A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(54)

With a smug grin, she complied, and soon enough, we had escaped the first floor.

Yet of course, as my luck would have it, taking breakfast on the balcony proved to be a colossal mistake. For an inhumanly long hour I was not only cursed with a perfect view of Joseph as he left the hotel, but with all the Parisians who came to see the enormous balloon.

And worse—far worse—all the Parisian ladies who came to see its pilot.

At the first tap against my bedroom door that afternoon—hours after Laure had left—I swung the door wide, already saying “Land sakes, I thought the world had forgotten about . . .” I let the words die, for it was only the dressmaker with a frazzled assistant and a wealth of fabric in tow. My shoulders dropped. Had I alienated Jie by snapping at Joseph? I had searched for her after Laure left, but according to the man at the hotel’s front desk, she was away “on business.”

The dressmaker and her assistant bustled inside, and without even asking, they dragged me to the center of the room and began to undress me down to my petticoats. Once my gown was off, they set me atop a stool and then subjected me to a tirade of pins, needles, and lace. Madame Marineaux—true to her word—wanted me to have a magnificent ball gown in an eye-catching scarlet. The Marquis had already paid for everything: the silk, the gown, and the hard work.

I couldn’t help but love it. It was neither a color nor a cut I would have selected for myself, yet the low neckline accentuated my feminine figure, and the scarlet made my skin positively glow.

“That dress suits you,” a man drawled.

Oliver.

I spun on my stool, startling the assistant, and found the spry demon dressed in his usual charcoal suit, his stolen top hat clasped in his hands and his yellow eyes shining with mischief.

“How did you get in?”

“The door wasn’t locked, and”—he bared his teeth in a grin—“I’m quite stealthy.”

“Well, you cannot be here,” I said over the annoyed clucking of the dressmaker. “I’m half dressed

—”

“Yet fully covered.”

“—and you’re a man—”

“Some might argue otherwise.”

“—in a lady’s bedroom.”

“Though obviously these women don’t care.” He motioned to the dressmaker and assistant, who were far more concerned with the effects of my unexpected twirl than with the pretty-faced young man lounging in my doorway.

“You should have knocked,” I added with a glare. “And where have you been for the last two days?”

“It’s barely been more than a day, El. Stop being dramatic.”

I growled as the dressmaker tapped my ribs. I flung up my arms so she could mercilessly stab me with more pins.

“I’ve been working, as agreed.” Oliver draped his hands behind his head. “Gathering clues, keeping an eye out for Marcus . . .”

“Marcus?” Fear—and hope—awoke inside me. “Is he here?”

“I haven’t seen him if he is. I am merely on the lookout for him since clearly you are too busy to worry about your safety.” He motioned to the dress, a single eyebrow quirked.

“I need this gown. Madame Marineaux wants me to have a stunning gown for the ball tomorrow night—”

“Who?”

The dressmaker spun me around, so I had to look over my shoulder to keep talking.

“Madame Marineaux. She’s the most fascinating woman I have ever met, Oliver. She’s been to all sorts of places and . . .” I trailed off. His eyes were cold. “Wh-what?”

“You have enough time to gallivant with Parisian ladies yet stopping les Morts or dealing with

Marcus is entirely too much to ask.”

I pulled free of the dressmaker and whirled around to face him. “Are you angry at me?” I asked incredulously.

“Egads, yes! If you’re going to gallivant, El, I would like you to bloody well gallivant with me.”

He scratched the bridge of his nose, his face set in a scowl . . . and looking so much like Elijah.

I sighed through my nose, glad I hadn’t mentioned Laure’s surprise visit to Paris—or my time spent with her. It would only serve to make him more jealous. “What do you propose we do together then?”

“Search for les Morts, read through your letters so we can figure out what Marcus is after, train your powers . . .” His words faded and he fixed his yellow eyes on me. “Any preference?”

I swallowed, suddenly breathing fast. Train my powers—I wanted that. My whole body wanted that. But I made myself ignore it and heed Joseph’s warnings. “We should deal with les Morts. If I want the Spirit-Hunters to help me with Marcus, I first need to stop les Morts.”

“Or,” Oliver said, inspecting his fingernails, “you could simply build up your power and then stop les Morts and Marcus with magic. You could learn to fight.”

The hairs on my arms pricked up. Learn to fight. Oh, how I needed it. Needed to use this energy inside me. To use it to fight. To use it to hurt . . .

“No!” I snapped. The dressmaker flinched, and Oliver’s brows drew together. I waved for the dressmaker to continue, and then, with a deep breath, I fixed my eyes on Oliver. “No. I will not train.”

Oliver didn’t react, though I could have sworn his yellow eyes almost glowed. “And may I inquire why not?” he asked calmly.