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  Michael encouraged them in this; after all, he got paid whether or not the case had any merits. Such things could stretch on for some time, particularly when he and his opposition were in collusion to make them stretch on.

  It was not, however, the most rewarding of law-practices. There were times, as now, when he would look across the road through the window of his chambers to the chop-house with longing, knowing that he would have to satisfy his hunger with the cheese sandwiches he had brought with him. And furthermore was the penance that tonight he would either have to boil an egg and make toast in his room, or manage to get through whatever glutinous stew-like creation his landlady had concocted: greasy, vegetables boiled to bits, and with only a nodding acquaintance with meat. His clients at the best of times would not bring in the sorts of fees that supported beefsteak dinners and tidy flats with a cook and a housekeeper. Now they were in a litigious lull, and that was not good for him.

  So when the lovely woman dressed in garnet-colored silk responded to his invitation to enter his office sans appointment, he truly did not expect that she was going to offer him work—truth to tell he thought she was from some charity and looking to get a subscription from him. He would not be rude to her no matter how insane her charity, because some day she might be the cause of him getting more work. No, he would be polite, let his barren office speak mutely for him, and beg her forgiveness for not having brass to spare for her cause . . . and at least he would have had the pleasure of the company of a stunning woman for half an hour.

  So it was with growing astonishment that he listened to her outlining, not the plight of abandoned orphans or sheepdogs, or African savages, but the whole of a fascinating and wildly unlikely tale.

  She was so stunningly beautiful so he would have listened to her no matter what she said. She was small, dainty, with a mass of dark hair done up in some complicated braided style that looked like a crown and penetrating eyes that seemed to change in color as her mood changed. Her nose was just a trifle too long, but that made her face interesting rather than merely pretty.

  If she was to be believed, and was not wildly insane, it was the most sensational case that he was likely to get his hands on!

  For this woman claimed—and the papers she brought with her seemed to bear her story out—to be the real Nina Tchereslavsky, and the one currently performing at the Palais Royale was—an imposter! A fraud who had stolen this prima ballerina’s name and reputation, and was battening on both.

  Who was the fraud really? This woman did not know. Michael vaguely recalled the stir when the girl was washed up after a shipwreck, speaking nothing but Russian and a bit of French, so it did seem that these two dancers were, in fact, both Russian. And that seemed too much for mere coincidence. This woman only asserted that her imposter was someone she did not know.

  It seemed completely impossible, for first of all, how would an unknown Russian dancer come to Blackpool in the first place; why not go somewhere that there were proper ballet troupes, like London? Secondly, why should she claim she was someone of whom Blackpool knew nothing? The cachet of being a Russian ballerina was not that impressive, particularly not in a music hall. And in the third place, why enter music hall at all? Why not attempt to get a part with a ballet or opera company? There was an opera company, at least, in Blackpool; why hadn’t she gone there? And that brought them full circle again: why here, and why not London?

  And yet, because it seemed so outrageous, so unlikely, it conversely became, to him, the more believable.

  But by itself, it would hardly impress anyone, much less a judge. Michael turned over the documents that had been presented, one by one. It was a fairly thick portfolio. Together they formed a curious collection.

  The first lot were press-clippings; interesting, but not particularly useful in and of themselves, since the photographs could have been of almost anyone, and the sketches were of someone who had no real distinguishing features to say the least. And how difficult would it be to assemble such a collection? One could subscribe to bureaus that collected these things for you.

  The documents in the second set were more useful; personal letters from various men of wealth and rank. The problem was, though all of them began with “Nina” and ended with the gentleman’s name, they were all in foreign tongues. And where he was going to find someone in Blackpool who could reliably translate Russian, he did not know. There were plenty of Russian exiles, but whom could he trust to give him accurate translations, and not merely write down what they were told to say?

  And again, how difficult a thing would these be to counterfeit? If they were love letters it would be one thing; it was unlikely that she would dare present such a thing and very likely they would be repudiated, but a simple letter of admiration for her skill in dancing? No man would really care. And no gentleman was likely to make the long trip to Blackpool England merely to verify that the letter was genuine.

  So, while interesting, these were of no particular value.

  The third set, however. . . .

  It was the habit of people in these days to buy photographic portraits of particularly beautiful women to ornament their walls with. Now, many of these were of young women who had no particular thing to recommend them except their beauty; they were, in fact, known as “PBs” or “Professional Beauties,” and all they were required to be was lovely, amiable, with impeccable manners, and of at least moderate breeding, enough so that they could reasonably be invited to elite social gatherings to add sparkle, like a bouquet of exquisite flowers. That the Crown Prince generally at least made the effort to add them to his ever-growing collection of mistresses went without saying, though not all of them succumbed to him.

  But others among the much-photographed were professionals of the stage; actresses mostly, but dancers were included, and even a few opera singers.

