You can talk to me now. I’m here.”

“I’ve been talking with Venus. But she’s not as amusing as you. She has no opinions of her own.” He smiled grimly. “Probably why Father dotes on her.”

Abruptly he released her wrist and walked to the desk. “I began a pantoum for this Venus—I did tell you, didn’t I?”

She ignored the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Yesterday at the
café
.” Was it only yesterday?

Lifting one of the pages, Averill read,

Elle t’invite à sonder la mort,

Pour découvrir de tendres secrets.

Son corps s’ouvre comme une porte,

Où se dénouent des rêves vermeils.

He stopped abruptly, despondent.

The poem uncoiled in Theo’s mind.
She invites you to explore death. To discover tender secrets. Her body opens like a door—where unravel crimson dreams.
Then she remembered. “Two poems.”

“Yes—unhappy twins.
La grande et la petite Venus.
”

“Twins?” He’d told her the child in the cemetery had been nude. She had been displayed. Tortured. Alicia had been tortured. Cut open like this?

Her vision wavered. Theo thought she would faint. She walked to the desk and gripped the front of it, feeling the wood hard against her hands. She must not show weakness now. She must not swoon. She must not weep. Averill would take pity on her but he would stop talking and shut himself away.

He came to her swiftly. His hands took hold of her arms, tight enough to bruise. Yet his touch was meant for comfort, she was sure. He could not know he was hurting her. She stood up straight and instantly he released her. She faced him. He was so close, his gaze searching hers. Then he closed his eyes and some emotion rippled under his skin. Pain—or was it still anger?

“
La petite Alicia
.” Averill turned away and went to the far side of the desk. Bending down, he rifled through a wastebasket and drew up some scraps of torn paper, sprinkling them on the desk like confetti. “I’ve ripped up the poem about your little girl—but I can’t rip the words out of my brain, any more than I can rip out the images I have of her.”

“I know you have to write it.” The words were reluctant, almost a whisper. Averill could not help that he was haunted by Alicia, any more than she could help that Mélanie walked through fire in her dreams.

“You will hate me.” His gaze was unflinching now, and there was a grim satisfaction in his words.

She responded vehemently. “I will never hate you.”

“You hated me yesterday.”

“No!” Was that why he was so upset? It must be. Yesterday she had refused his help. Now he was refusing her. “I hated that Alicia was dead. I didn’t hate you any more than I hated the whole world.”

A smile twisted his lips. “The whole world hasn’t made a poem of her murder.”

“Perhaps, in a little while, I will want to read the poem.”

“Will you? You don’t want to read this one.” He gestured to the reclining Venus. Then, watching Theo closely, he quoted,

Pour découvrir de tendres secrets,

Tes doigts cherchent dans le doux abîme

Où se dénouent des rêves vermeils,

En éveillant un plaisir impie.

To discover tender secrets, your fingers search in the sweet abyss where unravel crimson dreams, awakening a blasphemous pleasure.
The repeated lines made it more nightmarish, more perverse. Theo shuddered as the images pried at her mind, but she refused to look away.

It was Averill who dropped his gaze. “I don’t know how else to exorcise the horror. If I don’t write the poem, I will become the darkness. But even if I do—” he broke off, despairing.

“What?” she pleaded.

“It’s all tangled.” He shook his head, still refusing to face her. “All knotted. Impossible.”

“I will untangle it—or cut the knot.” Theo went to him, gripping him as he had taken hold of her, hard so he would feel the force of her promise.

He pulled away. “At first, I thought that you were like Jeanette, come back to me. A new sister.”

“At first?”

He lifted his eyes to hers, defiant now. “Now I don’t think of you as a sister, except as Baudelaire meant it—the sister of my soul.”

“I feel the same,” she whispered.

“I thought I could save you. If only from loneliness.” He laughed softly. “Then I thought perhaps you could save me.”

“Save you from what?” She knew he was dreadfully unhappy—who would not be miserable in this wretched house? But why did he hate himself so much?

“You are sunshine, so bright you hurt my eyes,” he whispered, cupping her face in his hands. “I want to look—then I want to snuff it out.”

“You can’t snuff out the sun.” Her heart was hammering wildly, but she smiled a little. This close, the scent of him filled her. Absinthe mingled with the fresh smell of his linen, washed in lavender water, and the teasing musk of his skin.

“I shouldn’t love you,” he said. “I destroy what I love.”

He loved her. She could see desire in his eyes, burning like blue flame. She could see the pain too, even if she barely understood it. He pulled her against him, his body lean and hard. She was stunned by his force, by the power of his hands. Joy and fear mingled in a crazy cacophony. One moment she was stiff in his arms, unsure, then she melted against him. He kissed her, his lips lush and warm against hers even in their fierceness. Her mouth opened beneath his, taking him deeper. The bittersweet taste of absinthe was suddenly delicious. Intoxicating. Behind her closed eyelids, the blackness flamed scarlet and gold and black. She wanted to plunge into it. She wanted to escape yesterday. Averill was the only one who truly understood that. They needed each other. Needed understanding. Needed oblivion. She pressed the length of her body against him, matching his ferocity.