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’im, in fact. An’ ’us-bands are forever callin’ ’im out, our Mr. Shaughnessy. Even though ’es not a gentleman, like. It’s because ’es such a verra good shot.”
    “Duels? He fights
duels?
”
    “Best shot in London. Shoots the ’eart right out o’ the target each time.”
    Sylvie felt faint. She wondered if duels were any more legal in London than they were in Paris, and doubted it. She remembered the glint of the pistol in Tom Shaughnessy’s sleeve as they stood in the clearing among those highwaymen.
    “He kills people?”
    “Kills?” Rose sounded faintly appalled. Only faintly. Sylvie wondered whether Rose experienced any emotion rather strongly, and given the tempests of her own various passions, felt a slight twinge of envy, wondering what it might be like to drift comfortably through life’s dramas.
    “Oh, no. They shoot at each other, but everyone seems to miss.”
    Tom Shaughnessy routinely shot and allowed other people to shoot at him?
Over other men’s wives?
    “And The General—he is...” Sylvie paused to think of the word. “In charge of the dancing?”
    “ ’E is, an ’e invents the shows, like, but even ’e answers to Mr. Shaughnessy, an’ ’tis Mr. Shaughnessy, oo ’as the
big
ideas. One show a night, every night save Sunday, three acts at least, six or eight songs, usually. Mr. Shaughnessy likes to jumble it up a bit, an ’e seems t’ave a new idea every week. Keeps us busy, ’e does. We’ve rehearsal every day for as long as The General says. It’s a right bit o’ work, but it’s good pay, and Mr. Shaughnessy, ’e looks after us.”
    Right bit of work?
Sylvie wondered what on earth the dances entailed.
    “Do you live here at the theater, Rose?”
    “At the theater?” Rose’s eyes widened with astonishment. “I’ve me own rooms up the street. Mr. Shaughnessy pays right well. We all do—’ave our own rooms. The girls, and Poe and Stark, the men what guard the stage door outside, an’ Jack, ’oo guards the dressing-room door, an’ the boys who work for The General. But there
are
rooms ’ere at the White Lily, up the stairs. Was a grand ’ouse once. Where d’yer live, Sylvie?”
    Sylvie didn’t know how to respond to that question.
    She was spared from answering when the top half of Rose disappeared into the wardrobe and she began fishing about inside it.
    She emerged with a gown, a gossamer thing, pale pink over some silvery fabric. It would provide about as much flesh coverage as mist, though in dimmed lights one couldn’t
precisely
see through it. Sylvie eyed it askance.
    “ ’Ere. We’ve five minutes before The General ’as a fit. I’ll ’elp wi’ yer laces.”
    Sylvie was accustomed to dressing in front of other girls; modesty was frivolous when one was a dancer preparing to perform. But Sylvie was suddenly profoundly aware of how slight she was, a willow twig compared to these vivid blossoms of girls. It was as if anything superfluous to ballet had melted away from her body, leaving behind only what was necessary to fulfill Monsieur Favre’s commands—elegant muscle.
    She turned around and presented her back to Rose, and Rose worked the laces on her mourning gown for her. She watched with frank curiosity as Sylvie slipped into the dress.
    The dress was too large, hung on her frame loosely, exposing an expanse of chest, stopping just shy of revealing her bosom altogether. And the ribbon from which her miniature hung. Sylvie put her hand up, disguising it.
    “The General, ’e won’t want ye to wear stays, but ye’ve not much of a bosom, ’ave ye?”
    How on earth did one respond to such a question? Ironically, Sylvie decided. “No, I suppose not.”
    “Mmm. Stays
will
’elp wi’the—” Rose covered her own round bosoms with both hands and gave them an illustrative push upward. “Make ye look like ye’ve a bit more.”
    Sylvie appreciated that Rose was trying to be helpful, but bosoms had always been about as helpful as ballast