Leaning out the window, Mr. Kammerzell secured the ropes with a brawny hand. “The police are at my door, demanding to search the house. You’d best come in and quickly.”
He didn’t have to bid her twice. Clara slid the crutch through the window with a thud. Then, holding on to Mr. Theodore for balance, she climbed into the attic, stepping down onto a floor of wooden planks. Sturdy and solid. Never had a musty old attic been so beautiful.
Mr. Theodore slipped through the window next and shook the grocer’s hand before retrieving his crutch. “Much obliged, Mr. Kammerzell. Are you certain you want to lend us aid? I wouldn’t want to get you in a scrape.”
“Who am I to turn away Maid Marian and Robin Hood?” Tossing Clara a jolly wink, Mr. Kammerzell latched the window. “Come, Providence has already supplied your means of escape by redeeming the consequence of human folly.”
Mr. Kammerzell ushered them across the attic stocked with barrels of flour, sugar, and other dry goods. At the far wall, more barrels had been arranged one atop the other, four across and three high. Bracing against these, Mr. Kammerzellslid the barrels down the length of the wall with remarkable ease, revealing the barricade to be a façade that concealed a jagged hole in the wall. Beyond this opening lay another attic with exposed beams illumined by a single window.
Clara’s jaw hit the floor. A conveniently located secret passage. Perhaps they were living in a ballad of yore. “We will find longbows and arrows in the rafters, I suppose?”
A hearty laugh shook Mr. Kammerzell’s rotund frame. “Nein, but you might stumble across one of the Ludwig children. Upon buying the seven adjoining homes, the Ludwig brothers connected their attics so the children might visit their cousins at will. Only our families know of this, for the brothers, carpenters by trade, didn’t wish it to be known they knocked through my wall by mistake.”
Shouts reverberated through the floorboards.
“It seems my wife can stall the police no longer.” Lolloping to the other side of the barricade, Mr. Kammerzell readied to push the barrels back into place. “Hurry. Follow the chain of attics to its end and make your escape through the home of Clive Ludwig. He’ll help you for my sake while the police search my home.”
If ever Friar Tuck existed, this man was surely him. Clara placed a kiss on the grocer’s ruddy cheek and stepped into the other attic, followed closely by Mr. Theodore. The stacked barrels slid across the opening without a sound, concealing them at once in a completely different residence. When Mr. Kammerzell assured the police there were no crazy tourists under his roof, it would be no falsehood.
Aside from the single window, this attic housed an ornate wardrobe and two doors—one of which was carved with the wordsOnkel Peter. Crossing the musty space, Clara opened the door and discovered another attic, which they promptly entered. Upon closing the door, she noted the reverse was carved with the nameOnkel Edmund. The Ludwig brothersmust be very close indeed to thread their homes together in such a way.
As they proceeded into the home of Onkel Digory, a pang tugged at Clara’s heart. How she would love at the end of this eventful day to rest her cheek against a tweed jacket and revel in the soothing scent of peppermints. A sigh deflated her chest.
“How are we to retrieve Grand’s clue from the cathedral now? After today’s memorable escape, the police are sure to be watching for us, and even if we manage to slip by them, that furious priest is likely to escort us straight to the gates of Sheol. Assuming Mr. Forrester doesn’t get to us first.”
Mr. Theodore assumed the lead, opening the doors of Onkels Kirke, Eustace, and Clarence in turn. “Shame we don’t have any of Robin Hood’s masterful disguises.”
Disguises ... or costumes? Clara stilled in the doorway to Onkel Clive’s attic, a peculiar plan beginning to form. “You’ve given me an idea, Mr. Theodore, and it just might work too. It would employ our individual talents and involve a great deal of absurdity. Are you willing to give it a go?”
Placing a hand on the doorframe behind her shoulder, Mr. Theodore leaned toward her so that his lopsided grin was but a breath away. “My dear Miss Stanton, I’d much rather be absurd with you than normal with anyone else.”
