Chapter 26 Arabella
Arabella
Maisie: O Magnificent One, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you doing this! Have fun at the auditions tonight.
A SINGLE WORD FLASHES across my mind as I pull into the Zen and Tonic Pole Studio parking lot.
MINE.
The back of my neck crawls with the horrible feeling that I’m being watched. It’s been over a week since the Midnight Garden party, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get that message out of my head. Especially because I recognise the handwriting.
It’s the same loopy, spiky letters that were written on the mirror at La Petite Mort.
After I lost the theatre, I forgot all about the bloodstained flowers and dead birds and creepy messages left backstage.
I had bigger concerns, like finding enough blood to stay alive and getting the fuck out of Paris.
I assumed it was one of Catherina’s admirers.
We had problems with them from time to time.
But the same handwriting showing up on my door one hundred and fifty years later? This isn’t about Catherina, who is long dead. This is about me.
Someone who tried to terrorise La Petite Mort is here, in Sanctus Estate, and they want me afraid.
My blood turns to ice.
It’s no accident that this happened after I gave that little performance at Beth’s studio.
I was a fool. I got caught up in the music, the encouragement from my friends, and the idea of seeing Gideon Blake sweating, and I revealed myself.
This is exactly why I’ve had to be so careful.
This is why Sanctus’ NDA and strict privacy rules appealed to me.
Many of the vampires who used to frequent La Petite Mort are still alive and kicking, and they don’t want their modern lives ruined by what they might’ve got up to in the past. Someone wants to shut me up or keep me for themselves.
This is America all over again.
No, it’s not. This is my home. No one is driving me away this time.
In the car, I pull up the footage from my security cameras again, only to see the same error message stating that the feeds had conveniently gone dark just before the incident.
A message on the Sanctus app informs everyone of a security glitch that lasted only ten minutes, and that, as far as their team know, nothing happened, but to report anything unusual to Gideon.
Like hell I’m telling Gideon about this.
I’m not going to have him sweep in and solve my problems for me.
Especially not now that he’s signed off on me becoming Sanctus Estate’s largest shareholder, apparently without even reading the contract.
(I’m surmising here. If he read it, he definitely wouldn’t have signed it.
Everything I need to oust him is right there in legalese.
I just need him to mess up one final time, and Sanctus is mine.)
And he’s already given me all the ammunition I need.
The Sanctus notification I set up on Sepulchrr is already going nuts, with Upyr Digging and Resurrecting the news that Sanctus security has been compromised.
Conclave officials are using it to demonstrate that Sanctus is too dangerous without court oversight.
They’re putting together a contingent of officials to come in the flesh to demand an inspection.
When I swoop in and flush Gideon, I’ll be praised. Worshipped. And the Conclave won’t have anything to complain about anymore. Their witch-hunt against Sanctus will fizzle out and this place can become a sanctuary once more.
I hope.
I might want to dunk Gideon in a vat of molten gold and have him mounted on my car as a hood ornament, but I don’t want Sanctus to fall. In this one single thing, I’m on his side.
Provided he never goes anywhere near a block of marble again.
Luckily, I have a good idea of who is responsible for the word on my door – the same person stirring up rumours about me on the app. I’m arranging a special surprise for him.
But first, I have to make it through this painful evening.
I can’t believe I let Maisie talk me into this.
I once created the best, most avant-garde, most exclusive burlesque theatre in Paris.
And now I’m reduced to amateur theatre. All for the sake of helping out a friend who might not care so much about her job loss if she’d acquired a little more compound interest and spent a little less on expensive duck toys.
And now, since I prematurely told Gideon never to speak to me again, I’ll have to do it all on my own.
I walk into the pole studio and take in the sorry bunch of ragamuffins waiting nervously for the auditions to begin. This is no Belle époque theatre filled with young women hungry to be the next Sarah Bernhardt. I have my work cut out for me.
They fall silent as I step into the centre of the room.
