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Théâtre Bohème, 8 December 1870
Johann threw Marie to the ground and lay on top of her. Something on her costume ripped, and cold air tickled her side.
The thought floated through her panic, Merde, I suppose Maman was right about letting this one out.
Had the bullets hit Cobb? Someone else?
“Are you shot?” she whispered to Johann. Please don’t be shot, please be all right.
“No, are you?”
“No.” She tried to remember who was in the theatre. “But Maman. Maman!” She frantically looked around, but all she could make out was lumps in the dark. Some weren’t moving. The last she had seen Lucille, she could have been in the path of a bullet, especially if the shot had gone wild.
The house lights, which were on a different system, slowly illuminated. Although there was a trail of blood, C
