The dancers took to the center stage, and their movements resembled a waltz in the court of Louis XVI. The sea of them parted and I appeared in my blush-and-gold version of their outfits, emerging from a troupe of jugglers and synchronized tumblers to ascend the Spanish Web. As I rose above them, the audience was so quiet that I could hear champagne glasses tinkling while the orchestra hushed. Then Niccolò matched his orchestra to my moves, and the song pounded through the hall in a furious, twisting rhythm.

At the end, when I took my final bow, I could see the outlines of him as he rose to his feet.

I was a shadow no more.

Chapter 13

Kerrigan Falls, Virginia

June 23, 2005

Lara had a reminder message from Audrey to pick up the tickets and a stern warning that the office was only open for two hours today, from ten in the morning until noon.

Throwing on jeans that were not covered in dust, Lara twisted her ankles into her black Chuck Taylors and raced out the door. She had fifteen minutes until the offices of the historical society closed.

It was Saturday, so she usually slept in a little later, but this was unusual. All night, armed with a French dictionary, she’d been up translating Cecile’s journal. At first, she thought she’d just work on a few pages, but by two in the morning Lara had found that she’d been able to read most of the composition book without the help of her dog-eared and coverless Bantam French dictionary. Some of the handwriting had been faded or stained with what appeared to be a watermark and some phrases had to be looked up, but she managed to finish most of the translation.

As she read, she’d tried to equate the woman with the silver bob and heart-shaped face that she’d known with the young girl trying to learn the trapeze. Something about it didn’t fit, causing Lara to wonder if Cecile had tried her hand at creative writing. Perhaps the journal was just some made-up story.

She ran the last block, sliding through the doors of the historical society offices at eleven fifty. Marla Archer had her back to Lara, and she wondered if she should feel weird about this. Tonight, she was going to the gala with this woman’s ex-husband.

The radio was playing classical music, a baroque piece, likely Bach. Lara had majored in music, so she’d generally spent more time playing classical than anything modern until she’d graduated. The music suited the place. Looking around, Lara realized she’d never come in here before. All around the office were old photos of Main Street and Jefferson Street; “before” and “after” photos of schoolhouses turned into grocery stores, factories into housing developments; and of course the posters of Zoltan’s Spicy Brown Mustard and Le Cirque Margot.