“The auditions will begin at precisely eight pm,” I announce. “Line up stage right. You will have exactly two minutes to impress me. Do not waste them.”
While the would-be actors line up in the wings (changing rooms) of the makeshift stage (a bare area of floor with two poles that Beth has demarcated with black tape).
Half of them go to the wrong side because they don’t know where stage right is.
As I gather the health and safety forms Maisie had them fill out, I notice three juggling pins on the prop table. Nothing good can come of that.
A table has been set up for me in front of the next row of poles. A water pitcher and two glasses. Two pads of legal paper and a handful of pens. Handwritten signs on each chair read DIRECTOR and DOGSBODY.
I fold myself into the DIRECTOR chair and glare down at the judging sheet.
Fine. I’ll do it all myself. As usual.
“First act,” I bark, pulling the pad towards me. “Your time starts now.”
Isis drags a protesting Dora out onto stage, holding a wimple in place over her unruly hair. “We’re doing a sister act. Get it?”
“I do not.” I fold my arms.
“I… I just need a minute.” Dora stammers. She crosses her arms, shoving her hands into her armpits as she gazes out into the audience, her face a picture of abject terror.
“Your minute is coming out of your performance time.”
“Dora’s fine. She’s just being a scaredy-cat.” Isis sets down her phone on the corner of the stage and jabs at the screen with her finger. “She’ll get into it once I start the song. Hang on, the wi-fi dropped out. I’ll just—”
BANG.
Dora shrieks. Several actors dive for cover. But it’s only the studio doors banging open to admit a figure in a dapper pinstripe suit.
Gideon-bloody-Blake.
“Sorry, I’m late.” Gideon skulks up to me. His fingers graze the edge of my table, inches from my arm. I feel every place he doesn’t touch. “My, what a stunning batch of talent we have assembled before us. We have our work cut out for us whittling down the list.”
“No conversing with the judges before the auditions.” I glare at Gideon. “Get in line and take a number—”
“I’m not auditioning. I’m a helpful behind-the-scenes type, providing comic relief and endless back massages…” Gideon whirls around to glare at Maisie. “You didn’t ask her, did you?”
Maisie looks sheepish. “Not as such.”
“That’s why steam is coming out of her ears. When you said that she still wanted me to turn up today, even though she explicitly told me she never wanted to see me again…”
Maisie sinks into her seat. “I may have fudged the truth a little.”
Gideon’s eyes flash. “You said she’d be excited to see me.”
“Yes, well…” Maisie shifts uncomfortably. “I thought she would be. I may have underestimated the depth of Arabella’s ire. But it’s for a good cause! Can’t you two work it out for the sake of the show?”
Maisie makes puppy dog eyes at Gideon, who looks like a hot air balloon after one of Sarah Bernhardt’s raucous champagne parties over Paris – deflated, lifeless, kind of shell-shocked.
Gideon twists to face me, and the pain in his eyes shocks the retort from my lips.
“I only came today because Maisie asked me. I thought you wanted me here, and that maybe this event would help make Sanctus more a part of the community. I never intended to make you uncomfortable. I’ll leave right now. ”
“Wait!” Beth stalks across the room, swiping my water glass and taking a long sip. “You’re not going anywhere. As the variety show organiser, I have a say. And I say that unless Gideon works on this, I’ll withdraw my sponsorship.”
Now Beth is grinning at me. Oh, I get it. They think that if Gideon and I work together, I’ll be able to get more information out of him about the murders.
Is there no part of my life free from his incessant Gideon-ness?
Apparently not.
“Fine,” I huff. “You stay. But you’re not the director. I am. I’m not interested in discourse. I am correct in all matters. Understand?”
Gideon’s shoulders sag. He slumps into the DOGSBODY chair beside me. His leg brushes mine, sending an unexpected jolt of warmth through my body.
He jerks his legs away.
“I swear, I didn’t set this up,” he whispers as he pulls the stack of audition sheets towards himself. “I promise, you won’t even know I’m here.”