  And the last set of these photographs were of the dancer Nina Tchereslavsky, in costume as, so far Michael could tell, various fairies, harem girls, spirits, and princesses. At least he guessed by the tiny crowns that they were princesses. For all he knew, they could have been aquatic waterfowl, or flowers. These photographs were plainly labeled, some in the queer letters the Russians used, but most in good lettering readable by civilized people. Mlle. Nina Tchereslavsky, Odette. Mlle. Nina Tchereslavsky, La Sylphide. Mlle. Nina Tchereslavsky, Raymonda.

  Now these could be counterfeited, too, but it was less likely. Those costumes had to be fitted to each dancer, and it wasn’t likely that someone would have all these things sitting about in a wardrobe somewhere. So although the photographs were designed to show off the legs rather than the face, still, the face was clear.

  So taken all-in-all, the entire portfolio argued powerfully that the owner was in fact the real dancer.

  “I wouldn’t advise you to take this into a court of law, Mademoiselle,” he said, finally, closing the portfolio.

  She looked startled, and a little angry. “But is that not what you do?” she snapped. “This—this creature has taken my name, my place! My reputation! I have been forced to cancel a contract because of this! I had to pay an enormous sum! Is this not a thing for the courts?

  “I should have said, not yet, Mademoiselle,” he soothed. “We will eventually, of course. But our first strategy should be to take this to another court entirely, that of public opinion. We should make a sensation of this, so that when it does get into court, it will be noticed.”

  “And this would be good?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Oh very good, very good indeed,” he told her earnestly. “And I know just the newspaper too.”

  And in truth, he did. He had used them before on other cases. But of course, there was no competition between a case featuring a balding old man and one featuring not just one beautiful dancer, but two.

  “And this will help me?” she persisted.

  “Better than a trial.” Her folded his hands atop the papers and peered earnestly at her. She stared at him for a moment, and for some rea
son, suddenly, her eyes seemed very cold, very alien. Despite the fact that her eyes should have seemed lovely.

  But they weren’t lovely. They were cold.

  Ah, but that did not matter, What mattered was in this portfolio. “We will take your story to a newspaper,” he continued. “They will place the truth before the public, and the public will see. This imposter will be routed. There may never need to be a trial, but if there is, many of the jurors will have seen these photographs and they will know the truth.”

  “Very well,” she said finally. “You may call your newspapers.”

  Nina was not nearly as reluctant as she had seemed. She was, in fact, not at all interested in going to court. A law-suit seemed to her to be an inordinate waste of time and effort, although the threat of one would take little effort on her part, yet would agitate her enemies no end.

  But this, the idea of using sensation-craving newspapers to hound her foes—this was sheer brilliance. It was all she could do to keep from insisting the solicitor run straight out and bring in people from these newspapers on the spot.

  Instead, she curbed her impulses and pretended reluctance. This was not unlike allowing a protector to “acquire” her. She would make them court her, coax her; she had ample practice in being the one sought after.

  She allowed the solicitor to “persuade” her, and to arrange a meeting with a newspaper reporter for the next day. She “reluctantly” allowed him to keep her portfolio. There was only one thing that she was annoyed about; she had been certain she would be able to persuade one or more of her devoted adherents to make the journey to Blackpool to verify her identity, but they all sent regrets. It seemed that her hold over them was not strong enough at a distance to cause them to abandon good sense and speed to her rescue. It might not, in fact, hold them at all. She had never really had occasion to test it. It had always seemed to her that human mortals, the men in particular, were easily manipulated and entranced.

  Well it was an annoyance, and something that could be worked around.

  What she could do, easily enough, and in fact had, was to order her servants at home to bribe and browbeat one of the stagehands into coming to stand surety for her identity. It was difficult for a poor man, especially one who was no longer young, to look at more money than he could earn in twenty years and not turn it down. So this man, a common fellow named Jannos Durzek, was already on his way here by train and boat. She would have to find a translator, of course. She would have to find one anyway, for the Hungarian and Russian and Czech letters.

  All this was running through her mind as she arrived at the solicitor’s office for her meeting with the newspaper man. She had put forth a great deal of effort to look her best, and at the same time, to look every inch the prima. There must be no doubt in this man’s mind that he was in the presence of a great dancer, even if he had never heard of her nor had any ideas about ballet.

  The man in question was sitting in the solicitor’s office when she arrived. He took his time about getting to his feet, eyeing her with an insolence that made her seethe. If she had not needed him, she would have slapped that expression from his face, then ambushed him in the night and absorbed him. Perhaps she would anyway, when she no longer needed him. He was a very unprepossessing man, no longer young, yet holding himself as if he felt he were much younger than his actual years. His suit was slightly rumpled, and though hardly of the best quality, was definitely of the most modern cut. Most gentlemen would have considered it a touch too loud. He did not remove his hat, of the type known as a derby, in her presence, a fact that she resented. Perhaps he was ashamed to; his mousey brown hair looked rather thin, and needed a trim badly. His face wore what looked to be a perpetual smirk, as if he considered himself ever so much more intelligent than most of the people he encountered. His complexion was starting to show the effects of hard drinking, and his eyes, narrow and shrewd, were just a little bloodshot.

