My siblings and I were raised in a wretched household, yet our father was a wealthy man. I believe he was convinced of this idea that if we were made to suffer the same hardships as him, we would end up just the same. It is a comedy. Our father, a deeply flawed and troubled man, truly believed himself to be a standard by which all men and women ought to measure up against. Yet, as preposterous as it seems, I cannot help but laugh, for his methods did work. When I look into myself, I have become my father.

----------------------------------------

When Maria awoke in the early hours of the morning, her hand was still buzzing. Sitting on the edge of her bed in a dim bedroom, she gently massaged it. A small blister had formed right where she had made contact with Josephine’s soft cheek.

Maria lived in her own property, a multi-storey house with a number of rooms rented out to girls from the cabaret. Descending the staircase to the first floor, she made porridge in the small kitchen before anybody else had woken. The house was eerily quiet save for the wind. It found ways to get into things, causing the house to whistle and creak. The walls, vibrating like a cat’s content purr. The curtains remained drawn all the way, keeping the light to a minimum. As Maria ate alone at the table, her free hand flipped through the latest newspaper.

She stopped at Charles De Kock’s review from last night’s show.

“If Maria Lucien’s bankruptcy of original ideas is any indication of her current financial ruin of Bellvoir’s ‘famous’ Black Dime Cabaret, then all who appreciate contemporary art will rejoice. A sold-out opening night proves that she is a better saleswoman than she is curator of fine arts, for there is nothing in Leonard Seurat’s ‘The Butterfly’ that so much as nudges its audience to inspect nor engage with it any more beyond a miserable experience sitting in the theatre. It is an artistic death knell should Ms Lucien’s cabaret continue to operate without competition another year—nay, another month!—for I fear the days of such plays as ‘Celine To Paris’ and ‘Armstrong’ are long behind us. ‘The Butterfly’ is a poor and mistimed attempt at deconstructing the sexual repression of upper class wives in the modern period, and frankly, it is inappropriately self-indulgent. Ms Lucien ought to spend less time shoehorning topless young women into every play she curates, and more investigating what people really want to see. Alas, the play’s writer and director, Leonard Seurat, while exhibiting somewhat commendable stage direction, particularly with his stylised instruction of line delivery, should never write another play again. ‘The Butterfly’ is one star.”

Maria snatched the paper by two hands and tore it apart, ensuring no scrap remained larger than the tip of her spoon. She threw the paper rain across the table and continued to eat with her head down. That snivelling De Kock, she bemoaned. A whole lot of words that mean nothing. If you are so fearful of women, just say it! De Kock’s many takes on the cabaret’s shows were often less about the show and more about some sort of personal vendetta he had against them. Maria found that he had always managed to construct one thing or another to dissect and rip to shreds; but crying about seeing topless women, well, he clearly had a pip for a brain and there was nothing anybody could do about that.

She heard the steps creak and then the sounds of two little feet approaching. Standing on the bottom step coming down into the kitchen was Antoinette, her dress cool and fashionable. She was staring down at Maria, rubbing her eyes with her full fist.

“Antoinette, your feet will freeze,” Maria said.

Antoinette lowered her bleary eyes to her bare feet, then up again. She pointed with an outstretched arm to the ripped-up newspaper. “Seriously, again?”

Maria smiled. “I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Antoinette’s eyes widened with curiosity.

Maria waved Antoinette over to the table. The young girl lifted herself onto one of the wooden seats with a loud and dramatic grunt.

Antoinette sniffed loudly, her wide eyes scanning the kitchen surroundings as Maria languorously climbed to her feet and walked over to the cooking stovetop. “Oh Maria, it does smell delightful!” Antoinette mused, her nostrils puffing. She reached up onto the table to catch a closer look. “Crêpes?”

Maria grinned as she took the pan and flipped them over. White steam lifted through the haze of light. The crêpes crackled over the high heat. “Happy birthday, Antoinette.”

“You remembered!”

“I’m not at that stage of losing my memory just yet.”

“Well, I just thought you would be too busy!”

“Too busy for crêpes? Oh, there’s no such thing!” She collected the jar of maple syrup from the bench, placing it in front of Antoinette on the table. Then she collected a bowl of strawberries that she had chopped earlier in the morning.

