Tracking down Mathilde Reid’s son wasn’t nearly as difficult as I had thought it would be.
I spent my last few remaining hours before the show running between different hospitals in Augustus, using what little money I had to grease as many palm as I needed to. Until, a mere hour before Act Two was to begin, before Emma Livry was going to be burned alive for an audience’s pleasure, I had a name.
Alexei. His father’s name had been left blank on the birth certificate, and it looked like he had taken his mother’s last name. Alexei Reid. He’s seventeen years old, and according to Arden, still somewhere in the city.
Even with this small victory, things weren’t looking good for me, which meant they weren’t looking good for Emma, either.
But then, I saw him.
Unlike his mother, Alexei was on social media. Pictures of him at a restaurant for his birthday, at the park with his friends—all of the photos had stopped about three years ago. The profile was made with the name Alex, but I was sure it was him. Even though he was a bit younger than when I last saw him.
And suddenly, quite a few things made sense.
I arrived once again, in that dusty Mystery Street, hidden in downtown Augustus. I got out of my cab, and once my driver sped away, felt the familiar, eerie silence settle over me. It was completely empty, and a thick fog settled down to the cobblestone, just like it had the night before.
The entrance to the Masaniello Theater, camouflaged as a decrepit old shack, lay straight ahead. The glass barrier that separated me from what I now knew to be the truth, glinted yellow in the muted glow of the street lamps.
“I told you that you’d be back.”
The young man stood behind the reflective surface, still wearing his same maroon vest, still smiling his casual, customer-service smile.
I approached the barrier, my Night Two ticket clutched hard in my sweating hand. Even if this worked, even if he was who I thought he was, would it do any good? At this point, it didn’t matter. I was either going to succeed, or I was going to fail. There was no turning back.
“Are you Alexei Reid?”
The boy’s smile faltered for a millisecond before it resumed. He pointed with a steady hand to something on his vest, something I hadn’t seen before: a nametag. It read “Matthew”, shining gold letters. “It’s actually Matthew,” he said politely. We stood in silence. Then, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ticket, please.”
I hesitated. My time was up. It was now or never.
“Mathilde Reid. She’s your mother. The 32nd Farfalla. The reporter.”
The boy only shook his head. “I’m sorry sir. I’m not who you think I am.” Then, he motioned a bit more forcefully to the opening at the bottom of the glass. “I’ll need to see your ticket now, if you want to get a good seat.”
I frowned. It didn’t make sense, mostly because it had made so much sense. He had to be Alexei. What other outsider to the Ballet Company would have such close access to tickets to such an exclusive show? Who else would know to replace the Act Two ticket when I had thrown it away? His motivation, admittedly, I hadn’t quite worked out. What exactly was he trying to do—save another girl from the same fate that almost befell his mother? Or had Mathilde been the one who had put him up to it in the first place, using her son to finish the new story she started before he was even born?
Or maybe, judging by the way the kid was looking at me, he was just another 17-year old kid who happened to look like someone I was frantically trying to find.
My cheeks reddened with embarrassment and frustration. “Sorry,” I mumbled apologetically. I slid him my ticket under the glass. He took it, then smiled assuredly at me.
“Enjoy the show,” he said kindly, just as he had the previous night.
At this point, dread racked my body and my mind. Here I was, once again ready to step down, down into the belly of the beast, completely and utterly empty handed. I gave one last look at the boy, Matthew, like I was giving him a chance to change his mind. He only smiled.
I stood in front of the door, a sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. I could open it, go down the stairs, and take my seat next to the girl with the goldfish ring. I could listen to her, and the other affluent, cruel members of the crowd coo with delight as they got their money’s worth, as human beings were taken apart piece by piece before their very eyes. Whatever faith some stranger had put in me had been misguided, that much was for sure. And again, I felt angry. Angry at someone for putting this on me, for making me see things I couldn’t un-see. And for cursing me with the knowledge that it was only going to get worse.
I pulled open the door, but I still didn’t step inside. Instead, I wondered what would happen if I just turned around, right then. Washed my hands of all of this, this monstrous thing I had never asked for. Truthfully, I almost did it.
