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Back The Shoe Queen
Chapters (67)
  1. Cover
  2. “And may I say, those shoes are adorable.”
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. ( I )
  7. ( one )
  8. ( two )
  9. ( three )
  10. ( four )
  11. ( five )
  12. ( six )
  13. ( seven )
  14. ( eight )
  15. ( nine )
  16. ( ten )
  17. ( II )
  18. ( eleven )
  19. ( twelve )
  20. ( thirteen )
  21. ( fourteen )
  22. ( fifteen )
  23. ( III )
  24. ( sixteen )
  25. ( seventeen )
  26. ( eighteen )
  27. ( nineteen )
  28. ( IV )
  29. ( twenty )
  30. ( twenty-one )
  31. ( twenty-two )
  32. ( twenty-three )
  33. ( twenty-four )
  34. ( V )
  35. ( twenty-five )
  36. ( twenty-six )
  37. ( twenty-seven )
  38. ( twenty-eight )
  39. ( twenty-nine )
  40. VI
  41. ( thirty )
  42. ( thirty-one )
  43. ( thirty-two )
  44. ( thirty-three )
  45. ( thirty-four )
  46. ( VII )
  47. ( thirty-five )
  48. ( thirty-six )
  49. ( thirty-seven )
  50. ( thirty-eight )
  51. ( thirty-nine )
  52. ( forty )
  53. ( forty-one )
  54. ( forty-two )
  55. ( VIII )
  56. ( forty-three )
  57. ( forty-four )
  58. ( forty-five )
  59. ( forty-six )
  60. ( forty-seven )
  61. ( forty-eight )
  62. ( forty-nine )
  63. ( fifty )
  64. ( fifty-one )
  65. Acknowledgments
  66. Acknowledgments
  67. Questions for Discussion

He’d begun sleeping with Violet de Frémont on almost the very day he stopped sleeping with Sissi. It was almost as though the older woman had passed him on to the younger. Secretly, he rather liked that idea. And then there were the others: Madeleine Duffrey, with the highest insteps he’d ever seen; Ana Markova, the ballerina (feet in a terrible mess, of course, but what a joy to watch her walk); the Princesse Meurier Bernard, with her long toes (she used them like fingers—could even hold a pencil between them and write). He didn’t sleep with all his clients—not quite. But he did seem to make better shoes for those who were his lovers. It was as if the sex allowed him to divine each woman’s essence. Somehow he was able to absorb their physical secrets, translating them and shaping them as shoes.

Choosing his clients—and indeed, his lovers—became something of a hobby for Zachari. He’d go to the grandest parties (Sissi or Violet could always get him an invitation) and stand quietly at the side of the room, watching the women walking about and dancing. It wasn’t enough for them to be rich or beautiful. Rather like Sissi and her husband out in the meadows with their butterfly nets, he’d be waiting to spot the rare breeds. He had no fear of rebuffing the commonplace, however wealthy and influential they might be. He’d look for someone with music in her feet.

His life was so easy. They came and went, the fine ladies, and they smiled as they left. He’d had a good fifteen years of pure effortless pleasure, with nothing to bother him or challenge him unduly. Until Genevieve Shelby King mistook him for a footman at Violet’s party and bludgeoned her way through his shop door and into his life.

A banging from above made Zachari jump. Somehow—the result of long years of practice, no doubt—he kept his hands steady. The perfect golden brushstroke was concluded without even the slightest smear. Quite a relief—one tiny mistake would be enough for him to throw out the shoes and return to the drawing board. This was one of the reasons why his shoes were the best, the most expensive of any in the world.

The banging came again. It was the door knocker. But he wasn’t expecting anyone. And anyway, where was Olga? Why hadn’t she answered it?