Gideon lied.
I’ve been stuck in this room with him for three and a half hours, and not only am I aware of his existence, but I want to commit crimes against him.
Many crimes. All the crimes.
At last, we made it through the final act – Richard from the Rose & Wimple playing “Don’t Fear the Reaper” on pint glasses.
I collapse on top of my judging pad, my fingers aching from the number of times I’ve written OH HELL NO in my notes.
Beth and Maisie usher the would-be performers out of the theatre, and the four of us pull up chairs to deliberate over our final line-up.
“So far, we’ve got the Argleton Volunteer Firefighters, Reverend Kirkpatrick and the church choir, Maisie and James Pond, and the Naughty Knitting Club’s rendition of ‘No Scrubs’.” Beth glances down at her list. “And absolutely no jugglers.”
“Are we sure we don’t want even one juggler?” Gideon raises an eyebrow. “I thought the fellow with the chickens was quite—”
“No jugglers,” I growl.
“But they were such happy chickens.”
“No jugglers.”
“No jugglers.” Beth consults her list. “So, crunch time. If we add Dora and Isis—”
“We can’t add them. Dora threw up before she even sang a word.”
“She’ll get there,” Beth says. “I have a calming elixir that will help her.”
I very much doubt that. I think Dora’s reluctance to perform has more to do with the possibility of what her husband will say. But Gideon and Beth seem to have decided that they’re running this show, so what I say doesn’t matter. I add Dora and Beth’s names to our cast list.
“So with Isis and Dora in, I think we’re almost there.” Beth scribbles in her notes. “But we need at least one more act for the second half.”
“That’s obvious. Arabella has to perform,” Gideon says.
“I’m the director.”
“That never stopped you at La Petite Mort.” His eyes shimmer. “You want to be on stage again. You know it.”
“You could do a pole routine!” Beth grins. “It will be the perfect advertisement for my studio!”
I fold my arms and glare at them both. “That’s not happening.”
The last thing I need is another client seeing me dance – or worse, someone in the audience films me and puts it on the internet.
“Go on, Arabella.” Gideon’s eyes shimmer. “Don’t you want to show all these amateurs how a professional does it?”
“All the ladies in the book club will be there!” Beth grins. “We’d cheer you on!”
Gideon leans over and whispers, “Admit it. You want to be back on stage again, every eye in the village on you while you captivate them. Don’t you remember what it felt like to be the most famous, most notorious dancer in Paris?”
He’s right.
Damn him.
My pulse quickens, which has absolutely nothing to do with the whiff of honey and red cherry I smell when Gideon leans close.
Seeing these rank amateurs ruining the stage has made me long to darken the floorboards once more. I’m already mentally hunting through the folder called “dance costume insp” I’ll never admit is on my computer.
And I can find a way to hide my face and ensure that people are too distracted to notice who I am.
“Fine. I’ll perform. On one condition.”
Gideon lets out a ragged breath. “Name it. Anything.”
“Gideon must agree to be part of my routine.” I steeple my fingers. “And he promises to perform any role I give him without complaint.”
“Oh no. No no no. You’re going to make me dress like a banana, or force me to act as a giant baby and suck on a dummy or… or…” Gideon’s face crumples as he contemplates all the horrific things I might do to him.
“I was actually thinking of appearing as Marie Antoinette and cutting off your testicles with the world’s tiniest guillotine, but I’m intrigued by the dummy idea.”
“Go on, Gideon!” Beth slaps his shoulder. “It’ll be fun. I’m sure Arabella is kidding about the guillotine.”
“She is not.” Gideon swallows. “But of course. I’ll be your humble servant.”
“Good.” I write our names down on Beth’s studio booking form.
“We’ve filled all our slots. Maisie, you contact our performers and make sure they have the rehearsal schedule.
Gideon, you will be here, on the dot, at seven pm Friday, so we can begin working on our routine.
Beth, I’m going to need some private practice time… ”