“So it’s true, then, is it?” said Thomas Potter, the lead actor. His mouth was tight, a straight line. He glanced back at Isabella, standing behind him, looking out nervously from under a curtain of blond hair.
“Ay,” Mr. Arthur said. “And with the state of this city, God knows if we’ll be open next season, so you all best start looking for other ways to earn a living.”
Isabella tugged at Thomas’s jacket. “Thom, what are we going to do about—？”
He turned to her. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll figure it out.” Tenderly, he kissed the top of her head.
Jack had been sitting in the rafters listening. He had been listening for days, to conversations between Mr. Arthur and the theater owner, between the theater owner and the choreographer. For the last week, their show had been playing to mostly empty rows of seats, the worn red velvet gathering a thin layer of dust. It was too risky for the well-to-do to venture into the theater when they were faced with the threat of a plague. And so they stayed home. And so, at least for the time being, Le Grand Leon was closing.
“Yer welcome to stay, Jack,” Mr. Arthur said the next day, when all the actors had gone, handing Jack a heavy ring of brass keys. “In fact, I’d appreciate it if you did. Ward off thieves. Can’t pay ye much—or anything, really—but it’ll keep a roof over yer head if ye need it. It’ll be good to have ye here to keep the place upright. In case, ye know.”
“In case what?” Jack asked, taking the keys.
Mr. Arthur smiled sadly. “In case we come back for next season,” he said. He patted Jack genially on the shoulder and walked up the aisle and out toward the lobby, leaving the boy in a theater filled only with echoes and ghosts.
Jack would need to steal another body soon if he wanted to eat.
16
HAZEL HAD HALF EXPECTED THE DOOR to the Royal Edinburgh Anatomists’ Society to open directly from the street into the operating theater, the one she had seen only from beneath the risers. But instead, after Hazel raised and dropped the brass knocker on the door, a footman in a powdered wig politely ushered her inside to a handsomely appointed lounge that looked like an upscale salon, or a gentlemen’s club. A bright orange fire burned merrily, its crackling the only sound in the otherwise silent room, where ten or so whiskered men scattered among the velvet settees sipped brandy and read newspapers.
One entire wall of the room was occupied by mounted animal heads, taxidermy zebras and rhinoceroses, a lion and one heavily scarred elephant, though its ivory tusks had been removed. The opposite wall was made up of massive bookcases so tall they required a sliding ladder to reach the volumes on the topmost shelves. Hazel tried to sneak a glance at the titles, but most of them were too faded to read. The volumes on the bottom were all in Latin.
The fire made the room unusually warm, and Hazel resisted the urge to tug at her petticoat and loosen her stays. The weeks wearing George’s old clothing had made her forget how stifling the layers of fabric of women’s dress could be, especially when one was dressing to look as refined as possible. And Hazel was. She had dressed herself like a soldier sheathing himself in layers of armor, with all the protection that could be afforded to her by wealth and decent taste. The dress was a sensible blue, trimmed with black lace velvet and cording. A lavender ribbon tied the collar at her throat. She looked, in other words, like a well-respected woman of Edinburgh society, and while the footman at the Anatomists’ Society might privately have wondered why she didn’t have a chaperone, he would be too low ranked to imagine challenging a woman like Hazel or refusing her entry. Being a woman had closed many doors to Hazel Sinnett, but it had also revealed to her a valuable tool in her arsenal: women were almost entirely overlooked as people, which gave her the power of invisibility. People saw women, they saw the dresses women wore on public walks through the park, and the gloved hands they rested on their suitors’ elbows at the theater, but women were never threats. They were never challenges worthy of meaningful consideration. The footman might have refused entry to a beggarwoman or even a strange or foreign man, but Hazel—dressed like wealth—would be free to walk past him if she did so swiftly and feigning confidence. And so she did.
Dr. Beecham was sitting at a small table alone, a cup of strong tea steaming beside him. Books and papers were scattered around the table. A large tortoiseshell served as a paperweight. Even with the heat of the fire radiating from the grate, he was still wearing his usual jacket with the collar raised up to his chin.