Wicked After Midnight
Page 18

“What’s the most popular song for the can-can?” I finally asked.
Mademoiselle Charline raised one thin eyebrow. “What, pray tell, is the can-can?”
I barely restrained myself from bursting out into a Bludman’s characteristic, devil-may-care laughter. If the can-can hadn’t yet been invented in the Mortmartre of Sang’s Paris, then I suddenly knew exactly how I would make my name as a performer.
Was it cheating? Maybe.
Did I care? Hell, no.
Especially considering that popularity would, I hoped, bring me to Cherie. If Casper Sterling could become the world’s most talented musician just because Sang didn’t have a Beethoven, then Demi Ward would become La Demitasse by teaching the daimons how to kick their legs in the air. But I wouldn’t show that off today, where Charline might claim it for herself. No, I would wait until I was onstage and unstoppable, facing thousands of soon-to-be adoring fans. I’d wanted stardom before, but now that it was my key to being taken by the slavers and finding my best friend, I wanted it even more.
“Well, Mademoiselle Ward?”
“Do you have ‘The Infernal Galop’?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course. We did the operetta last season.” When she snapped her fingers, Blaise ran from the wings with a disc and placed it reverently on the flower-shaped gramophone half-hidden by the curtains.
After a few moments of fuzz, the song began, tinkling along, and I went into my act with the quiet professionalism of a well-oiled and many-jointed robot. I hadn’t performed to the song before, but I knew it well enough from a lifetime of Earth cartoons and movies that I could anticipate the changes in pace and work them into my routine.
Although I had used a few flashy moves to persuade first Vale and then Madame Sylvie to take me on, I understood that this wasn’t a job interview; it was a dictionary of Demi, a catalog of my abilities that would determine my place in the show. Mademoiselle Charline alternated between scribbling in a notebook and staring at me with narrow, dark eyes, her small lips pursed like a dog’s ass.
I was flawless, of course. After doing the same routine for years on top of my wagon, I knew the moves by heart. The only thing missing from my act was a partner. Without Cherie, I had to skip the trickier parts or rely on the stacked chairs or mouth stand or ball to make it interesting.
“That move is traditionally done with a partner. Would you like to borrow someone?”
As my teeth gripped the stand, I glanced at Mademoiselle Charline in annoyance. Elegantly stepping out of the move with a flourish, I murmured, “I am a solo act, mademoiselle.”
“But you had a partner.”
“Yes. Had. And I don’t care for another.”
“I see.”
More scribbling, and I bent over backward into the next move.
When I was done, the crowd clapped politely. There had even been some whispering during the trickier parts that Criminy had devised for Cherie and me, moves that couldn’t be accomplished by a human or daimon. But Mademoiselle Charline had never cracked a smile or stopped her frantic note-taking; she and Madame Sylvie had to be a true force of nature when they were both in the same room and focused on the same thing. Now she closed the red leather book and stared at me so hard that I felt as if someone had set a lit match under my nose. Even her third, painted eye seemed in on the scrutiny.
“This song—why did you choose it?”
A light laugh hid my crafty smile. “The operetta is traditionally performed by daimons, and that song is about a party in hell, correct?”
“Of course. Everyone knows this.”
“Then debut the Bludman as the queen of hell. Let there be a party of dancers around me as I writhe. Fake fire, imps, whatever. Make it a spectacle.”
“Hmm.” More scribbling. “You did not answer the question.”
So I told her the truth. “Because it’s wild and unstoppable and dark and mad.”
“Interesting. You’re dismissed to costuming. Tonight you will be backstage, helping with makeup and dress. Learn as much as possible. You’ll debut Saturday. Our biggest night. I’ll have notes to you after tonight’s show, including choreography.”
“Okay.”
“No. You will say, ‘Merci, Mademoiselle Charline.’” The sizzle of her gaze lit my cheeks.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Charline.”
“Now go. Vite. We have things to do besides stare at your pasty flesh.”
She turned and began yelling at Mel and her friends, and I felt a tug on my bustle. Blaise.
“Hurry, Demi. Before she notices you a second time.”
I followed the daimon boy across the stage and into a new hallway, one I hadn’t seen before. He waved and abandoned me in front of an open door, and I tentatively knocked on the jamb, just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the sewing machine within.
“Entrez.”
The daimon hunched over the black machine was the oldest-looking creature I’d seen in Sang thus far. She was going gray all over, the stripes of her wrinkles dusted with what must have once been the same blue skin shared by Bea and Blaise. The bright orange wig on her head and the paint on her lips showed that she was still trying, and her obvious disdain for the aging process made me smile.
