Wicked After Midnight

9

Falling asleep was all but impossible, thanks to the whoops and catcalls and clapping and stomping and music, always music, beneath the floor. That was one thing I’d taken for granted about caravan life: for the most part, it was quiet and allowed for privacy. After the last round of applause and demands for an encore died away in the theater below, I enjoyed a brief period of soft murmurings and shufflings as the house cleared out. And then silence. I waited for the girls to thunder upstairs again, but they didn’t. Only a few tired footsteps and gently closing doors broke the calm. I was on the verge of sleep then, but I did note that there should have been more of them, and I wondered where the others were. It bothered me but not enough to keep me awake.

It had been a long, long day, as if an entire week had passed since I’d stepped out the door of the inn in Callais, giggling and whispering with Cherie, Mademoiselle Caprice’s silvers heavy in my pocket. Now all I had there were a few francs and a bludbunny foot that had proven far from lucky. Funny how I had skipped the city of Ruin only to find true ruin. My outfit was destroyed, most of my money long gone. The only thing I had in excess were hairbobs, mine and Cherie’s.

When I woke up the next morning to the sound of a woman’s harsh, nasal cawing, I was clutching the bedraggled feathers of Cherie’s fascinator in my hand as if it had been my friend’s fingers. My dreams had been only of smoke.

“Vite! Vite! Vite! Wake up, my little hens. It is time.”

My door flew open, and I sat up blearily. The daimon staring at me from the hallway was a stranger, but that didn’t stop her from rushing across the room and dumping me out of the bed onto the dusty floor. She hadn’t very far to go, after all.

“Oh, so zis is the little tame Bludman I hear so much about, eh? Ze Demitasse? Looks like ze cup is half empty this morning. Vite, now! Hurry! The sun is up, and so will you be!”

I was too sleepy still to bother hissing and simply stared at her as if she had three eyes, mainly because she did. Of course, the third one was painted on her forehead in what would have been an Egyptian style on Earth. She wore a cobra headdress and golden robes and sandals. Her skin was the molten gold of sand in the sunset, and she was long-limbed and unnaturally skinny. She leaned down to slap me across the cheek but gently. I bit my lip to hold in a growl.

“Now,” she said firmly. “Or you’re out on the streets.”

I could only nod.

She flapped out the door like a crane that had crashed through a costume shop, and I stood, still a little sore from my time on horseback. Funny, how I could contort my body into all sorts of unnatural positions but could barely walk after a few hours of riding behind Vale. I closed the door and dressed quickly without benefit of the ewer of water that seemed the bare minimum for bathing in Sang. Yesterday’s clothes were now dirt-infused rags that needed to be boiled in lye, but I couldn’t very well go out in the cobweb-thin nightgown I’d been given. With no mirror, I could only pat my hair and hope there was a dressing room somewhere below so that I wouldn’t seem an utter mess to my new coworkers.

There was no lock on the door, but I checked that it was closed firmly before slipping a small pouch from my pocket and stuffing it into a hole in the mattress. I hadn’t told Vale about the few coins that remained from Mademoiselle Caprice’s stash, not to mention my stolen supply of Criminy’s sleeping powder. As of right now, they were the most valuable things I owned.

Outside in the hall, I ran into Bea and gave her what I hoped was the sign for Good morning and not I spit on you and chop off your arm. It must have been close, because she gave me a radiant smile and repeated the gesture. The one she tried next was familiar.

“Eat?” I shrugged. “I don’t eat.”

She shook her head no and did another sign.

“Mouth rain?” I guessed. “Drool?”

With a silent laugh, she made fangs of her fingers and tapped them against her neck.

“Oh! Do I need blood?”

An enthusiastic nod.

“It would help.”

She inclined her head, and I followed her down the stairs. In the hallway, my eyes went straight for the niche where Vale had kissed me—and I had kissed him back. Part of me hoped to see him there, maybe leaning against the brick wall nonchalantly and smirking, waiting for me. But he wasn’t there, of course. If all was going according to plan, he was out in the city, trying to find information on a pretty blond Bludman who had recently appeared under mysterious circumstances.