Whenever Clara had envisioned growing old with someone, she’d assumed Mr. Forrester would be the one at her side as the years whittled wrinkles along their features. Never would she have thought it possible to grow old with Mr. Theodore in the course of one hour.
Backstage at the Opéra de Strasbourg, Clara sat before a dressing table, transfixed by the elderly woman staring back at her in its oval mirror. She stared in wonder at thecrow’s feet roosting along her eyes, the laugh lines around her mouth, the tinge of gray in her hair. She touched the lace collar around her neck, the only adornment on her borrowed day dress of white cotton printed with a simple design of tiny lilac blossoms. A sheer lace bonnet adorned with a sprig of lilac completed the disguise. Though twenty years out of fashion, the unassuming ensemble was most becoming and, more importantly, quite transformative.
When she’d recalled reading about the Grande Île’s Opéra de Strasbourg, Clara had been hopeful that Mr. Theodore’s amiable way with people might persuade someone at the theater to lend them some costumes, but she’d never imagined they’d happen upon a veritable illusionist in the form of a doe-eyed actress on her way to work.
Clara grasped the hands that had masterfully made her up with powder and paint and deftly altered her figure with padding and pins. “Merci beaucoupfor lending us your talents, Miss Laurent.”
“Call me Jacqueline, and the pleasure was all mine.” With a flourish, Jacqueline flicked luxuriant chestnut curls over the shoulder of her dressing gown and curtseyed low. “After all my years on the stage, taking part in your delightfulopéra comiqueis perhaps my greatest theatrical accomplishment. For who has seen such a show? Carousel horses come to life. Feral foxes romping through a cathedral. Each scene is rife with surprises.”
Was that what she was living in, an opéra comique? Here she’d always thought it a comedy of errors. “How did you know the carousel horse was us?”
Jacqueline arched a sophisticated brow. “Please,ma cherie. I’ve seen many peculiar people come through this city, but your troupe has broken the mold for the eccentric.”
“And without a single regret.” An elderly man strode toward them in an old-fashioned walking suit composed ofdove gray frock coat and checked black trousers. He wore one black oxford and one metal prosthetic boot, which had been disguised with a coat of black shoe polish. His graying beard was trimmed and stately. A monocle dignified his face, its silk cord draping to a button on his waistcoat, and a top hat crowned his head.
My, but he’d aged well. Clara removed a fan from her pocket and put it to use. “Have you upheld our end of the bargain, Mr. Theodore?” The one he’d effortlessly arranged.
Mr. Theodore gave a gold-topped cane a jaunty twirl. “Every chore’s been ticked off my list. Wobbly costume rack unwobbled. Rusted hinges on the prop trunks replaced with shining brass. Every timepiece in the place wound, oiled, and polished, and I’ve outfitted your dressing room with a new lock, Miss Laurent, so you’ll not be troubled by unsolicited theater patrons.”
A smile bloomed on Jacqueline’s rosy lips. “Excellente!Now, you best be off before the managers arrive and catch us at our fun. They’re not as obliging as I am. I’ll keep your things in my dressing room, and when your performance is concluded, you may come back for them and return the costumes. I’ll be waiting to let you in the theater’s back door.”
“Right-oh. Until then, we bid youadieu, Miss Laurent.” Turning from Jacqueline’s rouge-enhanced blush, Mr. Theodore placed Clara’s arm in the crook of his elbow and together they departed the opera house, exiting stage right.
A gossamer curtain of indigo clouds lowered over the city, drawing the day’s final act to an end. Shopkeepers latched doors and pedestrians dwindled in number as a lamplighter made his rounds along the winding streets. Arm in arm, Clara and Mr. Theodore assumed a leisurely pace. Reveling in their role of an old married couple, they reminisced about an imagined courtship and laughed over the antics of twelve fictionalized children. Engaged in their pretend world, shecould almost forget the lingering threat of Mr. Forrester’s pursuit.
Almost forget to be afraid.
