“My landlady,” I gasped. “Quick—back out the window.”
Persephone scrambled off of me and to the window, even as the sound of steps reached the landing. Once there, she paused. Her fingers tightened on the wood, leaving score marks on the sill. “Use the stone if you wish to speak with me. Whenever you like. I’ll come.”
Then she was gone.
I shut the window, blew out the night candle, and flung myself into bed. Barely a moment later, I heard Mrs. Yagoda stop in the hall outside. I knew she listened for the sound of voices.
Had she overheard us? Or stepped out into the garden to investigate the crash, and seen the candlelight in my room? That seemed more likely, as I couldn’t imagine our voices had carried two floors down and yet miraculously awakened no one else.
After several minutes, the shuffling footsteps started back up, retreating down the hall and thence down the stairs. I let out a sigh of relief.
Curse Mrs. Yagoda for interrupting.
Years ago, back in New Bedford, I’d told my best friend Dottie I had to leave town, to find work. She’d begged me to stay…and then kissed me.
I’d sat frozen in shock, unable to return the gesture. She’d fled, weeping, and had never answered any of the letters I sent once I settled in Widdershins.
If Persephone kissed me, I rather thought I’d kiss her back.
Chapter 2
“The Undertow,” Oliver read the marquee aloud. “What a strange name for a theater.”
The Undertow occupied an old church, abandoned long before any of us had been born, now gutted and rebuilt as a theater. Posters proclaimed that the opening night performance would be of an original play, The Siren.
“Widdershins is a port town,” Irene replied. “I imagine New Bedford has its own peculiarities.”
“True enough,” he agreed with a smile. “And the electric lights on the marquee are most impressive, I must say.”
“Oh, aren’t they, though?” I asked with a touch of civic pride. Most of Widdershins was electrified now, save for the poorer parts of the town near the docks. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”
The interior was equally impressive, carpeted in red with a great chandelier providing illumination. A large crowd milled about in the lobby, people purchasing refreshments or chatting with one another. The women wore colorful frocks, and the men sack suits and stiff hats.
There was something glamorous about the theater, even a small one such as the Undertow. With her love of song, Persephone would adore it. If only I could show it to her.
The thought brought an unexpected ache with it. How fun it would be, to have her here with me. We’d share a glass of wine and sit together in the balcony, where we could see the audience as well as the performance. And after, we’d laugh and talk until dawn, then find a restaurant serving waffles.
Or maybe we wouldn’t laugh and talk. Maybe we’d do other things. If she kissed me…
“Mr. Burton!” Irene called, startling me from my musings. “Excuse me, Maggie, Mr. Young, but I see a friend I need to have a word with.”
She scurried away, leaving me alone with Oliver. “A nice crowd for opening night,” he remarked. “Don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes,” I agreed, surveying the lobby with him. A bit to my surprise, I spotted the familiar figure of Mr. Quinn. Though on reflection, perhaps I shouldn’t have been shocked. Surely he had a life outside of the Ladysmith museum, just as I did.
Mr. Quinn dressed much as he did in his role as head librarian, though in truth his costume would have been equally suitable for an undertaker. A somber black frock coat clad his thin body and made his white skin look nearly unnatural in its pallor. He held a small glass of cordial in one long-fingered hand, the liquid inside a dark red that reminded me uncomfortably of blood.
I hesitated, uncertain whether to offer a greeting. I was only a lowly secretary, after all, even if I did work for Dr. Whyborne. Before I could make up my mind, Mr. Quinn drifted over to us.
“Miss Parkhurst,” he said in a slightly dreamy fashion. Silvery eyes blinked at me, then fixed on Oliver. “And who is this newcomer to our fair city?”
“This is my childhood friend, Mr. Oliver Young,” I said. “Oliver, permit me to introduce Mr. Quinn, the head librarian at the museum.”
“A pleasure,” Oliver said, holding out his hand.
Mr. Quinn ignored Oliver’s hand. “I see,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up just slightly. Turning his attention away from Oliver and back to me, he said, “This should be quite the spectacle.” His gaze wandered to the stone ceiling above our heads. “Though not as grand as that which rendered the church empty in the first place, alas.”
Oliver followed his gaze rather uneasily. “What happened?”