Cinderella Six Feet Under(82)

Ophelia hurried to the dainty writing desk and opened it. Little compartments, lined in yellow silk, were stuffed with papers and envelopes, pens, and bottles of ink. Ophelia rifled through. Everything was in French, but she could read the names on the envelopes. In her haste, a few envelopes drifted to the carpet. She left them. Wait! Here was that addendum to the Prince’s ball he’d sent a few days ago—it was the same large, square envelope, and yes, there was a Paris return address—

Someone behind her made a dry cough.

Ophelia held her breath. She straightened and turned.

Malbert stood in the doorway. His bald pate shone. So did the large, squared-off meat cleaver he held in one hand. In his other hand he held Ophelia’s battered theatrical case by its handle. “Baldewyn told me that you were back. He is a good servant, Baldewyn.”

“Monsieur Malbert!” Ophelia said, overdoing the imperious matron’s voice just a touch. “I have misplaced an important missive that I—”

“You may cease the ruse, whoever you are.” Malbert’s eyelids fluttered like a fly’s wings.

“Whoever I am? Why, what do you—”

Malbert adjusted his grip on the meat cleaver. He took a step forward.

Ophelia tried to swallow. Her throat stuck.

“At first, I did not believe it when Lulu told me of your theatrical case.”

Lulu. She’d known it was Lulu.

“But then, oui, I began to see how peculiar you really do seem, madame. Or are you a mademoiselle? You came to my home under false pretenses. Disguised. Lying at every turn. What do you want?”

“I want to find Prue. To protect her.”

“Surely that did not require continuing with your ridiculous disguise.” He came still closer.

The meat cleaver didn’t look especially sharp—thank the heavens for Beatrice’s incompetent housekeeping. But it looked heavy.

Ophelia pressed herself back against the desk. “Why did you kill Henrietta? Was it on account of your bigamy?”

That stopped Malbert. His moist lips parted.

“That’s right. I know you’re still married to Clara Babin. Did Henrietta find out? Is that why you got rid of her?”

“I would never have harmed my darling, precious Henrietta.”

“Do you mean to hack off my feet?” Ophelia’s voice shook. “Just like you did to Henrietta? Hack them off and pop them in a pickling vat?”

Malbert’s eyes fell to Ophelia’s large, worn boots, just visible below the hem of her bombazine gown. “Hacking off your feet would indeed be an undertaking.”

Ophelia flicked her eyes around the room. Malbert stood in the path to the door—the only door—but there were the tall windows overlooking the street. She could make a side step and take her chances with the windows.

Only—she glanced back to Malbert—only he had her theatrical case. Her trusty theatrical case that she’d carted around with her from circus to variety hall and all the way over here to Europe. True, the greasepaints, wigs, and false muttonchops in there had gotten her into a fair amount of trouble. But they’d also gotten her out of trouble.

Malbert edged closer.

It was now or never.

Ophelia folded the prince’s envelope in half and stuffed it into her bodice, sideways between two buttons. She lunged towards Malbert.

He swung the meat cleaver high.

She snatched the theatrical case from his weak grip and darted to the side. She fancied she felt the breeze of the whizzing meat cleaver behind her. She ran to the windows and swept aside the draperies. There. The latch. She fumbled with it but her fingers were for some reason like clumsy sausages.

“I will not allow you to go!” Malbert said behind her. Thumping footsteps coming closer, and she’d bet the farm that he was still brandishing that cleaver.

Ophelia hefted the theatrical case and bashed the window. Glass shards showered down. She climbed onto the low sill, hugged her theatrical case to her chest, and jumped. Her skirts poofed like a parachute. She landed on two feet on the sidewalk, hip pads bouncing.

Penrose was halfway out of the carriage. Shock slackened his face as he watched her galloping towards him, but he said nothing. He bundled her and then himself into the carriage and slammed the door. They jostled forward.

Ophelia couldn’t breathe or speak. Her heart raced. She looked out the carriage window just in time to glimpse Malbert staring out the shattered window. She pulled the folded envelope from her bodice and waved it. “I’ve got Prince Rupprecht’s address,” she said, panting.