Cinderella Six Feet Under(32)

Griffe’s eyes were glued to her bodice. Pinning it hadn’t helped, so Ophelia had had no choice but to stuff it full of rolled-up stockings. The result was the sort of hourglass shape one only saw in fashion plates.

“Perhaps, Mademoiselle Stonewall, I might call upon you at your residence tomorrow?”

“Oh. Well. Not tomorrow.”

Mercifully, the lights dimmed and the second act overture began. Ophelia edged away from Griffe to a seat at the front railing.

The professor sat beside her. “Have you and the Count de Griffe much in common?”

“Not a drop.” Ophelia willed her bosom to deflate.

“Did you accuse him of murder?”

“Certainly not. I don’t know why, but I simply can’t believe he would hurt a fly.”

“Really.” Penrose’s eyes slid sideways, lit for a fraction of a second on her bosom, and then met her gaze. “You didn’t . . . give anything away, did you? About our inquiries?”

The professor wasn’t going to mention her faux bosom, then. He’d seen her real, beanstalkish shape in everyday garb back in Germany.

“I’ll give away whatever I please,” Ophelia said, warm with embarrassment.

*

The ballet’s second act was even more marvelous than the first. The centerpiece was an enormous, orange-painted mechanical pumpkin. When the music escalated and Cinderella’s fairy godmother waved her wand, the pumpkin contraption slowly unfurled like an enormous blossom and the middle of it rose up. The pumpkin had become a glistening golden coach.

Oooooo, the thousands of people in the audience breathed. Ahhhhh.

Ophelia glanced at Colifichet. He looked mighty pleased with himself. The apprentice Pierre rested his chin in his hand, elbow on the railing, frowning. The prince and the count were helping themselves to more brandy.

The music swirled and the fairy godmother transformed rats, mice, and lizards into footmen, a coachman, and horses. With a last wave of the wand, sky-high violin trills, and a poof of fake smoke, Cinderella’s rags fell away to reveal a gorgeous ball gown.

Ophelia started. “Professor, pass me the opera glasses, would you?”

He passed them.

Ophelia leaned forward and peered through the glasses. “Good gracious,” she whispered. “It’s the same gown Sybille was wearing. Yes, the same gown exactly, except shorter. Same ivory tulle, same embroidery.”

Penrose spoke in low tones, so the other men in the box wouldn’t hear. “Whoever made the girl’s gown must have seen that costume. Are you certain it’s identical?”

“Fair certain, but perhaps we ought to go backstage after the ballerina changes and have a closer look.”

They waited. The act dragged on. Ophelia tapped her throbbing toes. At last, Cinderella appeared onstage once again in her raggedy costume.

“Let’s go,” Ophelia whispered.

“Please excuse us,” Penrose murmured to Prince Rupprecht. “My cousin requires a bit of air.”

Prince Rupprecht nodded without taking his eyes from his gold opera glasses. The Count de Griffe sent Ophelia an ardent glance as she and Penrose slipped by.





10




Ophelia found the backstage entrance handily, through a door around the corner from the lobby.

Backstage, no one paid them any mind. Tight stairs and meandering corridors brought them to the busy rooms adjacent to the stage. The music sounded muffled. Dancers chatted or stretched. Men in shirtsleeves rushed about, moving bits of scenery. Ophelia led the way through tables covered with stage properties and into a corridor lined with doors. Each door had a brass nameplate.

“The dressing rooms,” Ophelia said. “What was the prima ballerina’s name?” She stopped before a door at the end of the corridor, just before a corner. “The one dancing the role of Cinderella.”

Penrose drew the programme from his breast pocket and scanned it. “Polina Petrov.”

“That’s what I thought. Look.” Ophelia tapped the nameplate on the door: Polina Petrov, étoile. She looked left and right. The corridor was, for the moment, empty. For good measure, she looked around the corner.

Her breath caught. She nipped back around the corner. “Austorga!” she whispered. “Prue’s stepsister. What is she doing back here?”

“Indeed. She is, presumably, a young lady of gentle breeding.”

Ophelia nodded. Well-bred ladies never ventured backstage. Well-bred gents, certainly, but not the ladies.