27
Théâtre Bohème, 4 December 1870
Iris and Marie exited the theatre through the back. Iris kept the lamp shielded to the point that they could only see a few feet in front of them and pondered how the threat of the Prussians and the uncertainty around the airship crash made them all feel like they needed to scurry and hide like rodents trying to avoid a large cat.
“Ooof,” Marie said and stumbled. She caught herself, but her legs got tangled in her skirt, and she landed on her derriere. “Twice in one night. That’s gonna be sore tomorrow.”
“Are you all right? What did you trip over?”
Iris helped Marie to her feet, and in the lamplight, the large bundle of cloth resolved into the body of a man. A man with chestnut hair and aristocratic cheekbones who gazed at the sky with a surprised an