“What is this anyway?” Antoinette asked. When Maria placed the bowl of strawberries on the table, she noticed Antoinette fiddling with the scraps of newspaper, as if trying to miraculously piece them back together. “ ‘Ms Lucien ow...owgher— to spend less time...’ ” She evidently gave up, throwing it away and snatching a strawberry slice. Her blue eyes lit up as she chucked it into her mouth and chewed enthusiastically.

“Wait,” she asked. “You said we could go to Cléo’s shop, right! Yes! You said on my birthday we could see Cléo and she would make me a pair of shoes!”

Maria returned to the stove where she turned off the heat. She began preparing the hot crêpes onto a plate. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Yay!” Antoinette beamed. “Hermine said to me once that her first pair of dancing shoes were designed by Cléo herself. Is that true?”

Maria clicked her tongue as she returned with the crêpes and set the plate on the table in front of Antoinette. Kissing her on the head, Maria said, “Happy twelfth birthday, my very special girl.” She got herself a plate and transferred the smallest crêpe she could find onto it. She poured over a hearty amount of syrup, and using her hands, tore a piece from it. “Now, Cléo does not make shoes for just anyone, you know? She only does so for the best, most hardworking and dedicated of dancers. Of course, she will ask you about these things. And don’t take it so lightly, young Antoinette. You may now be twelve years old, but Cléo can spot a faker from somebody who takes their dance seriously.”

Antoinette appeared anything but fazed as she chewed on her crêpes, syrup glinting on her lip as it drizzled down the side of her chin. “I do take my dancing seriously.”

“Good,” Maria said. “Well, eat up. Surely you are not okay with eating cold crêpes.”

“Fiiiiine,” Antoinette groaned.

Maria noticed the sounds of thumping feet, yawns and vocal exercises in the rooms above them, and it wasn’t much longer before the house’s other occupants began treading through the kitchen. They all bid good morning to Maria and happy birthday to Antoinette, and remarked at the fragrant crêpes. Maria made it abundantly clear that she was not about to go off and make crêpes for all of them, to the visible displeasure of the occupants.

Josephine came down around six a.m. in her bare-minimums, giving Maria a light yet timid kiss on the cheeks and ruffling Antoinette’s hair (who was still doing her best to finish her crêpes while inquiring on the latest gossip with each woman who came down).

Maria, who had been mid-conversation with the sociable Antoinette, tested a glance at Josephine, who made no secret of avoiding her eyes as she walked on bare feet through the kitchen and prepared the coffee pot. Maria thought briefly that she ought to apologise for their encounter the previous evening, but felt that the window had too quickly passed, and so she said nothing of it, and nor did Josephine mention it.

Another woman soon passed through the kitchen, commenting on the smells emanating from it, then shortly left through the front door. Josephine sat down across from Maria, next to Antoinette. She withdrew a small makeup kit and began applying some rouge.

“Hey, Josie! Guess what.”

“Hm?” Josephine intoned.

“Maria’s taking me to buy my own dancing shoes from Cléo today.”

“Well, you must be very special,” Josephine said.

“And soon, I’ll get to perform at the Black Dime Cabaret,” Antoinette announced, holding up a fork. The flimsy crêpe on the end of it held on for dear life, won the battle only fleetingly, before falling off onto the edge of her plate. “What’s it like? Is it amazing?”

Josephine looked up with one eye done. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be dancing with the cabaret? Maria did not let me dance before I turned eighteen.”

“Well, I’m probably better than you were,” Antoinette remarked.

“Oh. That explains it.” Josephine cackled to herself and did not quite look Antoinette in the eye as she began to work on her second eye. “Arrogance runs in the Lucien family?”

“Josephine,” Maria said sternly.

“You wanna bet?” Antoinette roared. “I can dance. You haven’t seen me!”

“I’m only kidding. Relax,” Josephine said in a sing-song, exasperated tone. It was unclear if she was directing this at Maria or Antoinette. Her head swivelled on a neck that reminded Maria of a stage light panning across a stage, away from her small mirror and towards Antoinette. “Besides,” she said, “you do know gambling is no habit for such a young lady. Has Maria not told you this? Particularly betting against myself.”

Antoinette pursed her lips, her face turning red as if she might explode at the older woman. “You test me, Josie! I will show you! You will beg for me to dance for you!”

“Dance, then,” Josephine said. “Come on, show me.”

Antoinette bounced out of her chair and into the middle of the room. With no regard for her bare feet on the rough floorboards, nor of the limited space in which she had to cover, Antoinette began testing every dance move she had learned in quick succession. Maria bit down the admonition on the tip of her tongue and allowed herself to be humoured by the girl’s enthusiasm. She even let out a smile, though she kept glancing at Antoinette’s red feet.

