to control a shudder when they touched her. Irene could not look at their active, lovely, characterful faces without recalling the expressionless, bloodied masks of skin that took their place when three shrill notes sounded. Not to mention the proficiencies in arts devastating and deadly they exhibited under the influence. Either of them could have had Owney Geoghegan’s title away from him with one arm tucked into the back of their skirt.
The Persian understood and conveyed Monsieur Erik’s good wishes.
‘He suggests, however, that you limit your field of operations.’
‘I should stay out of Paris?’
‘He thinks… France.’
‘Very well. There’s Ruritania, and Poland, and London. All a-swim with opportunities.’
Irene left the building.
Behind his mirror, Erik knew regret. But he understood the American was not like his other girls. There was steel in her core, which made her unsuitable for ‘music lessons’, the specialised training he deemed necessary for his most useful Agents. That steel would never be bent entirely to his purpose, and might eventually bring them into conflict… as he had been brought into conflict with Joséphine Balsamo.
The Countess Cagliostro was, of course, still at large, and liable to be unforgiving now her carefully contrived plan of world domination was sunk at the bottom of the Seine. She would probably be suffering from a splitting headache, too, and be unhappy at the loss of her marvellous barge and so many toys. This was no time for the Agency to be under-strength.
The
feuilleton
was not over.
XIII
F OR DAYS , C HRISTINE and Trilby moped and were inconsolable. Every little thing was a reminder of something sweet or amusing Irene had said or done, and would set them off in further floods of tears. Other ladies of the chorus assumed their hearts had been ordinarily broken, and dispensed wisdoms about the untrustworthiness of the perfidious male sex.
Then, the bell sounded. Not for ‘music lessons’, not for an exploit, but a simple summons.
As they walked down the corridor to Dressing Room 313, they came upon a familiar, shambling, bent-over figure. Christine, acting on instinct, took him by the throat and shoved him rudely against the wall.
‘No more, please,’ said Cochenille, squirming.
Temporary repairs had been made to the mannequin, but he was still not in peak condition. As Christine pinned him, Trilby rolled up her sleeves, intent on smashing his face to bits again.
‘Ladies, let him be,’ said the Persian, looking out of the dressing room. He had been in a conference with Spallanzani and Coppélius. ‘These gentlemen have made a break from their former employer.’
Christine dropped the gasping Cochenille. His hand came off, and he picked it up and stuck it into his pocket. Trilby gave him a kick and he scurried away, followed by the doll-makers, who gave the girls a wide berth as they passed out of sight. Trilby gave their backs the Evil Eye Stare.
‘We have come to an arrangement,’ said the Persian. ‘Advantageous for our Agency.’
Trilby and Christine entered the dressing room.
On the divan sat a small blonde girl, dressed all in white, posed like a ballerina in a tableau.
‘She’s not a doll,’ said Christine. ‘She can’t be.’
The girl’s head moved and she blinked. There was no clicking or whirring.
‘She must be the original, from which the mannequin-makers copied,’ said Trilby.
The girl’s chest swelled and contracted with breath. She gestured, showing the suppleness of her fingers. She picked up an apple from
la Présidente
’s basket, flicked out her nails and rolled the fruit in her hand, letting the peel slither away from the flesh in an unbroken ribbon, then crushed it to juice with a sudden, powerful squeeze.
Christine and Trilby walked around the divan, observing the newcomer from all angles, wondering at the ingenuity of her manufacture.
‘This is Olympia,’ said Erik, from behind the mirror. ‘She
The Persian understood and conveyed Monsieur Erik’s good wishes.
‘He suggests, however, that you limit your field of operations.’
‘I should stay out of Paris?’
‘He thinks… France.’
‘Very well. There’s Ruritania, and Poland, and London. All a-swim with opportunities.’
Irene left the building.
Behind his mirror, Erik knew regret. But he understood the American was not like his other girls. There was steel in her core, which made her unsuitable for ‘music lessons’, the specialised training he deemed necessary for his most useful Agents. That steel would never be bent entirely to his purpose, and might eventually bring them into conflict… as he had been brought into conflict with Joséphine Balsamo.
The Countess Cagliostro was, of course, still at large, and liable to be unforgiving now her carefully contrived plan of world domination was sunk at the bottom of the Seine. She would probably be suffering from a splitting headache, too, and be unhappy at the loss of her marvellous barge and so many toys. This was no time for the Agency to be under-strength.
The
feuilleton
was not over.
XIII
F OR DAYS , C HRISTINE and Trilby moped and were inconsolable. Every little thing was a reminder of something sweet or amusing Irene had said or done, and would set them off in further floods of tears. Other ladies of the chorus assumed their hearts had been ordinarily broken, and dispensed wisdoms about the untrustworthiness of the perfidious male sex.
Then, the bell sounded. Not for ‘music lessons’, not for an exploit, but a simple summons.
As they walked down the corridor to Dressing Room 313, they came upon a familiar, shambling, bent-over figure. Christine, acting on instinct, took him by the throat and shoved him rudely against the wall.
‘No more, please,’ said Cochenille, squirming.
Temporary repairs had been made to the mannequin, but he was still not in peak condition. As Christine pinned him, Trilby rolled up her sleeves, intent on smashing his face to bits again.
‘Ladies, let him be,’ said the Persian, looking out of the dressing room. He had been in a conference with Spallanzani and Coppélius. ‘These gentlemen have made a break from their former employer.’
Christine dropped the gasping Cochenille. His hand came off, and he picked it up and stuck it into his pocket. Trilby gave him a kick and he scurried away, followed by the doll-makers, who gave the girls a wide berth as they passed out of sight. Trilby gave their backs the Evil Eye Stare.
‘We have come to an arrangement,’ said the Persian. ‘Advantageous for our Agency.’
Trilby and Christine entered the dressing room.
On the divan sat a small blonde girl, dressed all in white, posed like a ballerina in a tableau.
‘She’s not a doll,’ said Christine. ‘She can’t be.’
The girl’s head moved and she blinked. There was no clicking or whirring.
‘She must be the original, from which the mannequin-makers copied,’ said Trilby.
The girl’s chest swelled and contracted with breath. She gestured, showing the suppleness of her fingers. She picked up an apple from
la Présidente
’s basket, flicked out her nails and rolled the fruit in her hand, letting the peel slither away from the flesh in an unbroken ribbon, then crushed it to juice with a sudden, powerful squeeze.
Christine and Trilby walked around the divan, observing the newcomer from all angles, wondering at the ingenuity of her manufacture.
‘This is Olympia,’ said Erik, from behind the mirror. ‘She
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