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Authors: Julie Anne Long
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in Sylvie’s line of work; they got in the way, in other words. She felt herself growing warm in indignation.
And when Rose handed her the big wooden wand, and she turned and got a look at herself in the mirror, the indignity was complete.
But wait. Rose was still rummaging about in the wardrobe, and plucked out a pair of wings, sheer, luminous fabric ingeniously stretched over a frame of wires, fitted with straps. An admirable bit of construction, admittedly. She would admire it more if she weren’t required to wear them.
But Rose held them out to her, and Sylvie resignedly took them. She saw loops in the center for her arms. She pushed her slim arms through them.
Voilà!
She was a fairy.
The wings, she had to admit,
were
pretty. They would have done justice to the costumers at the Paris Opera, where some of the finest and most ingenious seamstresses were employed.
“Why did Mr. Shaughnessy take ye on?” Rose wanted to know.
Now that Rose was satisfied that her body was not the typical White Lily body, she apparently could not resist the question.
Sylvie decided that building her own mystique would be a marvelous strategic defense during her stay at the theater.
“Mr. Shaughnessy and I shared a mail coach, which was robbed, and when I kissed a highwayman, they agreed to let us go on.”
Rose’s dark eyes stared. And then: “
Cor!
” she breathed.
In short, if Sylvie would kiss a highwayman, what
else
might she be capable of?
Sylvie felt absurdly gratified. She might be skinny and dressed inadequately as a fairy, but she could still impress.
“What’s funny, it was sudden-like, and ’e always takes ’is time findin’ a new girl. Tells us all about it. We thought ’ed never replace Kitty. So ye’re a surprise.”
I imagine I am.
Chapter Five
T HE GENERAL REGARDED SYLVIE dispassionately: the big dress, the wand, the studiedly stoic expression on her face. “The costumes will need. . . significant. . . altering. How are your skills with a needle, Sylvie?”
“I believe you mean ‘Miss Chapeau,’ ” she said almost reflexively. Perhaps it was a mistake, but she was a tad irritated, as her dignity felt chafed by her costume and by Rose’s assessment of her bosom. “My skills with a needle are adequate.”
“You may have noticed that we don’t stand on ceremony here, Sylvie. Now girls, places please. Sylvie, because of your height, you can stand between
Molly
and
Jenny
—”
“What is
your
name?” Sylvie considered perhaps she should have eaten something when Mr. Shaughnessy offered, as she knew her temper was easier to rouse when her stomach was empty, and it was tempting her now to take risks.
He fixed her with a gaze meant to intimidate, no doubt. “The General,” he said evenly. “The. General.” He gazed at her with those sharp dark eyes. “Now Josephine, if
you’d begin—”
“Your given name is ‘The’?” Sylvie said mildly.
Sylvie heard what sounded like a collected sucking of breath. The other girls had done it.
The General turned very slowly and stared up at her wonderingly.
“Then I may call you ‘The’?” she pressed on, calmly. Taking a certain perverse, reckless pleasure in it.
“Oh, my, oh my, oh my, oh my,”
Rose whispered gleefully.
“Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t,” another girl hissed.
The General muttered something, and Sylvie could have sworn he was taking the name of Tom Shaughnessy in vain. He took in a deep breath, appeared to be counting.
And then he beamed at Sylvie. “Yes. Please do call me ‘The.’ Or call me cuddlecakes. Call me that ‘gorgeous bastard.’ I suppose it doesn’t matter what you call me when you have need of calling me, as I will more likely need to call
you,
Sylvie. And now, if you would please stand between Molly and Jenny. I assume you can. . . move to music?”
The last three words were given a special frisson of irony, which puzzled Sylvie just a bit.
“I shall certainly do my very best,” she
And when Rose handed her the big wooden wand, and she turned and got a look at herself in the mirror, the indignity was complete.
But wait. Rose was still rummaging about in the wardrobe, and plucked out a pair of wings, sheer, luminous fabric ingeniously stretched over a frame of wires, fitted with straps. An admirable bit of construction, admittedly. She would admire it more if she weren’t required to wear them.
But Rose held them out to her, and Sylvie resignedly took them. She saw loops in the center for her arms. She pushed her slim arms through them.
Voilà!
She was a fairy.
The wings, she had to admit,
were
pretty. They would have done justice to the costumers at the Paris Opera, where some of the finest and most ingenious seamstresses were employed.
“Why did Mr. Shaughnessy take ye on?” Rose wanted to know.
Now that Rose was satisfied that her body was not the typical White Lily body, she apparently could not resist the question.
Sylvie decided that building her own mystique would be a marvelous strategic defense during her stay at the theater.
“Mr. Shaughnessy and I shared a mail coach, which was robbed, and when I kissed a highwayman, they agreed to let us go on.”
Rose’s dark eyes stared. And then: “
Cor!
” she breathed.
In short, if Sylvie would kiss a highwayman, what
else
might she be capable of?
Sylvie felt absurdly gratified. She might be skinny and dressed inadequately as a fairy, but she could still impress.
“What’s funny, it was sudden-like, and ’e always takes ’is time findin’ a new girl. Tells us all about it. We thought ’ed never replace Kitty. So ye’re a surprise.”
I imagine I am.
Chapter Five
T HE GENERAL REGARDED SYLVIE dispassionately: the big dress, the wand, the studiedly stoic expression on her face. “The costumes will need. . . significant. . . altering. How are your skills with a needle, Sylvie?”
“I believe you mean ‘Miss Chapeau,’ ” she said almost reflexively. Perhaps it was a mistake, but she was a tad irritated, as her dignity felt chafed by her costume and by Rose’s assessment of her bosom. “My skills with a needle are adequate.”
“You may have noticed that we don’t stand on ceremony here, Sylvie. Now girls, places please. Sylvie, because of your height, you can stand between
Molly
and
Jenny
—”
“What is
your
name?” Sylvie considered perhaps she should have eaten something when Mr. Shaughnessy offered, as she knew her temper was easier to rouse when her stomach was empty, and it was tempting her now to take risks.
He fixed her with a gaze meant to intimidate, no doubt. “The General,” he said evenly. “The. General.” He gazed at her with those sharp dark eyes. “Now Josephine, if
you’d begin—”
“Your given name is ‘The’?” Sylvie said mildly.
Sylvie heard what sounded like a collected sucking of breath. The other girls had done it.
The General turned very slowly and stared up at her wonderingly.
“Then I may call you ‘The’?” she pressed on, calmly. Taking a certain perverse, reckless pleasure in it.
“Oh, my, oh my, oh my, oh my,”
Rose whispered gleefully.
“Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t,” another girl hissed.
The General muttered something, and Sylvie could have sworn he was taking the name of Tom Shaughnessy in vain. He took in a deep breath, appeared to be counting.
And then he beamed at Sylvie. “Yes. Please do call me ‘The.’ Or call me cuddlecakes. Call me that ‘gorgeous bastard.’ I suppose it doesn’t matter what you call me when you have need of calling me, as I will more likely need to call
you,
Sylvie. And now, if you would please stand between Molly and Jenny. I assume you can. . . move to music?”
The last three words were given a special frisson of irony, which puzzled Sylvie just a bit.
“I shall certainly do my very best,” she
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