The moment the fabric hit the stage floor, Julian jerked his hand away from mine and rose to his feet. “Funny how even at your worst, they still scream your name,” he said, his handsome face dark with anger. “They treat me as though I am one of your stage props.”

“You know that isn’t true,” I said. “You’ve legions of admirers. All the men are jealous, and all the women wish it was them in your arms.”

“Spare me your platitudes.”

I shrugged and turned my back on him, walking offstage. It was two months to the day since I had arrived in Trianon and nearly three since my dramatic exit from Trollus, and despite arriving with a plan I had thought was good, I was still no closer to finding Anushka. Julian’s jealousy was the least of my concerns.

Backstage was its usual state of organized chaos – only now that the performance was over, the wine was pouring more liberally. Half-dressed chorus girls preened at Julian, their overlapping words barely intelligible as they rained praise upon his performance. I was glad for it – he didn’t get the credit he deserved. Me they ignored, which was fine, because all I wanted was to be done with working for the night. Eyes on my dressing room, I wove through the performers until the sound of my name stopped me in my tracks.

“Cécile!”

Slowly, I turned on my heel and watched everyone scatter as my mother strode through the room. She kissed me hard on both cheeks and then pulled me into a tight embrace, her strong fingers digging painfully into the long livid scar where Gran had cut me open to repair my injury. “That was positively dreadful,” she hissed into my ear, breath hot. “Be thankful for small mercies that there was no one of taste in the audience tonight.”

“Of course not,” I whispered back. “Because if there had been, you would have been the one onstage.”

“Something you would be grateful for if you weren’t so ignorant.” She pushed away from me. “Wasn’t she brilliant tonight!” she announced to the room. “A natural talent. The world has never known such a voice.”

Everyone murmured in agreement, a few going so far as to clap their hands. My mother beamed at them. She might criticize me until she was blue in the face, but she wouldn’t tolerate anyone else saying a thing against me.

“Yes indeed, well done, Cécile!” A man’s voice caught my attention, and looking around my mother, I saw the Marquis strolling across the room. He was a bland man, as remarkable and memorable as grey paint but for the fact he usually had my mother on his arm.

I dropped into a curtsey. “Thank you, my lord.”

He waved me up, his eyes on the chorus girls. “Wonderful performance, my dear. If Genevieve hadn’t been sitting right next to me, I would have sworn it was her onstage.”

My mother’s face tightened and I felt mine blanch. “You are too kind.”