A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(81)

“Nonsense, Mademoiselle. If you are hurt, then I can help. Please, let me in.”

I reluctantly spread the door wider, taking in the Madame’s impeccable silver-gray gown and feathered hat.

As she examined me, her hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh no! You are injured!”

“No, I’m fine,” I rushed to say, but she had already shoved in.

“You are covered in blood!”

“It isn’t mine. I assure you, Madame, I am not hurt.” Not on the outside, at least. I gulped and pushed away the thought.

“Then let us clean you up.” She grabbed for my arm, then—clearly thinking better of it—withdrew her hand and motioned toward the bathroom. “The dressmaker will be here any moment for your final fitting before the ball.”

I flinched. “The ball? Oh no, I cannot possibly attend.”

She tutted and bustled toward the bathroom, not even bothering to see if I followed. She seemed to know I would . . . and I did—though slowly.

“You will attend the ball,” she said lightly. “It will be the best solution to your afternoon of horrors.” She paused at the bathroom doorway and finally glanced back at me. “Trust me, Mademoiselle Fitt. I know these things.”

“A-all right,” I stammered. Even though I was determined to avoid the ball—Jie still needed finding, and Oliver . . . who knew when he would return? But in the meantime, I could at least enjoy a bath.

Her lips curved up, making her bright eyes crinkle. At that smile, my chest loosened. Some of my earlier worries pulled back, almost as if . . . as if I were using my magic.

And it occurred to me that maybe friendship was a better balm for my problems than magic.

Chapter Nineteen

I floated on air. Giddy. Positively brimming with joy and perfection. My gown was beautiful, andI was beautiful—more beautiful than I had ever been in my entire life. The bloodred color of the fabric made my skin glow and my cheeks bright. My hair was coiled and curled, and roses were tucked in at the back.

Madame Marineaux had spent the entire afternoon with me, helping curl my hair, pulling my stays until I could hardly breathe—yet, oh how tiny my waist was after!—and pinching my cheeks to add color.

Now we rattled in her carriage on our way to the ball—a ball! My very first ball, and in Paris no less. Oh, how proud Mama would be if she were here to see this.

Or—my brow furrowed—would she be proud? Something was wrong with that thought; but before

I could identify precisely what, Madame Marineaux gestured to the window.

“We are almost to the Palais Garnier. I think you will like what you see.”

I slid across the velvet bench seat and swept aside the matching curtain. “You have such a lovely carriage, Mad—ohhh.” I stopped speaking, too enthralled by the gleaming and golden palace at the end of the street. As party guests alighted from their carriages and glided toward huge archways that marked the building’s entrance, bright streetlights bathed them in an ethereal glow.

And as our own carriage slowly rolled closer, the full splendor of the palace came into view—the giant golden angels flanking its sides, the copper-domed roof, and the elaborate faces and statues that peered out from every spare inch. All I knew of the palace was that it was meant to be a theater—yet we had no theaters even half as magnificent in Philadelphia. Even the lovely Arch Street Theatre I had visited with Clarence seemed a drab, tiny thing in comparison to this.

“Come.” Madame Marineaux’s sweet voice broke into my gawking. “We must make our grand entrance. An old lady and a stunning young femme.”

“Old lady!” I cried. “Hardly! You look positively perfect tonight.” And I meant that. Madame

Marineaux’s gown was a vivid black silk—so unusual yet so striking against her pale skin and dark hair. I was elated to be spending the evening with a hostess as remarkable as she.

A footman opened the carriage door and helped me bustle out. Other guests sailed past, all of them in pairs and chattering happily. Drifting over their conversations was the faint sound of a thrumming waltz. A breeze caressed my bare shoulders, sweeping beneath my curls.

It was a perfect night. I had no cares in the world. Only this delicious buzzing happiness in my chest.

Madame Marineaux swished past me toward the columns, her face beaming as she declared, “The ball calls us, Mademoiselle! Let us dance and dance until our feet hurt and the sun rises!”

Dancing! I gathered up my skirts and traipsed after her, my heart singing at the thought of real dancing! I had certainly learned the waltz, the mazurka, and all the other popular dances, but I’d never had chance to do them! As we approached, the music grew louder, and I could see dancers soaring past on the second-floor balconies.

But staring out from above those balconies were staid, golden statues of composers, and I grinned up at Mozart as he watched me approach. It was with such silly distractions in mind that I finally reached the wide steps leading to the Palais Garnier’s entrance. I followed Madame Marineaux up through an archway, and after passing through a wooden entryway, found myself in a high-ceilinged hall, where dim lantern light flickered over life-size statues of more composers.

Madame Marineaux whirled around quite suddenly, her gloved arms outstretched. “Oh, I almost forgot! You must take a dance card.”

I blinked and then realized she held a palm-size white booklet with a delicate cord attached to the spine. I gasped excitedly and snatched it up. My first dance card! I flipped it open and scanned the list of all the dances—we were currently on the polka redowa.