“Well, Mademoiselle Ward?”
“Do you have ‘The Infernal Galop’?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course. We did the operetta last season.” When she snapped her fingers, Blaise ran from the wings with a disc and placed it reverently on the flower-shaped gramophone half-hidden by the curtains.
After a few moments of fuzz, the song began, tinkling along, and I went into my act with the quiet professionalism of a well-oiled and many-jointed robot. I hadn’t performed to the song before, but I knew it well enough from a lifetime of Earth cartoons and movies that I could anticipate the changes in pace and work them into my routine.
Although I had used a few flashy moves to persuade first Vale and then Madame Sylvie to take me on, I understood that this wasn’t a job interview; it was a dictionary of Demi, a catalog of my abilities that would determine my place in the show. Mademoiselle Charline alternated between scribbling in a notebook and staring at me with narrow, dark eyes, her small lips pursed like a dog’s ass.
I was flawless, of course. After doing the same routine for years on top of my wagon, I knew the moves by heart. The only thing missing from my act was a partner. Without Cherie, I had to skip the trickier parts or rely on the stacked chairs or mouth stand or ball to make it interesting.
“That move is traditionally done with a partner. Would you like to borrow someone?”
As my teeth gripped the stand, I glanced at Mademoiselle Charline in annoyance. Elegantly stepping out of the move with a flourish, I murmured, “I am a solo act, mademoiselle.”
“But you had a partner.”
“Yes. Had. And I don’t care for another.”
“I see.”
More scribbling, and I bent over backward into the next move.
When I was done, the crowd clapped politely. There had even been some whispering during the trickier parts that Criminy had devised for Cherie and me, moves that couldn’t be accomplished by a human or daimon. But Mademoiselle Charline had never cracked a smile or stopped her frantic note-taking; she and Madame Sylvie had to be a true force of nature when they were both in the same room and focused on the same thing. Now she closed the red leather book and stared at me so hard that I felt as if someone had set a lit match under my nose. Even her third, painted eye seemed in on the scrutiny.
“This song—why did you choose it?”
A light laugh hid my crafty smile. “The operetta is traditionally performed by daimons, and that song is about a party in hell, correct?”
“Of course. Everyone knows this.”
“Then debut the Bludman as the queen of hell. Let there be a party of dancers around me as I writhe. Fake fire, imps, whatever. Make it a spectacle.”
“Hmm.” More scribbling. “You did not answer the question.”
So I told her the truth. “Because it’s wild and unstoppable and dark and mad.”
“Interesting. You’re dismissed to costuming. Tonight you will be backstage, helping with makeup and dress. Learn as much as possible. You’ll debut Saturday. Our biggest night. I’ll have notes to you after tonight’s show, including choreography.”
“Okay.”
“No. You will say, ‘Merci, Mademoiselle Charline.’ ” The sizzle of her gaze lit my cheeks.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Charline.”
“Now go. Vite. We have things to do besides stare at your pasty flesh.”
She turned and began yelling at Mel and her friends, and I felt a tug on my bustle. Blaise.
“Hurry, Demi. Before she notices you a second time.”
I followed the daimon boy across the stage and into a new hallway, one I hadn’t seen before. He waved and abandoned me in front of an open door, and I tentatively knocked on the jamb, just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the sewing machine within.
“Entrez.”
The daimon hunched over the black machine was the oldest-looking creature I’d seen in Sang thus far. She was going gray all over, the stripes of her wrinkles dusted with what must have once been the same blue skin shared by Bea and Blaise. The bright orange wig on her head and the paint on her lips showed that she was still trying, and her obvious disdain for the aging process made me smile.
“Hmm. The Bludman. Don’t typically care for your kind. But Bea says you’re a good egg, so I suppose I won’t sew poison into your skirt.” Unlike the other daimons, she didn’t have a wholly Franchian accent, and I suspected she had spent time in Sangland.
“Uh . . . thank you?”
She finally looked up, giving me the same all-over scrutiny that was starting to feel invasive and annoying. I had been with Criminy’s caravan so long that I had forgotten what it was like to be the new kid. Fortunately, my natural Bludman’s pride superseded my human insecurity, and I stared her down as I had everyone else, as I would continue to do until eyes met me with curiosity and interest instead of doubt and suspicion.