By the time she was finished, Antoinette was panting. “Ha,” she managed between big, full-body breaths. Climbing back onto her chair, she stabbed her fork into a crêpe and chomped it in the most dramatic fashion.

“Well,” Josephine said, “seeing that display, I know a fair few girls who should be quaking in their own dancing shoes right now.”

“Antoinette’s time will come soon enough,” said Maria.

“By the way things seem to be going,” Josephine said slyly, and not breaking eye contact with Maria, “it will soon be my position you take.”

“I’m finished, Maria,” said Antoinette suddenly, dropping her fork and sliding back off the chair. “You can have the rest. Can we go now? After I get dressed, I mean?”

Maria was glad for the distraction. “Of course, Antoinette. Just make sure to put away your dirty dishes.” Antoinette gave Maria a big kiss on the cheek and then traipsed through the kitchen to clean up. Little motes of dust shifted as she waded through the soft morning light, turned on her bare heel, and hopped up the stairs.

Maria didn’t wait to finish tidying up. Josephine stayed where she was, the two of them in separate worlds. Really, the only sign that Josephine was there was the infrequent yet sharp exhales as she carefully applied the rest of her makeup.

When finally Josephine, too, began to leave in a broad overcoat and hat, almost unrecognisable except for her most daring features, the hook-like nose and bright red lips, Maria stopped her, reaching out to touch her on the shoulder.

“Ouch!” Josephine cried.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

Josephine stared. “What is it?”

“I have something to ask of you.”

“Hm?” Josephine raised a brow. A very perfectly-arched brow.

“You know Charles De Kock. He writes nasty reviews of our shows. Very predictable, it does not matter the subject nor the show itself. It would seem he has some sort of problem with us, and I would like to...send him a more stern message. I have told him before, but the message never seems to stick, or he’s too dull to get the picture.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Again, Maria? We have dealt with this time and time before.”

“And why is that, Josephine? Perhaps because the git persists with his mockery, hm?”

Josephine pouted. “Why waste your efforts if you know he will not quit?”

“Everybody has something they care more about than their stubborn agenda. Remind our friend of such things, so he might be liberated from the sad world he makes for himself.”

“Not everyone, Maria,” said Josephine grimly. “Some people are just like that.”

“When it concerns the cabaret, I frankly don’t give a damn.”

Josephine sighed indignantly. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Maria found herself watching the door until it closed, Josephine exiting the room. With everybody gone, the house had become uncomfortably quiet.

* * *

Josephine arrived early to the cabaret, which was a good thing, as today looked to be a long one. She greeted Lady Leroux at the front bar and took a side door with a NO ENTRY sign near it. Navigating a web of curtain fabric, she emerged in a dark room beyond the walls of the cabaret. Her hand reached automatically for a hanging light cord, and she pulled it.

Dim yellow light illuminated the small space beyond. There were cardboard props from old shows, and baskets on baskets of fabric sitting on the floor. Two little cats, one black and the other ginger, were currently engaged in rough warfare on top of a couch, which was all but deskinned from their claws over time. When Josephine entered, the cats stopped mid-motion to watch her. The black one fluffed its tail, bared its teeth, and gave a prolonged hiss.

“It’s only me,” Josephine said.

She checked the door was closed properly, then strolled into the room. The white cat leapt from the couch and ran over to her, winding around her legs. Josephine tangled with it as she reached the other side of the room and opened another door there. This one led into a short corridor that ended at a portrait on the wall, then immediately veered sideways.

Josephine left the door ajar, the cat following after her, as she walked through the corridor. She glanced only briefly at the portrait, whose narrow eyes followed her as she explored. The subject of this painting was an old dressmaker who was but one of several ghosts that walked these labyrinthine halls. Every now and then, Josephine encountered her during her forays through the cabaret, exchanged a pointless word or two, and let her be off.

She followed the next passageway, which terminated at three doors in a triangle formation. She made for a shelf against the wall and reached for the vase of flowers on top. Gripping this in her hand, she rotated it clockwise, and heard a soft click from up ahead. She took the door to the right, turning the handle until the door swung open.

Inside was a small square room with the strong smell of dust and mould. Old props were discarded here from as far back as the cabaret’s early days, along with various wooden backdrops from old shows. Josephine locked the door and then pulled again on the light cord. She waited for a moment, her breaths filling the silent space.