I almost missed it when Bea ducked down a different niche that was actually a hallway. Just a little ways in, she opened a hobbit-sized door and scrunched over before disappearing inside. With little choice, I followed her into the dark. Small tendrils of light occasionally filtered in from up high, but below my knees it was so dark that I couldn’t tell if the sandy debris under my feet was dirt, stone, or more crushed bone. When Bea finally knocked softly on a wooden door, I stopped behind her and held my breath, hoping for fresh air. At least I wasn’t trapped in here with a yummy human.

The door opened a few inches.

“Eh?”

The face that appeared in the gap surprised the hell out of me, as I’d written a paper on the symbolism of, well, pretty much her. It was the girl from Édouard Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère, except that her eyes weren’t dead. They were narrowed and annoyed under hay-colored bangs that had lost any luster they originally possessed.

Bea mimed the same thing she’d originally tried with me, the one that looked like mouth rain.

“No blood magic, Beatrice,” the girl said severely. “You know how Madame Sylvie feels about . . . oh.”

Bea had moved aside to reveal me, doubled over in the tunnel. “Hi,” I said with a little wave.

The girl sucked air in through her teeth. “Must be the new Bludman.” She put a reddened hand to her plump white neck, rendered pale by the deep blue velvet of her gown. “Are you as tame as they say?”

I grinned. “Want to step into the tunnel to find out or just give me some blood to be sure?”

Bea shook with a silent laugh, and the girl shrugged as if cleverness was an itchy flea in an especially tender place. The door closed, leaving Bea and me in the dark, her breathing strangely silent.

When the door opened again, the girl shoved a chilled vial into my hand. “It’s cold and old. But if you slip me a few coppers, I can maybe find some fresh.”

“I don’t have coppers now, but I will soon.”

She raised one plucked eyebrow. “I don’t have fresh blood now, but I will . . . then.”

The door closed, and Bea’s hand patted my forearm swiftly in apology.

“It’s okay. Everybody gives the new girl trouble, right?”

I caught a flash of her nod as she moved around me and back down the hall the way we had come. Considering that I couldn’t sip without throwing back my head, I curled my hands around the vial to warm it while I followed Bea out. I did notice a little gust of air about halfway through, and when I looked up, I saw a flash of lavender clouds lit by the weak sun. I hadn’t seen a window since entering Paradis, so it was the first time I’d seen the sky since stepping into the catacombs with Vale. The scent of ozone and impending storm filtered down like dust, and a lone raindrop sizzled on my cheek. Up ahead, Bea tapped the walls, and I hurried on.

I stepped out and straightened, leaning backward to crack my spine. As I lifted the vial to pop the top, Bea grabbed my arm and dragged me away, and I chugged it just as we entered the wings of the stage.

Paradis looked different in the morning. With no crowds, only half the lights, and a chill in the air, it called to mind a cavernous old church built on the bones of sacrifices and still echoing with noise that had fled. The girls were gathered in small groups or standing alone, practicing dance steps and bits of arias and acrobatics. A few daimon men moved among them, their foppish clothes and bored gazes indicating they had no interest in the rainbow of sleepy cabaret girls running through their acts in various states of undress.

“Did you get any sleep, chérie?”

Mel was the same emerald green she’d been when I’d met her last night, a color almost exactly the opposite of Mademoiselle Caprice and her sons in Criminy’s caravan, at least according to the color wheel. She was dressed in what amounted to a ballet costume on Earth—a leotard, tights, toe shoes, and a ragged tutu the color of dust. Four more daimons in similar costumes waited in a half-circle, whispering behind their hands and staring at me.

“A little,” I said. “After things got quiet.”

She laughed. “Oh, la. That’s probably the last time you’ll have the opportunity to sleep at all while Paradis is open. You’ll be so exhausted tonight you’ll barely be able to fall into your own bed.”

“Oh, goody.”

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Demi, but is honest work a problem for you?” The daimon who had so rudely awoken me appeared, toes tapping beneath her golden gown.

“No, madame.”

“Mademoiselle Charline. Your choreographer.”

