Julien closed the dressing room door soundly behind him and took the wig from his head, relishing the coolness of the air as it hit his sweat-damp hair and the solitude. Carefully, he arranged the curls on the dummy, making sure not to rumple any of them—it was more of a pain to fix them later than to take the time now. Then he grabbed his customary cigar from the dressing table and lit it, letting the richness of the tobacco coat his mouth and fill his senses. A reward for a job well done, as always.
In the mirror, the sight of the thick cigar held between his painted lips made him chuckle to himself. With her dark lashes and brightly painted lips, her blushing cheeks and the way he’d used makeup to sculpt her features into something more delicate, a woman looked back at him. It was the transformation—not the femininity—that gratified him, not the corset that was currently cutting into his rib cage or the gowns with their heavy beading and ruffles that scratched at his skin or even the way women would cut their eyes in his direction, their jealousy proof of his success. No. It was the performance itself. It was the artistry of making one thing into something else entirely. The impossible magic of it.
A sharp knock came at his dressing room door, and Julien called to see who it was.
“You got visitors,” Sal said, poking his head into the dressing room.
After the day he’d had, Julien simply wasn’t in the mood. “Tell them I’m not available.”
The stage manager shook his head. “Not these visitors,”
“Then tell them I’ve already gone,” Julien said, turning back to his reflection in the mirror.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” a voice behind Sal said.
In the mirror, Julien watched as the door opened wider to reveal a tall figure, its face shielded by a white veil of lace. The stage manager gave Julien a half shrug and moved out of the way to allow the Veiled Prophet to enter the dressing room. The figure closed the door behind him, and the sound of the latch engaging was as loud and resolute as a gunshot.
“Mr. Eltinge,” the figure said.
“Mr. . . .” Julien trailed off, unsure of how to address the man who was taking up all the air in what had been a sanctuary moments before. He was suddenly aware of his in-between state. Without his wig, he wasn’t completely one version of himself or another, and without either role to fall back on, he was at a loss.
The night that the Veiled Prophet had come to demand the necklace, he’d made it clear that the Society had kept careful tabs on Julien from the moment he’d arrived in town. They’d believed his act to be a danger at first, a corruption of the true values of the esteemed people of the city. They didn’t need any of the tawdriness of the East, and if he misstepped, if he thought to bring any depravity to their town, they would act. They would end his career.
He knew then that they hadn’t understood the first thing about him, and because of that, Julien had given in to their demands. He’d sold them the necklace for a song and everything had been fine—at least until Harte Darrigan and the girl had shown up and dragged him into this mess.
The Veiled Prophet, whoever it was behind the screen of lace, didn’t bother to answer. “We have a proposition for you, Mr. Eltinge.”
“A proposition?” Julien said, hating the way his voice cracked.
They can’t know. . . .
“A job,” the figure said. “One that would make good use of your talents.”
Julien didn’t miss the scorn in the Prophet’s voice, but he wasn’t a clown to be paraded out and made fun of. “And if I’m too busy for any extra employment at the moment?” he asked, taking another puff of the cigar, just to prove he couldn’t be bullied.
The figure inclined its head, making the heavy lace in front of his face wave. “You know how far our influence reaches, Mr. Eltinge. We saw that Mr. Albee was at the theater this evening. He is a particular friend of ours.”
Julien’s stomach clenched. They could destroy all that he’d worked for if they had the ear of Mr. Albee. His show, his dreams, his future—all gone. “I suppose I could make a little time to hear you out,” he said. “I’ve got a busy schedule with the show. Tomorrow evening, maybe? We’re dark then.”
“Tonight, Mr. Eltinge. Now, in fact.”
“Now?” he asked, looking down at the gown he was still wearing.
“We’ll give you time to make yourself more . . . presentable.” His tone rang with distaste. “Our carriage will be waiting,” the Prophet said before he took his leave.
Julien had a very bad feeling about this whole situation. He looked at himself in the mirror, but it was Darrigan and the girl he cursed. If the necklace was so dangerous, Harte should never have sent it to him in the first place. At the very least, Darrigan should have had the courtesy to stay dead.
THE MEMORY OF HER NAME
1904—St. Louis
The late-June day was warm, and the sky was a bright, clear blue. All around Esta, the pristine white buildings of the fair were a marked contrast to the dirt and grime of the rest of the city. The couples who walked arm in arm and the families who held tightly to the small hands of their children could not have imagined that the well-dressed gentleman waiting at the water’s edge was actually a woman, or that she was about to commit a crime.
There was something about the moments before a job began that made Esta’s skin tingle—not with dread or apprehension, but anticipation and the sheer satisfaction of doing what she was born to do. Maybe it was just adrenaline, but Esta always felt like it had to be more than some random chemical reaction that made her body feel like it was singing, that made her mind feel clear and ready. It had to be a sign—a good omen of sorts. There had been very few moments in her life when everything felt completely right—when the pieces fell into their places—and most of them had been in the moments before a job. As she waited next to the railing near the large lagoon that anchored the Exposition, Esta was fairly certain that this was another of those times.
Maybe nighttime would have been a more expected choice, but after a few days of planning and after the information Julien had given them, she and Harte had decided that it would be easier to lift the necklace during the day rather than waiting until the fair closed. For one, they could use the crowds to their advantage, but more important, they knew what the Exposition was like during its open hours. They’d spent the last few days walking the grounds and pretending to be tourists as they cased the areas around the Streets of Cairo and the Pike. They knew how many Guardsmen were stationed there and when their shifts changed.
On the other hand, night was a black box. They didn’t know what kind of security there might be or even how the necklace was housed at night. But during the day? The fine folks who ran the fair were even kind enough to draw them up a schedule so they knew when everything was happening—and what the best times were to create distractions.
According to the schedule, there were always at least two parades—one at midday and one later in the evening. They’d considered using the evening parade, since the darkness could give them some cover, but in the end they had decided that the safest and easiest plan required exposure.
Esta saw Harte approaching before he noticed her, and she allowed herself to take a moment to watch him as he walked through the crowd. In the last few days, they’d settled into a steady, if not completely comfortable, equilibrium. It was as though, without uttering a word, they’d come to the agreement that they wouldn’t speak about the night they’d arrived—the kiss or the argument. It didn’t mean that she felt any less hurt, but after what had happened during the boat ride, she didn’t press. He would tell her everything eventually or he wouldn’t—she couldn’t force him to trust her or to see her as someone to depend on any more than she could stop the way her heart clenched a little each time she saw him—each time she remembered what it had felt like to have his lips against hers.