Page 96 of Unforeseen Affairs
A frisson danced across her skin, raising gooseflesh up and down her arms and across the back of her neck.
“This again?” she murmured to herself, pausing to examine the sensation.
But when nothing further happened, she continued on, only half-listening as Mr. Bass explained to the audience the limits of our physical sphere and our mortal bodies, his booming voice projecting to every corner of the auditorium.
And just then, on the cusp of the wing, barely concealed from the audience by the thick drapery of the leg, Charlotte froze.
A woman was already standing on the stage, behind Mr. Bass.
A small woman, dressed in the bright, obnoxious hues typical of stage costumes, weighed down with ruffles upon ruffles. Her dark hair was elaborately curled, hanging at either side of her head in a rather dated fashion.
She hadn’t been there at any of Mr. Bass’s London shows.
Mr. Bass spun about dramatically, allowing the audience to see all sides of his garments. He slid off his coat to show that his next act would involve no trickery.
Charlotte watched as his eyes passed over the woman; he appeared not to notice her, nor did he speak of or to her. Both the orchestra and audience were still; the silence was overpowering, filling Charlotte’s ears with an empty, ominous roar.
She realized she was holding her breath, but found she could not stop herself from doing so.
The woman turned and looked uneasily over her shoulder, her eyes searching.
“Mama!” Charlotte gasped.
Her mind instantly filled with a million things she wanted to say, but her voice failed; her breath would not come. Shocked and confused, she stumbled backward.
Right into the grasp of a man.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“You!Iknewitwas you, you vile little bitch!”
Mr. Trenwith dug his fingers into Charlotte’s arm with punishing force.
She stared at him, paralyzed, like a hare caught in a groundskeeper’s snare.
“I would’ve marked that bastard’s hideous hair from a mile away. Naval hero,pah! Just a lucky, dunderheaded sailor without a lick of sense about him. And to think, to find both of you here, skulking about the ticket office,” Mr. Trenwith spat. “Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”
Charlotte realized he was gesturing with a knife, stabbing at the air to punctuate his words.
A loud gasp rang out from the audience. But it was Mr. Bass who had drawn the reaction; Charlotte and Mr. Trenwith were hidden from their view.
Where had her mind been? Hardly anything ever escaped her notice; she was practically impossible to sneak up on. She looked back to the spot where she had seen the shade of her mother, but it had disappeared. The woman who had once been her safety,her comfort, her home—she was again gone from this world, with nothing left behind. No trace of her too-short life.
Charlotte felt a sudden, immense sorrow. She wavered, nearly sinking to the floorboards. But her swaying only stoked the flames of Mr. Trenwith’s fury. He heaved her violently back up and shook her in anger.
“What? You would mock me? Mock my profession? My dedication, the promise I made?”
Charlotte blinked, neither willing nor able to respond. She had to break free of him. She glanced back toward the stage.
By now Mr. Bass had stretched out nearly a foot. He looked a sickening approximation of a man—a child’s scribblings come to life, his legs and torso unsettlingly long.
Charlotte was whipped back around before she could see any more.
“You rich, spoiled sods are all the same,” Mr. Trenwith snarled, digging his fingers deeper into her arm.
Charlotte couldn’t help but wince, but she quickly schooled her face against the pain.
He pointed the tip of his knife toward her chin. She refused to look away, keeping her expression as empty as she could even as she was gripped by fear.