I snorted to myself. Of course. Of course there would be a Sang version of Charles Zidler, the famous mastermind behind the Moulin Rouge.

In response, I was slapped across the face for the second time that morning, and this time, I most certainly did hiss. She didn’t even flinch. “If you wish to work at ze most famous cabaret in the entire world, you will learn respect, hard work, and my goddamn name, you vicious little scab.”

I swallowed down my desperate need to rip her to shreds but only for Cherie’s sake. “Yes, Mademoiselle Charline.”

Her mouth pursed. “Better. Now. Show me every single trick of which you are capable.”

“Here? Now?”

All the other daimons had stopped their own practice to stare at me, and I felt the full force of a hundred eyes of all different colors and shapes, some with unnerving horizontal pupils like a goat’s.

It was Mademoiselle Charline’s turn to snort, but hers was an elegant French snort.

“Fifty daimon dancing girls will be just as cruel as a thousand rich Parisian gentlemen. There’s no better trial of your mettle.”

I nodded. I could do this.

“I need three chairs, a mouth stand, a glass box, and a large ball.”

Mademoiselle Charline jerked her chin at the daimon girls standing behind Mel, and they scurried into the wings like terrified mice. Charline’s foot tapped as we waited, and I went through the abbreviated series of stretches Cherie had taught me years ago, the bare minimum that would limber up my body enough to perform the full range of motion required by someone in my profession. It was rote now, as natural as taking a shower or making a bed.

After years of careful practice, my elbows and shoulders could hyperextend easily, and my spine could curve in unnatural ways that I tried not to contemplate too deeply. I’d taken gymnastics as a child on Earth, but being a Bludman made my entire skeleton feel like a Slinky. I forgot, most of the time, that I wasn’t human anymore, but it was never more apparent than when I was contorted like a snake, my fangs digging into the stand while I balanced my feet on my head and salivated over the audience.

The daimon ballerinas reappeared, carrying much-mended practice pieces, not the more showy equipment that would be used during actual performances. I checked each item carefully to ensure that if I embarrassed myself, it would at least be on my own and not because of a weak chair leg or cracked mouth stand. Satisfied, I replicated the setup I had used at Criminy’s Clockwork Caravan and stood gracefully, arms up and show persona in place.

“Music?” I asked.

Charline nodded. “What do you wish?”

Did I detect the barest note of curiosity in Charline’s voice? I had to hope so. And I had to choose carefully . . . and quickly.

I glanced at the collected company, wishing everyone was in costume so I would know which niches might still be available to exploit and therefore which music to request. One group of girls wore Egyptian-style costumes that matched Madame Charline, and there were several butterflies, tons of ballerinas, and a collection of rococo-style ballgowns, but that didn’t help.

“What’s the most popular song for the can-can?” I finally asked.

Mademoiselle Charline raised one thin eyebrow. “What, pray tell, is the can-can?”

I barely restrained myself from bursting out into a Bludman’s characteristic, devil-may-care laughter. If the can-can hadn’t yet been invented in the Mortmartre of Sang’s Paris, then I suddenly knew exactly how I would make my name as a performer.

Was it cheating? Maybe.

Did I care? Hell, no.

Especially considering that popularity would, I hoped, bring me to Cherie. If Casper Sterling could become the world’s most talented musician just because Sang didn’t have a Beethoven, then Demi Ward would become La Demitasse by teaching the daimons how to kick their legs in the air. But I wouldn’t show that off today, where Charline might claim it for herself. No, I would wait until I was onstage and unstoppable, facing thousands of soon-to-be adoring fans. I’d wanted stardom before, but now that it was my key to being taken by the slavers and finding my best friend, I wanted it even more.

“Well, Mademoiselle Ward?”

“Do you have ‘The Infernal Galop’?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. We did the operetta last season.” When she snapped her fingers, Blaise ran from the wings with a disc and placed it reverently on the flower-shaped gramophone half-hidden by the curtains.

After a few moments of fuzz, the song began, tinkling along, and I went into my act with the quiet professionalism of a well-oiled and many-jointed robot. I hadn’t performed to the song before, but I knew it well enough from a lifetime of Earth cartoons and movies that I could anticipate the changes in pace and work them into my routine.