From the door, she made her way across the room to a small altar that bore a narrow opening in its face. She knelt down on the rug in front of it.

The metallic smell emanating from this rectangular opening was copper-like and nauseating. Carved with precision, the altar itself was magnificent and pious. Tiny engravings depicting scenes followed the sinuous, gilded framing. Central to the piece was a gold statue of a bearded man with his eyes carved out, wearing a four-pointed crown.

Josephine removed a small blade from her purse, sending it to the tips of her fingers. She then reached her wrist into the slit in the altar and, with her free hand, passed the blade through skin. Flesh rippled where it dug in. The sizzling sensation of opened skin stung viciously as blood oozed down her arms and into the cabaret’s veins.

Josephine let out a moan and her body sagged towards the floor, her face falling against the altar with her bleeding arm inside it. Her breaths became wet with saliva, and she heard each one reflecting against her. The blade fell loose, clattering on the floor.

She glimpsed Maria in her mind. The instinct caused her to immediately slam her face into the stone so that her teeth clacked, biting into her cheek.

“Ah!” Stars filling her vision, she flew from the altar to her feet and grabbed her cheek, which was doubly-bruised now.

Observing the mess she had created, she groaned, grabbing a handful of her dress and wrapping it across the bloody cuts in her arm. Then, gritting her teeth, she propped herself up against a piece of set dressing and let out a sigh. She’d gotten rather dizzy and just needed a moment to compose herself. Josephine did not understand Maria’s obsession with Charles De Kock. As far as Josephine was concerned, he was certainly a loud and self-important prude, but nothing more; and really, she thought it was a waste of time to keep on handling him like this.

Recovering from her light-headedness, she carefully made her way across the wet floorboards to the centre of the room. Here, she began carving out a shape with her own blood. The honey-like ooze ran over gaps between the boards, where nails jutted from the wood, and little charcoal markings were left from years ago.

With clumsy precision, she eventually had painted a complete symbol on the wood, and then smashed her mouth into her arm, drawing a great suck of blood.

She exhaled, mouth gone red. She took something else out of her purse now, a lock of hair that Maria had long ago acquired from Mr De Kock. She pinned this to the floor in the middle of the symbol, ensuring it was thoroughly caked in her blood.

If anybody had been walking through those long and twisting halls deep within the cabaret, they would have heard only the scraping of kneecaps on rough wood, and seen just the occasional burst of red light coming from underneath the door.

* * *

“Hello, Cléo!” Antoinette exclaimed as she ran inside the shoe store, Maria following her. Cléo’s shop of dancing shoes was a small establishment that took precisely as much space as it needed in the streets of Bellvoir, and no more. It was sparsely and plainly decorated, with couches only in the most optimal areas, walls pasted over with old show posters collected from the cabaret, numerous shelves stacked with shoes, and a workbench that was situated at the back in front of an archway sealed with a strip-curtain of multi-coloured fabrics.

By the time Maria had reached the workbench, Antoinette was already there, reaching up and over it to ring the little tin bell.

Ding! Ding!

“Once is enough, Antoinette,” Maria said as Cléo appeared from behind the strip-curtains. Cléo was the tallest, most fluid person Maria had yet met. She flowed, rather than walked, gliding through the doorway and filling the entire shop with her lustrous, supernatural presence. Her hands fell like tides against the shoreline to the bench. Her strawberry hair, which had been dyed as such in her later years, was so straight and precise Maria assumed it was almost certainly a jinx of some sort, worn by her like a long scarf.

“And so the child comes of age,” Cléo mused, lacing her long fingers. “Madame Antoinette, it was foretold that you would come in short time. Of course, Maria has spoken of your commitment to dance, but as you ought to know, it is no small thing to ask for.”

“Is it true that you made shoes for all the best dancers at the cabaret?” Antoinette asked in a high-pitched, excited voice. She was just about bouncing on the spot, the tassels of her blue dress flailing left and right against her flowery stockings.

“I design shoes only for the best,” Cléo said. “That is, before they were the best. Now, now, not that my shoes make the dancer, but that the dancer makes the shoe. And I have a good eye for them.” She winked whimsically at Antoinette.

Antoinette stared in amazement and a little confusion.

