Cinderella Six Feet Under(90)

27




Gabriel wished for nothing more than to extract a full and detailed report from Colifichet. The little weasel knew more about the stomacher. He had to know more; he’d dressed that frightful little music box doll in a tiny stomacher.

But there was no time.

Penrose swiped Colifichet’s pistol from his trembling hand, removed his own pistol from Colifichet’s temple, and dashed after Miss Flax.

“You will not get away with this!” Colifichet screamed.

Gabriel and Miss Flax’s hired carriage raced past the darkened front of Colifichet & Fils. A police wagon was just rolling to a stop, two horses prancing, and four gendarmes piled out.

And then their carriage had passed.

*

Ophelia glanced out of the corner of her eye at the professor, bumping along on the carriage seat beside her. She felt a little wary of him after his beastly performance with Colifichet.

Penrose touched the side of his head and winced.

“Oh!” she said. “I’d clean forgotten he’d shot you. Allow me to look.”

“It’s only my ear.” Penrose dug his handkerchief from his jacket and held it over his ear.

“But it’s bleeding all over—look at your collar! Are you certain it’s only your ear? We ought to find a doctor—did you say they’d call a doctor to your hotel? Come on, turn your head so I might see.”

Penrose turned his head to the side. Ophelia leaned close and peered through the dim light. “Merciful heavens. It is only your ear—but the bullet has removed a bit at the top.”

“One doesn’t really have need for a complete ear.” Penrose turned his head. Now their faces were merely inches apart. His eyes shone, dark and liquid. “Does one?”

“Well, that depends upon lots of things.” Ophelia swallowed. “On the style of hats one favors, to begin with.”

“I have never owned, and never shall own, one of those fur monstrosities with the ear flaps.”

“Well then, there is also the consideration of music.”

“Music?” Penrose touched Ophelia’s cheek with a gentle pressure that seemed, more than anything else, curious. He left his fingertips there.

“Well, yes, because if one were inclined to attend the symphony, perhaps having one’s ear not all of a piece might interfere with the quality of the sound.”

“I have attended the symphony on occasion, but I am not so much a connoisseur that a missing bit of ear would make a difference. In fact, I once had a piano instructor, as a small boy, who informed me that I have a tin ear.”

“If you had a tin ear, this would not have happened.”

“I am rather glad that it has.” Penrose’s hand slid to the back of Ophelia’s neck.

Time seemed to float. The knocking and clatter of the carriage receded. Here they were at the center of things, with every detail sharpened into more-than-real: the half-hidden glow of the professor’s eyes, the white of the handkerchief still pressed against his ear, the weight of his hand at Ophelia’s neck, her own breathing, his curved mouth so very close to her own. And the peculiar urge—no, longing—to simply get closer to him in order to understand what exactly made him, well . . . himself.

So Ophelia did what she fancied she’d never, ever do. She leaned in the last couple of inches and touched her lips to his.

When that snoozing Beauty of the fairy story was roused by the kiss of Prince Charming, his lips broke through all the languor, dreaming, stiff joints, and crusted eyes of one hundred years. Ophelia had never liked that tale. It had seemed laughable to think that a simple kiss could carry so much weight. But then, she’d never had a kiss. Not a real one, anyway, one not rehearsed with greasepainted and booming actors who, as they kissed her, were surely pondering what to eat for supper.

In the brief moment—three seconds at the most—during which their lips touched, understanding gleamed. This was what everyone was always going on about! This—what was it?

Penrose drew away. “I must not,” he murmured.

“Oh. Right.” Miss Ivy Banks. “I—well, I beg your pardon, Professor Penrose.” Ophelia edged away down the carriage seat.

“No, I beg your pardon. The blame falls entirely upon my shoulders. I should not have taken such liberties, and I assure you it shan’t happen again.” Penrose turned away to look out the window.