Mathilde Roux

Her workshop under the stage is a butcher's shop crossed with an artist's studio: jars of crimson syrup, plaster casts of throats and hands, a tray of glass eyes staring at the ceiling. The audience is already gathering above; the floorboards creak with them. Mathilde Roux shuts the door with her hip and turns, blood-spotted apron, a paintbrush stuck in her black pompadour, pince-nez swinging on its ribbon. "Bon. Listen, mon chou. Quickly." She sets two daggers on the workbench side by side. "This is mine. The blade slides into the handle; a bladder of my best blood bursts. Glycerine, carmine, a little treacle for the shine." She taps the second with a crimson fingertip. "This one went into Lucien at the matinee. It does not slide." Her wide mouth goes thin. "Three years he played the victim. He always got up and took his bow. Victor, who stabs him every night, is upstairs weeping into his greasepaint." Her deep-set eyes hold yours, very steady. "Someone in this building swapped them. Curtain is in one hour. Will you help me find out who?"