Although I had used a few flashy moves to persuade first Vale and then Madame Sylvie to take me on, I understood that this wasn’t a job interview; it was a dictionary of Demi, a catalog of my abilities that would determine my place in the show. Mademoiselle Charline alternated between scribbling in a notebook and staring at me with narrow, dark eyes, her small lips pursed like a dog’s ass.

I was flawless, of course. After doing the same routine for years on top of my wagon, I knew the moves by heart. The only thing missing from my act was a partner. Without Cherie, I had to skip the trickier parts or rely on the stacked chairs or mouth stand or ball to make it interesting.

“That move is traditionally done with a partner. Would you like to borrow someone?”

As my teeth gripped the stand, I glanced at Mademoiselle Charline in annoyance. Elegantly stepping out of the move with a flourish, I murmured, “I am a solo act, mademoiselle.”

“But you had a partner.”

“Yes. Had. And I don’t care for another.”

“I see.”

More scribbling, and I bent over backward into the next move.

When I was done, the crowd clapped politely. There had even been some whispering during the trickier parts that Criminy had devised for Cherie and me, moves that couldn’t be accomplished by a human or daimon. But Mademoiselle Charline had never cracked a smile or stopped her frantic note-taking; she and Madame Sylvie had to be a true force of nature when they were both in the same room and focused on the same thing. Now she closed the red leather book and stared at me so hard that I felt as if someone had set a lit match under my nose. Even her third, painted eye seemed in on the scrutiny.

“This song—why did you choose it?”

A light laugh hid my crafty smile. “The operetta is traditionally performed by daimons, and that song is about a party in hell, correct?”

“Of course. Everyone knows this.”

“Then debut the Bludman as the queen of hell. Let there be a party of dancers around me as I writhe. Fake fire, imps, whatever. Make it a spectacle.”

“Hmm.” More scribbling. “You did not answer the question.”

So I told her the truth. “Because it’s wild and unstoppable and dark and mad.”

“Interesting. You’re dismissed to costuming. Tonight you will be backstage, helping with makeup and dress. Learn as much as possible. You’ll debut Saturday. Our biggest night. I’ll have notes to you after tonight’s show, including choreography.”

“Okay.”

“No. You will say, ‘Merci, Mademoiselle Charline.’ ” The sizzle of her gaze lit my cheeks.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle Charline.”

“Now go. Vite. We have things to do besides stare at your pasty flesh.”

She turned and began yelling at Mel and her friends, and I felt a tug on my bustle. Blaise.

“Hurry, Demi. Before she notices you a second time.”

I followed the daimon boy across the stage and into a new hallway, one I hadn’t seen before. He waved and abandoned me in front of an open door, and I tentatively knocked on the jamb, just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the sewing machine within.

“Entrez.”

The daimon hunched over the black machine was the oldest-looking creature I’d seen in Sang thus far. She was going gray all over, the stripes of her wrinkles dusted with what must have once been the same blue skin shared by Bea and Blaise. The bright orange wig on her head and the paint on her lips showed that she was still trying, and her obvious disdain for the aging process made me smile.

“Hmm. The Bludman. Don’t typically care for your kind. But Bea says you’re a good egg, so I suppose I won’t sew poison into your skirt.” Unlike the other daimons, she didn’t have a wholly Franchian accent, and I suspected she had spent time in Sangland.

“Uh . . . thank you?”

She finally looked up, giving me the same all-over scrutiny that was starting to feel invasive and annoying. I had been with Criminy’s caravan so long that I had forgotten what it was like to be the new kid. Fortunately, my natural Bludman’s pride superseded my human insecurity, and I stared her down as I had everyone else, as I would continue to do until eyes met me with curiosity and interest instead of doubt and suspicion.

“You’re filthy.”

“I’m well aware. My coach was attacked by slavers, and then I spent most of yesterday on horseback or in the catacombs.”

She wheezed laughter. “Smoke, horse, and shit. We need to burn those rags. Take ’em off. Toss ’em in the fire.”

I searched the room for a changing screen and found nothing but the open door and racks and racks of the same sort of costumery that filled Master Antonin’s wagon in the caravan.