“Hmm. The Bludman. Don’t typically care for your kind. But Bea says you’re a good egg, so I suppose I won’t sew poison into your skirt.” Unlike the other daimons, she didn’t have a wholly Franchian accent, and I suspected she had spent time in Sangland.
“Uh . . . thank you?”
She finally looked up, giving me the same all-over scrutiny that was starting to feel invasive and annoying. I had been with Criminy’s caravan so long that I had forgotten what it was like to be the new kid. Fortunately, my natural Bludman’s pride superseded my human insecurity, and I stared her down as I had everyone else, as I would continue to do until eyes met me with curiosity and interest instead of doubt and suspicion.
“You’re filthy.”
“I’m well aware. My coach was attacked by slavers, and then I spent most of yesterday on horseback or in the catacombs.”
She wheezed laughter. “Smoke, horse, and shit. We need to burn those rags. Take ’em off. Toss ’em in the fire.”
I searched the room for a changing screen and found nothing but the open door and racks and racks of the same sort of costumery that filled Master Antonin’s wagon in the caravan.
“Is there a changing room?”
Another wheeze. “You’re in it, kid.”
Close to the fire, I stripped off my boots and stepped out of the leggings that had once been artfully ripped and ruffled but now resembled mummy wrappings. I’d left my corset off that morning, knowing I would need to either perform or practice, both of which were almost impossible with tight steel bones running up my ribs. I briefly had bruises after showing off yesterday in my Pinky costume. Feeling cold and tender, I untied my bustle.
“Is this salvageable, at least?”
She squinted. “Two years out of season. Won’t do. Burn it.”
Luckily, I remembered to remove my lucky bludbunny foot before tossing the mud-rimed skirt into the fire, where it smoked with the dark hint of bone rot and mud. Now I was in nothing but my short chemise, my jacket, and the abbreviated bloomers I’d introduced around the caravan. It had been disturbing enough to learn that in Sang, I would hunger for and drink only blood. It had been even worse to discover that no one had yet invented a decent set of women’s undergarments, and most women just let the breeze blow by. After several exhaustive sketches and very ticklish measurements, Master Antonin had finally caved and constructed bloomers that were tight and stretchy but perfect for performing. The lace-ruffled edge was his own design and itched me horribly.
“Are you wearing a diaper, girl?” Finally, I had the old daimon’s attention.
“I call them bloomers. Women’s undergarments.”
She stood and hobbled over to me on feet so curled I wondered if daimons had ever practiced foot binding. Gnarled gray fingers poked me with impersonal curiosity, tugging at the fabric and pinching the tea-stained ruffles. “Don’t know why I never thought of that,” she finally said.
“Does that mean I don’t have to burn them?”
“Leave ’em there, in the bin. I’ll have ’em laundered and tear ‘em apart to make a pattern. I take it you’ll want more?”
“If it’s not too much trouble. I’m not accustomed to . . .” The Earth girl inside me almost said “free-ballin’ it,” but the Bludman of Sang interceded. “Feeling a breeze down there.”
Another wheeze. “You’d better get accustomed to a breeze, chérie. This is Paradis. The day may start off still and fair, but it’s bound to end in a hurricane. Fancy bloomies won’t change that.”
“Bloomers.”
“Yes, yes. Take ’em off, and get over here. You’re wasting my time, and I don’t have much left.”
With a last glance at the open door, I stripped off my jacket and chemise and, last, the bloomers, leaving them in a heap on the floor. When the old daimon snapped her fingers and pointed to her side, I walked to the appointed spot and stood, naked and not quite shivering, as Bludmen didn’t do that. But it still felt completely freaky, being stripped down to the soft parts. Everyone in the caravan, especially in Sangland, was so careful to keep skin carefully covered, in part because of people like me. But I’d developed a habit of using my clothes as armor, perhaps, and that was to end now.
“Is this for my act?” I asked, and she wheezed away.
“You don’t get your own costume until Mademoiselle Charline orders it. This is to keep your measurements on hand and get you decent enough to run around backstage. You want to be fancy, you have to earn it.”
She bade me step up on a box before a mirror and took my measurements with sharp efficiency. I did my best to hold still and not hiss when she hit a particularly tender area. She didn’t write any numbers down until the end, when she entered them in a large ledger, licking the point of a pencil in between. I glanced over her shoulder, noting line upon line of names and measurements in neat columns. Several of them had been crossed out with one definitive stroke of her pencil.