“Come then, darling,” Cléo said, rising from her seat. She rounded the bench and unfurled her arm around Antoinette’s back, guiding her along. “I have a pair of shoes designed just for you. All it requires now are a few tiny adjustments. Of course, the shoe must fit perfectly if you are to dance at the cabaret...”

Maria did not go with them, instead remained at the front of the store. It was not long after that she heard a tapping on the window, and saw, peeking inside, the wide-eye, searching face of Madame Suzette. Suzette was a young woman who worked as a stage hand in the cabaret, and often flitted about completing small tasks; so, it was not unusual to see her at any time. However, there was a look about her face this time that seemed most severe. Frowning, Maria inconspicuously slid outside to meet her.

“Why are you acting so suspicious, hm?” Maria asked.

Suzette was serious. “A letter came for you.”

“Yes? And does it wield massive fangs or something?”

“Well...” Suzette handed the small scroll to Maria, who took it sceptically. It did not take her long to realise the reason for Suzette’s apprehension.

Maria, it read.

I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than mine.

I have been made aware that a certain grave in Fosseville was desecrated and exhumed several nights ago, an incident we believe is related to a string of movements occurring here in Carcassonne. As of yesterday morning, we have apprehended a possible suspect—a member of the Black Dime Cabaret in this great city. I hope this is not truly surprising, considering the nature of the grave that was targeted.

As you might imagine, a likely future step will involve a hearing of sorts. If avoiding this means anything to you, perhaps your presence in Carcassonne would help to imminently quell any further developments and put your women back in line without the legal difficulties. I understand it is in nobody’s interest to involve the courts in talks of such things as, well, you know what I mean.

My sincerest apologies if you find this news disturbing.

Yours,

Pauline

Although signed “Pauline,” Maria knew that the letter was from her oldest brother, Alfred. He tended to use the names of old French women in his letters, rather than his own. Maria folded this back up and held it in her hands. It wasn’t often that Alfred wrote to her. In fact, she was sure he had even missed most birthdays of hers. So, when he did write, she knew it was something she should pay attention to. “When did this arrive for me?” Maria asked.

“Just this morning,” said Suzette.

“I see. Thank you, Suzette.” She wondered what to do next, as Suzette stared deeply at her with expectation. Maria did ponder, occasionally, what a woman such as Suzette thought of her, and if she too would pounce on her position the moment Maria blundered. Or did Suzette not dream of such things like power, content enough with the life she already had?

Was such contentment even possible?

Maria clicked her teeth, coming to a decision on what best to do. “Ask Hermine to arrange an immediate meeting at the cabaret, would you?”

“As you wish,” Suzette responded.

“Well. Off you go, then.”

“Of course. Excuse me.”

Maria waited until the woman had left before returning inside the dance store. For the remainder of her time there, Maria could only think of what Alfred had written to her. Truthfully, she was not sure yet how it made her feel.

There was no question that the Fosseville grave was that of their younger brother. Though in Edgar’s time he had no exceptional love for Fosseville, he had wished to be buried any place but Bellvoir; and Alfred, in Carcassonne, did not wish to share the city with the remains of his brother. So Fosseville was a not-so-distant yet obscure middle ground.

Maria had rarely thought about her youngest brother Edgar in the thirteen years since he had been buried. She had imagined, with him so far removed (not once did Maria travel to Fosseville) that she never would have to think about him again. She felt...unprepared for such a thing. Desecrated...and exhumed? What on earth kind of reason would they have to dig up his rotten, dead body? She certainly did not care to ponder too deeply on the state it was in.

Regarding the “movements” occurring in Carcassonne, Maria had no clue. Yet she did not enjoy the fact it was involving members of the cabaret. That likely meant witches, and that made it her problem. But if it became somebody else’s problem, then that meant the government. Not surprisingly, local councils and the cabaret seldom ever saw eye-to-eye.

“Look!” Antoinette said, twirling on the spot in her new pair of shoes. Maria smiled and told her they looked wonderful, still half-thinking of her dead brother’s skeleton.

“Maria?” Antoinette said.

“Yes?”

Antoinette stomped her feet and folded her arms. “You’re not listening, are you! Do you like them, Maria? They are a perfect fit, see?”

“Of course I’m listening. Yes, perfect. Thank you, Cléo.”

Antoinette did not seem overly impressed with her response, but seemed to accept it nonetheless, going over to Cléo and declaring that she would immediately purchase the pair. Cléo, with her flowing robes and hair, rolled back behind her workbench and sorted the payment in her ledger. Maria did all of this without thinking about it too much.