“Is there a changing room?”

Another wheeze. “You’re in it, kid.”

Close to the fire, I stripped off my boots and stepped out of the leggings that had once been artfully ripped and ruffled but now resembled mummy wrappings. I’d left my corset off that morning, knowing I would need to either perform or practice, both of which were almost impossible with tight steel bones running up my ribs. I briefly had bruises after showing off yesterday in my Pinky costume. Feeling cold and tender, I untied my bustle.

“Is this salvageable, at least?”

She squinted. “Two years out of season. Won’t do. Burn it.”

Luckily, I remembered to remove my lucky bludbunny foot before tossing the mud-rimed skirt into the fire, where it smoked with the dark hint of bone rot and mud. Now I was in nothing but my short chemise, my jacket, and the abbreviated bloomers I’d introduced around the caravan. It had been disturbing enough to learn that in Sang, I would hunger for and drink only blood. It had been even worse to discover that no one had yet invented a decent set of women’s undergarments, and most women just let the breeze blow by. After several exhaustive sketches and very ticklish measurements, Master Antonin had finally caved and constructed bloomers that were tight and stretchy but perfect for performing. The lace-ruffled edge was his own design and itched me horribly.

“Are you wearing a diaper, girl?” Finally, I had the old daimon’s attention.

“I call them bloomers. Women’s undergarments.”

She stood and hobbled over to me on feet so curled I wondered if daimons had ever practiced foot binding. Gnarled gray fingers poked me with impersonal curiosity, tugging at the fabric and pinching the tea-stained ruffles. “Don’t know why I never thought of that,” she finally said.

“Does that mean I don’t have to burn them?”

“Leave ’em there, in the bin. I’ll have ’em laundered and tear ‘em apart to make a pattern. I take it you’ll want more?”

“If it’s not too much trouble. I’m not accustomed to . . .” The Earth girl inside me almost said “free-ballin’ it,” but the Bludman of Sang interceded. “Feeling a breeze down there.”

Another wheeze. “You’d better get accustomed to a breeze, chérie. This is Paradis. The day may start off still and fair, but it’s bound to end in a hurricane. Fancy bloomies won’t change that.”

“Bloomers.”

“Yes, yes. Take ’em off, and get over here. You’re wasting my time, and I don’t have much left.”

With a last glance at the open door, I stripped off my jacket and chemise and, last, the bloomers, leaving them in a heap on the floor. When the old daimon snapped her fingers and pointed to her side, I walked to the appointed spot and stood, naked and not quite shivering, as Bludmen didn’t do that. But it still felt completely freaky, being stripped down to the soft parts. Everyone in the caravan, especially in Sangland, was so careful to keep skin carefully covered, in part because of people like me. But I’d developed a habit of using my clothes as armor, perhaps, and that was to end now.

“Is this for my act?” I asked, and she wheezed away.

“You don’t get your own costume until Mademoiselle Charline orders it. This is to keep your measurements on hand and get you decent enough to run around backstage. You want to be fancy, you have to earn it.”

She bade me step up on a box before a mirror and took my measurements with sharp efficiency. I did my best to hold still and not hiss when she hit a particularly tender area. She didn’t write any numbers down until the end, when she entered them in a large ledger, licking the point of a pencil in between. I glanced over her shoulder, noting line upon line of names and measurements in neat columns. Several of them had been crossed out with one definitive stroke of her pencil.

Noticing my interest, she snapped the ledger shut and went to sort through a long rack of clothes, clearly the everyday stuff. The colors were washed-out and simple, probably made from old sheets or refashioned from the last generation of attire. I longed to run my hands over the hanging racks of brightly glittering costumes. Clouds of tulle and shimmering sequins and the spark of glitter called to me, and I couldn’t wait for the day when I would go backstage to dress and wait for that breathless moment before the curtain rose.

