furrowed in sympathy. Chestnut ringlets, eyes fluffy-lashed spheres of blue, lips a pillow of pink—that was Molly.
Sylvie knew she was clearly being led into a trap of some sort, but apart from feigning deafness, which no dancer could convincingly do, she saw no other option but to respond. She thought she’d try politeness first.
“Forgive me, but does what hurt, Mademoiselle?”
“The rod up your arse. Does it ’urt very much?”
Another rustle of giggles. With a taut little anticipatory edge, now.
“Oh, not so much as jealousy,” Sylvie said mildly. “Or so I’m told.”
A shocked silence.
And then:
“Oooohhhh,”
one of the dancers breathed in either admiration or terror of what Molly might do, perhaps both.
Scarlet rushed over Molly’s smooth face. Sylvie saw the girl’s fingers curl a little more tightly around the handle of her hairbrush.
“
Does
jealousy ’urt?” the girl called Rose whispered, sounding genuinely curious. The girl next to her elbowed her hard.
“Why should I be jealous of a plucked chicken?” Molly turned, saw with fresh satisfaction her own incomparable reflection—slightly redder in the face than it had been moments ago, granted. Her shoulders relaxed, confidence restored. She dragged the brush once through her shining length of hair, a little self-caress of reassurance.
Sylvie had just opened her mouth to respond to the chicken remark when a small man—a
very
small man— burst into the room in a blur of brilliant tailoring, and everyone jumped.
“It’s five minutes past the hour,” he barked. “What the devil are you females—” He saw Sylvie, stopped abruptly, and glared up at her, thick brows knitting into one brow for a moment. “Who are
you
?”
Ah, the White Lily’s version of Monsieur Favre, no doubt. “Miss Sylvie Chapeau.” She curtsied.
The man didn’t bow or introduce himself. He continued frowning and staring as if her presence was so incongruous he could never hope to decipher her purpose here.
“Mr. Shaughnessy hired me,” she clarified finally.
“Ah,” the little man said. It seemed to Sylvie a more cynical syllable had never been uttered.
His eyes traveled over her shoulders, her torso, returned to her arms, lingered on her face. The scrutiny wasn’t entirely without appreciation, but it was more the sort one applied to a potential investment, to a carriage or heifer or silver salver, rather than to a woman. Sylvie was accustomed to being scrutinized dispassionately, as she was a vehicle for the dance in her own way, and a certain amount of dispassion was expected.
Still, this little man didn’t know her, and she didn’t know him, and she began to feel a little pique.
She gazed evenly back at him—or rather, down at him—and felt her spine go just a little straighter.
And then he reached some sort of conclusion; she saw it in his face, a peculiar sort of guarded thoughtfulness.
“I’ll...have a word with Mr. Shaughnessy.” He sounded ironic. “Until then, Miss Chapeau, please wait here. Girls, you know what to do. I will join you shortly.”
The girls stood and followed The General out of the room, gazes trailing past Sylvie on their way out of the door, sharp as fingernails.
Tom didn’t even jump when The General burst into his office, but his papers fluttered up. He patted them down just in time.
“She’s a dancer, Tom.”
“I know that, Gen. I hired her. Go tell her what to do.”
Tom was feeling a trifle impatient. His sleeves were rolled up, and the stack of correspondence—bills, invitations, accounting of expenditures and profits and bribes to Crumstead, the king’s man, for looking the other way with regards to the bawdier productions of the White Lily, letters from females pleading for an assignation—awaiting his attention seemed dauntingly tall this morning. Some day he would hire someone to do this—sorting, ordering, responding—for him. In fact, in just an hour or so he would attempt to
Sylvie knew she was clearly being led into a trap of some sort, but apart from feigning deafness, which no dancer could convincingly do, she saw no other option but to respond. She thought she’d try politeness first.
“Forgive me, but does what hurt, Mademoiselle?”
“The rod up your arse. Does it ’urt very much?”
Another rustle of giggles. With a taut little anticipatory edge, now.
“Oh, not so much as jealousy,” Sylvie said mildly. “Or so I’m told.”
A shocked silence.
And then:
“Oooohhhh,”
one of the dancers breathed in either admiration or terror of what Molly might do, perhaps both.
Scarlet rushed over Molly’s smooth face. Sylvie saw the girl’s fingers curl a little more tightly around the handle of her hairbrush.
“
Does
jealousy ’urt?” the girl called Rose whispered, sounding genuinely curious. The girl next to her elbowed her hard.
“Why should I be jealous of a plucked chicken?” Molly turned, saw with fresh satisfaction her own incomparable reflection—slightly redder in the face than it had been moments ago, granted. Her shoulders relaxed, confidence restored. She dragged the brush once through her shining length of hair, a little self-caress of reassurance.
Sylvie had just opened her mouth to respond to the chicken remark when a small man—a
very
small man— burst into the room in a blur of brilliant tailoring, and everyone jumped.
“It’s five minutes past the hour,” he barked. “What the devil are you females—” He saw Sylvie, stopped abruptly, and glared up at her, thick brows knitting into one brow for a moment. “Who are
you
?”
Ah, the White Lily’s version of Monsieur Favre, no doubt. “Miss Sylvie Chapeau.” She curtsied.
The man didn’t bow or introduce himself. He continued frowning and staring as if her presence was so incongruous he could never hope to decipher her purpose here.
“Mr. Shaughnessy hired me,” she clarified finally.
“Ah,” the little man said. It seemed to Sylvie a more cynical syllable had never been uttered.
His eyes traveled over her shoulders, her torso, returned to her arms, lingered on her face. The scrutiny wasn’t entirely without appreciation, but it was more the sort one applied to a potential investment, to a carriage or heifer or silver salver, rather than to a woman. Sylvie was accustomed to being scrutinized dispassionately, as she was a vehicle for the dance in her own way, and a certain amount of dispassion was expected.
Still, this little man didn’t know her, and she didn’t know him, and she began to feel a little pique.
She gazed evenly back at him—or rather, down at him—and felt her spine go just a little straighter.
And then he reached some sort of conclusion; she saw it in his face, a peculiar sort of guarded thoughtfulness.
“I’ll...have a word with Mr. Shaughnessy.” He sounded ironic. “Until then, Miss Chapeau, please wait here. Girls, you know what to do. I will join you shortly.”
The girls stood and followed The General out of the room, gazes trailing past Sylvie on their way out of the door, sharp as fingernails.
Tom didn’t even jump when The General burst into his office, but his papers fluttered up. He patted them down just in time.
“She’s a dancer, Tom.”
“I know that, Gen. I hired her. Go tell her what to do.”
Tom was feeling a trifle impatient. His sleeves were rolled up, and the stack of correspondence—bills, invitations, accounting of expenditures and profits and bribes to Crumstead, the king’s man, for looking the other way with regards to the bawdier productions of the White Lily, letters from females pleading for an assignation—awaiting his attention seemed dauntingly tall this morning. Some day he would hire someone to do this—sorting, ordering, responding—for him. In fact, in just an hour or so he would attempt to
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