felt like Little Red Riding Hood staying for dinner in the wolfâs lair. No mention was made of putting the dog outside or what she should do if she encountered him again.
Several servants brought in the courses in silver tureens and on shining platters as the evening progressed. They were dressed in immaculate uniforms of black and white, their pristine shirts starched, their trousers pressed.
During the meal, she saw the boy put several scraps in his pocket. She wondered if they were bribes for Grim. Safe passage through the elaborately carved corridors of lâOpéra Severne didnât seem possible. Could he buy it from the giant dog with honeyed buns and cake?
They consumed exquisitely seasoned pheasant and savory gravy. The meal was presented as if John Severne was a restaurant critic, yet he ate with no relish or apparent discernment. Rather, he watched her eat as if every bite was performance art. When she nibbled the edge of a puff pastry with pleasure, his eyes widened, then narrowed in concentration, as if he wasnât chewing the same treat but only tasting through her reaction to the dessert, which failed to impress his palate.
Her cheeks warmed beneath his scrutiny. How could such perfect food fail to catch his attention?
Eric ate with more enthusiasm than both adults. He gobbled. She noted his place setting was simpler with a more colorful napkin. Who had gone to such consideration for him?
âIâm sorry about your mother, Eric. Iâm sorry I couldnât save her,â Kat said.
The boy didnât look up at her. He stared at his plate. But then he spoke. âHer name is Lavinia. Sheâs glad you saved me.â
Eric was obviously still processing the loss of his mother. Heâd referred to her in present tense as if she wasnât gone.
The conversation was stilted after that, with âMore, pleaseâ being the predominant phrase until an older woman came to the door.
Her tea-length skirt was perfectly pressed and flared but fifty years out of fashion, its tiny polkadot print and lace trim a style reminiscent of black-and-white television.
Severne rose, and Kat followed suit. She was jumpy. In spite of the fine meal and beautiful table, she wasnât at ease. Because of her guilt over Ericâs mother, her uncertainty with Severne and the confrontation with the hellhound, she waited on a razorâs edge for disaster to happen. For all she knew, the woman in polka dots might have a machine gun under her skirts.
âMatron,â Eric greeted her.
âBath and bed, young sir. I believe youâve had your fill,â the woman said to the young daemon boy after a curt nod to Severne. She seemed to see nothing different about the child. She didnât act nervous about babysitting a daemon. When Eric smiled at the woman, Kat finally relaxed about his being at the opera house. He was welcome. Cared for. Her chest tightened with emotion, thinking about Reynardâs blade cutting into his motherâs throat.
The older woman glanced at her, but instead of looking away again to her new charge, her gaze held. It became a penetrating stare.
âYou are like her. Very like. The same eyes. Same hair,â she said.
Katâs heart leaped to her throat, but the woman wasnât referring to her sister. She and Victoria were as unalike as could be. Vic was taller, her hair auburn and her eyes the palest blue. Sheâd taken after their father, a man theyâd barely known.
It was her mother the woman referred to. It had to be, though twenty years had passed since her mother had performed here.
âShe was lovely. And talented. Drew them like a flame. Her voice was an angelâs voice. But...â Her eyes narrowed as she looked closer at Katherine. âShe wasnât as strong, I think. You are the strong one,â she concluded. She toyed with an iron ring of keys that dangled from her belt as she spoke.
Kat clenched her napkin in her
Several servants brought in the courses in silver tureens and on shining platters as the evening progressed. They were dressed in immaculate uniforms of black and white, their pristine shirts starched, their trousers pressed.
During the meal, she saw the boy put several scraps in his pocket. She wondered if they were bribes for Grim. Safe passage through the elaborately carved corridors of lâOpéra Severne didnât seem possible. Could he buy it from the giant dog with honeyed buns and cake?
They consumed exquisitely seasoned pheasant and savory gravy. The meal was presented as if John Severne was a restaurant critic, yet he ate with no relish or apparent discernment. Rather, he watched her eat as if every bite was performance art. When she nibbled the edge of a puff pastry with pleasure, his eyes widened, then narrowed in concentration, as if he wasnât chewing the same treat but only tasting through her reaction to the dessert, which failed to impress his palate.
Her cheeks warmed beneath his scrutiny. How could such perfect food fail to catch his attention?
Eric ate with more enthusiasm than both adults. He gobbled. She noted his place setting was simpler with a more colorful napkin. Who had gone to such consideration for him?
âIâm sorry about your mother, Eric. Iâm sorry I couldnât save her,â Kat said.
The boy didnât look up at her. He stared at his plate. But then he spoke. âHer name is Lavinia. Sheâs glad you saved me.â
Eric was obviously still processing the loss of his mother. Heâd referred to her in present tense as if she wasnât gone.
The conversation was stilted after that, with âMore, pleaseâ being the predominant phrase until an older woman came to the door.
Her tea-length skirt was perfectly pressed and flared but fifty years out of fashion, its tiny polkadot print and lace trim a style reminiscent of black-and-white television.
Severne rose, and Kat followed suit. She was jumpy. In spite of the fine meal and beautiful table, she wasnât at ease. Because of her guilt over Ericâs mother, her uncertainty with Severne and the confrontation with the hellhound, she waited on a razorâs edge for disaster to happen. For all she knew, the woman in polka dots might have a machine gun under her skirts.
âMatron,â Eric greeted her.
âBath and bed, young sir. I believe youâve had your fill,â the woman said to the young daemon boy after a curt nod to Severne. She seemed to see nothing different about the child. She didnât act nervous about babysitting a daemon. When Eric smiled at the woman, Kat finally relaxed about his being at the opera house. He was welcome. Cared for. Her chest tightened with emotion, thinking about Reynardâs blade cutting into his motherâs throat.
The older woman glanced at her, but instead of looking away again to her new charge, her gaze held. It became a penetrating stare.
âYou are like her. Very like. The same eyes. Same hair,â she said.
Katâs heart leaped to her throat, but the woman wasnât referring to her sister. She and Victoria were as unalike as could be. Vic was taller, her hair auburn and her eyes the palest blue. Sheâd taken after their father, a man theyâd barely known.
It was her mother the woman referred to. It had to be, though twenty years had passed since her mother had performed here.
âShe was lovely. And talented. Drew them like a flame. Her voice was an angelâs voice. But...â Her eyes narrowed as she looked closer at Katherine. âShe wasnât as strong, I think. You are the strong one,â she concluded. She toyed with an iron ring of keys that dangled from her belt as she spoke.
Kat clenched her napkin in her
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