But then I thought of Emma, and those brief moments of fear and uncertainty I had seen play out on her face.
I straightened up. I still didn’t know what I was going to do, if I was going to do anything. But I had to at least try.
I stepped into the shrouded entryway, the staircase straight ahead. I took two steps forward, still riddled with anxiety when suddenly—
I was pulled, hard, by my left arm, through a door I didn’t know was there.
“Are you an idiot?”
I looked around, disoriented. Not that looking around helped. It was a small room, the size of a bathroom, and it had absolutely nothing in it. The walls were flat black. The floor and ceiling were the same. It had that strange oppressive feeling, the same claustrophobia I feel when I think of outer space, or an underwater trench.
Except, a beam of light. There was a door in the black, besides the one on the side I had been pulled through. The door emitting light led to the outside, it looked like, to the front of the building. Except, there was a glare, and I recognized the reflection of city street lamps on glass.
The door led to the ticket desk.
I looked up. The boy was looking at me, appearing slightly angry, and very worried.
My eyes widened. Even in the half darkness, he looked like the headshots of his mother I had seen. “You are Alexei Reid—“
“Keep. Your. Voice. Down.” He said tersely. Then, he moved and closed the door I had been pulled through, before doing the same with the door to the ticket desk.
For a moment, I could see nothing, and all I heard was my own quickened breath.
Then, a small light overhead was flipped on, and Alexei Reid was looking at me. And, he had something in his hands, something I would recognize anywhere.
It was a few clipping from the paper I write for, the Habitsville Gazette, though it was clear to see he had only cut out bits from my column, Bad Habit. I saw clippings of my stories about the Habitsville Hermit, Tommy McAfee, and a few I wrote a few years back. I looked at the boy. “What is this?”
“I’ve been watching you, Sam,” he said quietly, and it didn’t scare me like I thought a statement like that should. He sounded so matter-of-fact. “You write about things that are strange, things that betray logic—things that other people aren’t usually allowed to see.” He paused. “Like my mother.”
I felt a wave of understanding. “You’re the one who left me the envelope, the tickets, everything.”
He nodded. “I need your help.” Then, he corrected himself. “My family needs your help.”
I blinked in surprise. “Who, Mathilde?”
“No, not my mom,” he said impatiently with a wave of his hand. “She’s in hiding. I haven’t seen in her years.” He stepped closer to me, his face sinking farther and farther into desperation. I could see his eyes glisten with tears.
“My sister. They’re going to kill her.”
I tried to contain my shock. Emma Livry, his sister? Surely she wasn’t Mathilde’s daughter, the timing didn’t match up right. Emma’s birth year had been 2001 under her picture on the Ballet’s website, and Mathilde was training heavily for her role as Farfalla at that time.
But then I remembered—the blank name on Alexei’s birth certificate. There was no father listed, meaning that the two could be half-siblings.
"It's not her fault," he continued, his voice shaking with emotion. "She doesn't know what she's doing, I promise you. And they kill her, they'll really kill her if they find out what she's planning--"
I was distracted by what felt a rush of hope. The show was about to start, but with at least one ally, we could do something—storm the stage, pull a fire alarm, something.
Despite the stress I was under, I smiled with relief. “It’s okay Alexei. We’ll save Emma.”
Alexei blinked. He took a small step back, and cocked his head to the side in confusion. “Emma’s not my sister,” he said blankly.
It was my turn to look confused. “Oh?”
“It’s Franziska.”
My mind reeled. Franziska Wilde. The disfigured girl in the wheelchair, with one arm and stumps for wings—the Farfalla that came before Emma. The damage had already been done to her. What danger could she possibly be in?
Then, Alexei took a step closer to me, the two of us nearly nose to nose in the black room, the room so small that it could go from feeling like a refuge to feeling like a trap in an instant.
His wide eyes had refilled with tears, and I watched as one burst over the edge and began to roll down his cheek. What he whispered next tightened my chest, and made something icy trickle down my spine.
He took a shuddery breath.
“She’s going to ruin the show.”
---
Credits
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