Read Online The Dark Arts of Blood by Freda Warrington - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Freda Warrington
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touched his coat sleeve. “Believe me, I know how heady it is to be worshipped, especially when it begins. First you reel in disbelief, then you become drunk, euphoric. It’s natural to reciprocate, but I also know how very frightening such attention can be.”
“Yes, that’s it,” he said softly. “I hate to admit it, but I was terrified. Don’t tell anyone. One of them pulled hairs out of my head!”
Violette laughed. “Fear is healthy, Emil. It’s when you take adoration too seriously that madness follows. A warning: don’t become lost in it. Keep your distance. You know the saying, that familiarity breeds contempt? Do not let your fans too close, in
any
sense.”
His eyes widened at her implication. This was more than advice: it was a command.
“I would not dream of it, madame.”
“Good. Accept their awe with good grace, cast a few crumbs, then turn away. Think of yourself as a prince, not a dog to be petted. The very crowd that fawns over you one day may lose all reason and tear you apart the next.”
He swallowed hard. “I understand.”
They made a strange pair, he thought. He was the son of an Italian farmer from Tuscany, she – despite her French stage-name – an English gentlewoman.
Cast a few crumbs, then turn away
: that was exactly how she treated him. Oh, he knew he was good – she’d hardly have chosen him if he wasn’t the best – but she treated him like a headstrong thoroughbred colt to be kept under tight control.
Sometimes, in private, he would rage against the power Violette held over him, but common sense always prevailed. She was the master, he the eager protégé. The price of dancing with her was to defer, always.
“By the way, what was wrong with you last night?” she asked coolly.
“Wrong?”
“You made some mistakes. Most unlike you. Do you think I didn’t notice?”
His head dropped.
Damn. I hoped I’d got away with it! No such luck.
“Two mistakes, madame. I’m aware of them and I have no excuse. Our last performance, the exhilaration, the audience…”
“Exactly so. You let the situation go to your head and lost concentration. We must never allow that to happen.”
“Madame, I apologise,” he said fiercely. “If ever I let you down or behave in an unprofessional manner – on stage or off – you will have my immediate resignation.”
She went silent for a moment.
“Emil, I appreciate the sentiment, but there’s no need.” Her face softened and she looked candidly at him. She was still a goddess, without the Firebird’s heavy make-up: lovelier, in fact, with her snowy skin, ebony hair, expressive violet-blue eyes. “The truth is, all criticism aside, I am proud of you. That is all the praise you will get from me, so savour it. Now bid farewell to your admirers. Smile and wave!”
Emil obeyed.
* * *
The liner was midway across the Atlantic when the storm hit.
Emil woke from a nightmare to find the vessel lurching and creaking around him. The storm seemed part of his dream and he was disorientated, struggling to comprehend where he was, what was happening. He heard the roar of wind and waves, muffled yet ferocious. He sat up with a gasp.
“Hey,” said Mikhail across the gap between their beds. “If you’re going to throw up, do it outside.”
His queasiness was nothing compared to the intense foreboding he felt. He’d been dreaming that Violette was in danger.
“No,” said Emil. He rolled out of bed and pulled on a shirt and trousers, staggering as the ship rolled. “I have to find her.”
“What’s the matter with you? It’s just a bloody storm. If we sink, we sink.”
Mikhail’s bravado wasn’t feigned – or if it was, Emil had never seen any cracks in his facade.
“Sink?” said Emil. More than fifteen years after the tragedy, no one boarded a liner without thoughts of the “unsinkable”
Titanic
. “I must make sure Madame Lenoir is safe.”
Mikhail muttered under his breath in Russian, then said, “Sure. She
“Yes, that’s it,” he said softly. “I hate to admit it, but I was terrified. Don’t tell anyone. One of them pulled hairs out of my head!”
Violette laughed. “Fear is healthy, Emil. It’s when you take adoration too seriously that madness follows. A warning: don’t become lost in it. Keep your distance. You know the saying, that familiarity breeds contempt? Do not let your fans too close, in
any
sense.”
His eyes widened at her implication. This was more than advice: it was a command.
“I would not dream of it, madame.”
“Good. Accept their awe with good grace, cast a few crumbs, then turn away. Think of yourself as a prince, not a dog to be petted. The very crowd that fawns over you one day may lose all reason and tear you apart the next.”
He swallowed hard. “I understand.”
They made a strange pair, he thought. He was the son of an Italian farmer from Tuscany, she – despite her French stage-name – an English gentlewoman.
Cast a few crumbs, then turn away
: that was exactly how she treated him. Oh, he knew he was good – she’d hardly have chosen him if he wasn’t the best – but she treated him like a headstrong thoroughbred colt to be kept under tight control.
Sometimes, in private, he would rage against the power Violette held over him, but common sense always prevailed. She was the master, he the eager protégé. The price of dancing with her was to defer, always.
“By the way, what was wrong with you last night?” she asked coolly.
“Wrong?”
“You made some mistakes. Most unlike you. Do you think I didn’t notice?”
His head dropped.
Damn. I hoped I’d got away with it! No such luck.
“Two mistakes, madame. I’m aware of them and I have no excuse. Our last performance, the exhilaration, the audience…”
“Exactly so. You let the situation go to your head and lost concentration. We must never allow that to happen.”
“Madame, I apologise,” he said fiercely. “If ever I let you down or behave in an unprofessional manner – on stage or off – you will have my immediate resignation.”
She went silent for a moment.
“Emil, I appreciate the sentiment, but there’s no need.” Her face softened and she looked candidly at him. She was still a goddess, without the Firebird’s heavy make-up: lovelier, in fact, with her snowy skin, ebony hair, expressive violet-blue eyes. “The truth is, all criticism aside, I am proud of you. That is all the praise you will get from me, so savour it. Now bid farewell to your admirers. Smile and wave!”
Emil obeyed.
* * *
The liner was midway across the Atlantic when the storm hit.
Emil woke from a nightmare to find the vessel lurching and creaking around him. The storm seemed part of his dream and he was disorientated, struggling to comprehend where he was, what was happening. He heard the roar of wind and waves, muffled yet ferocious. He sat up with a gasp.
“Hey,” said Mikhail across the gap between their beds. “If you’re going to throw up, do it outside.”
His queasiness was nothing compared to the intense foreboding he felt. He’d been dreaming that Violette was in danger.
“No,” said Emil. He rolled out of bed and pulled on a shirt and trousers, staggering as the ship rolled. “I have to find her.”
“What’s the matter with you? It’s just a bloody storm. If we sink, we sink.”
Mikhail’s bravado wasn’t feigned – or if it was, Emil had never seen any cracks in his facade.
“Sink?” said Emil. More than fifteen years after the tragedy, no one boarded a liner without thoughts of the “unsinkable”
Titanic
. “I must make sure Madame Lenoir is safe.”
Mikhail muttered under his breath in Russian, then said, “Sure. She
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