  She allowed him, reluctantly, to shake her hand, then took a seat. Immediately he began going over the papers in her file, one by one, asking her pointed and detailed questions about all of them. Some of his questions were impertinent, and she felt her temper rising. He seemed to be amused by this, and the more amused he became, the more she was determined to give him the punishment he so richly deserved when she no longer needed him.

  Finally he shoved her portfolio of papers aside. “I like this story,” he said, bluntly. “I’ll take it on.”

  He would not be pinned down to how soon he intended to publish the story—or rather, what would probably be the first of several stories. “This will be a fight,” he warned. “They are not simply going to say, ‘Oh dear, you caught us, it’s a fair cop,’ and reveal the girl’s true name. They are going to demand proof. What you have here—” he tapped the portfolio “—is good, but hardly conclusive; it could all be fabricated and I expect them to point that out. But I’ll think of something you can do, I am sure.”

  He was so arrogant! Assuming that she would not be able to think of anything for herself! And how on earth was he remaining proof against her magic-enhanced charm? That baffled her as much as his attitude infuriated her.

  She would kill him. She would not merely absorb him as she did with most of her victims, taking them unaware and rendering them unconscious first; she would do it while he was aware and conscious and she would do it slowly.

  Oh how she wished she did not need him!

  She parted company with him and with the solicitor, once again leaving the portfolio, this time in the reporter’s possession. She was stiffly correct, and as she shook hands coldly with the man, he dared to grin at her. “You don’t care for me, miss,” he said baldly. “Well, I don’t care much for you. I expect you’re accustomed to men dancing attendance on you, and being your lap-dogs. You’re told what a tremendous artist you are, and all of that tommy-rot. Well, to me you’re the same as that girl that you say is using your name, and you’re both of you no better and no worse than the can-can dancer on the boardwalk. All three of you pull up your skirts and kick and show your legs—you and that girl just pretend it’s more refined, which, to my mind, makes the can-can dancer the more honest of the three of you. But I know a story when I see one, and this one is worth chasing after. You need me, and I need you, so you may glare all you like, and I’ll sneer all I like, but the story will still get printed, and we’ll see what kind of a dust-up we can start.”

  Rigid with anger, she left, the solicitor at her elbow, apologizing for the reporter, babbling almost, about how his manner was rough, but he was the best in the city, how dogged he was in pursuing facts, and how fair he was in laying them out. The solicitor kept up this babble all the way to the street, where he hailed a taxi for her. As he handed her into it, Nina finally spoke.

  “If this were Saint Petersburg,” she said wrathfully, “I would horsewhip him until he bled from a hundred cuts. He is an ignorant peasant. But he has a peasant’s cunning, and I believe you when you say he will write the stories to expose this imposter. But keep him from me. You deal with him. I would rather feed pigs with my own hands than speak with him again.”

  Notions of increased fees doubtlessly dancing in his head, the solicitor hastily agreed, and she directed the taxi back to her flat.

  The first thing she did when the door was shut and locked tightly behind her was to transform to her true form with a roar of rage. Her garments did not so much tear as burst asunder with the sound of shredding silk. Her servants already knew what to do; they had surely felt her anger for the last hour at least.

  They performed exactly as she expected them to. They had clearly prepared for her, and now they fled before her, and opened the door to the cellar with cringing deference. She stood on the top step as they closed the door behind her, and listened to the whimpering of terror from below.

  The Troll bared her teeth in a parody of a smile. Her servants had chosen well. Not one, but three victims cowered in the corners of the cellar, trying to somehow become on
e with the rough brick walls. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she assessed the two slatternly women and the man awaiting her pleasure. By the tattered finery and the display of cleavage, by the too-loud, cheap suit and the air of a bully who finds himself in the power of someone unexpectedly stronger than he, she had a good notion of who her servants had plucked off the street for her. Two prostitutes, and she supposed the man was their procurer.

  “Mistress,” one of the servants said through the door, “we brought the women here. The man followed; he broke in and threatened us, and demanded money.” She smiled. Good. She would take him first.

  And she would make him last a long, long time. This was going to be no simple absorption. Tonight she was going to feed.

  20

  NINETTE was summoned in the middle of her exercises to Nigel’s office; puzzled, because she could not imagine what could have warranted such an interruption, she quickly toweled herself off and threw on her dress without bothering to tidy her hair or take off her rehearsal tights and demi-pointe shoes.

  There she found Nigel, Arthur, Wolf, and Jonathon, all bent over something on Nigel’s desk, and the humans, at least, looking rather grim.

  “What is amiss?” she asked, feeling uneasy, as they all turned to look at her.

  “We have an unexpected problem,” Arthur replied, stabbing his finger down at what was now revealed to be a folded-back section of a newspaper. There were several more like it on the desk; Arthur picked this one up and handed it to her.

  The first thing she saw was her own publicity photograph, taken in her costume of the Tudor Rose dance. Dancer Revealed A Fraud! shouted the headline.