They walked from the store holding hands, the cotton bag containing Antoinette’s new shoes swinging jollily from the girl’s free hand.

“Why are you being so weird?” Antoinette said.

“I’m not,” Maria responded sternly. The streets were quiet in the early morning, yet soon they ought to be flooding with pedestrians, the warm sun spilling through Bellvoir’s crisscrossing streets. A beautiful sunny day, was Maria’s estimate, though far from how she felt.

“Who was that person you were talking to?” Antoinette asked.

“Hm?” The girl was perceptive, even at her age. It was no use lying to Antoinette; she always knew when something was not as it should be. “Oh, yes. That was Madame Suzette. I’m sure you must have met her once before. She merely had to relay me a message.”

“What kind of message? Was it bad? Was it about the show? Was it—”

“None of your business, you nosy little girl,” Maria remarked.

Antoinette growled. “Meanie! You’re just making me have to ask her myself...”

“Oh, all right!” Maria was smart enough to know that she was not going to be spared of this until she came through with the truth. “Your uncle Alfred sent word from Carcassonne. You know him. Not that it is very often he makes an appearance in your life.”

“Uncle Alfred? He was here last Christmas.”

“I see. Alas, there’s a problem in Carcassonne and your uncle has wished for me to be there, I sense, the way he does so, without really saying anything.”

Antoinette simply gave off a musical sigh, the bag still swaying rather animatedly from her fingertips. “Can I come, if you have to go to Carca-what-was-it?”

“No.” She spotted a carriage coming up and hailed it, the gentleman tipping his hat in her direction and guiding over the dual-horses.

“Oh come on!” Antoinette bemoaned.

Maria stood on the side of the road as the carriage pulled to a halt close enough for the driver to reach out and touch the street lamp.

“Ma’am,” he greeted them.

“Thirty-nine De Grappel Avenue,” Maria said. “I’d like to be there on the double.”

“On the triple with these girls.” He patted his two horses on their long white manes.

“Did I say triple?” Maria said.

“Um...”

Maria sighed. “On you go, then, Antoinette.”

“Huh?” She stared up with her most unpleasant face.

Maria tore a pocket of coins from her purse and tucked them into Antoinette’s small hands. “Once you arrive there, find Otto. You know Otto, my friend. Don’t talk to anyone else. Don’t accept anything from anyone. You go to his residence and talk only to Otto.”

“Hang on a minute, but why—”

“Because I said so. I have to be at the cabaret.”

“Well come on then, lass,” said the gentleman on the carriage. He carefully got off and landed with his shoes on the sidewalk, sending plumes of dirt over them.

“Pffffft!” Antoinette snorted.

“Oh, erm, sorry about that,” the gentleman said, trying to wave away the dirt cloud. “Well, you ready or not? I’ve got other people waiting.”

Antoinette stared up at Maria with displeased eyes, appeared as if to offer her a hug, but did not, just let the gentleman help her onto the carriage.

“She will pay you on arrival,” Maria said to him.

“As the lady wishes,” he responded.

“I will come for you tonight,” Maria told Antoinette.

“Fiiiine. Have fun in your exciting meetings. I’m sure it’s going to be so fun. Meanwhile, I’ll be trying on my shoes and becoming the best dancer in Bellvoir. And when I’m that good—better than all your other dumb dancers—you will simply have no choice but to accept me into the cabaret. Or, I’ll just wait until you turn into a skeleton and make me the next boss. Yes, I can’t wait. Antoinette Lucien, queen of the cabaret!”

Antoinette Lucien. Her saying that name aloud made Maria grow cold. Antoinette had, of course, not yet been told about her exact relation to Edgar Lucien, and certainly Maria had no intention of doing so—as far as the near future was concerned. In Antoinette’s mind, her association with Lucien was not by blood but only in name. Yet, in truth, she was Edgar’s only daughter. If Maria had her way, Antoinette would never seek to associate with the Lucien family name at all. She felt that doing such a thing only served to curse the young girl for life.

Slowly, Maria came out of her revery, noticing Antoinette looking out at her from inside the small carriage box with those innocent, blue eyes. “Farewell, Antoinette,” Maria said sternly. She waved, and the gentleman pulled the shade over Antoinette.

In a kick of dust, the horses began down the road, the carriage pulled behind it. Fading into the distance, Maria heard only the retreating cry from Antoinette: “Byeeeeee.”