“Petticoats: black. Skirt: dark blue. Chemise: eh, used to be white.” She shoved a stack of fabric into my arms and shooed me away while she turned back to the rack. I dutifully slipped on the chemise and stepped into the petticoats, tying the frayed cord tightly. The skirt had to go over my head to fall over them both and had buttons up the back. The first few times I’d gotten dressed in Sang, back when Mrs. Cleavers had ruled the caravan’s costume wagon with an iron, pointy fist, I’d mucked it all up, trying to step into the skirt or putting my corset on before my boots. Now it was as simple as putting on underwear, jeans, and a T-shirt. I had long ago given up hope of ever ending up in a world where you could walk outside in only one layer of clothing or show sleek, tanned legs in shorts.

At least I got to enjoy the sensation of life without the typical corset. Most girls in mainland Sangland put on a corset at age twelve and only took it off for half an hour at a time for the bare minimum of bathing. By the time they were my age, they were permanently molded into hourglass form, most of them, and couldn’t laugh deeply for want of lung space. My life, although strange, was an improvement on that front.

Speaking of which . . . “Is there a shower?”

The costumer didn’t turn around. “There’s rain.”

“Then how can I get clean?”

“I told you: there’s rain.” She wheezed herself into a coughing fit. “But if you don’t like shaking your rump in the alleys, it’s ewer and cloth, same as anywhere.” I sniffed my armpit and grimaced. “What, you don’t have a ewer in your room?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Tsk. Girls around here. Sticky, sticky fingers. And not just the ones that were born with ’em. I’ll have that fixed.”

That earned a genuine smile from me. “Thank you.”

She handed me a capelike jacket and went to rummage in a drawer. “Never been as fine a life as it looks like from the audience. Out there, they only see the lights, the glamour, the feathers. Never see the freezing attics in winter, the bruises on your waist, the girls who’ll stab you in the back just to swallow your pain and fear. Never think about how the brightest stars wink out the fastest. All the magic happens onstage, and real life starts when the curtain goes down. Back here, behind the curtain, the world stands still.”

“Are you saying I should find other employment?”

She smirked. “You’re a lifer, honey. We can smell our own. I’m just saying to watch your back. Wherever you came from, it’s a smaller, sweeter place than this. Don’t let Mortmartre kill what’s best in you.”

I was so intent on her words that I accidentally misbuttoned the jacket, and she smacked my fussing hands away to fix it herself.

“And watch out for Limone. That girl’s as sour as they come. Men like that, for some reason.” She handed me a pair of worn linen slippers, which were a little loose without . . .

“Stockings?”

She wagged her head. “No point. Not in here. Not until show time. No men and no customers allowed past the door until dusk, and then only in black tie and after paying. Girls here have already seen everything you’ve got and then some.”

Although the air felt good on my legs after so long in dirty leggings, I wished for the millionth time that they made disposable five-blade razors in Sang. I’d never appreciated drugstores until I woke up in a place where toiletries were sold by traveling tinkers or mixed up from a magician’s grimoire.

When the old daimon handed me a brush, I pulled down the rest of my hair, making a neat stack of pins on her table. As I gently brushed the dried sweat out of my dark waves, she shoved me back and pressed my shoulders until I landed with a thump in her chair. Soon the brush was in her claw, and she was ripping through my hair until it snapped with static. Once it was all done, she began braiding it so tightly the corners of my eyes pinched. I had grown up calling it a French braid. But here it was a Franchian braid, and if I remembered correctly from the papers, it had fallen out of favor with anyone of taste and class.

I sighed, and she patted my shoulder.

“You’ll be onstage soon enough, dear. Impatience is a bitch of a mistress.”

“I could perform now.”

“Ah, but you won’t.”

Her hand stayed on my shoulder as if she understood that my every instinct screamed for me to leap up and run away. I wasn’t sure which bothered me more, that I wasn’t allowed to get onstage and begin my ascendency to stardom or that Cherie felt farther away than ever while I sat here, hopeless, doing nothing. I looked up at the bare lightbulb shining directly onto the sewing machine and realized that I wanted—no, needed—to see the sky. Criminy had always told me that cities were awful for Bludmen, and I began to understand what he meant. We were wild things, predators who didn’t take well to obedience. We belonged out in the wild, no matter how nicely we dressed up to pass, harmless, among our prey. I’d felt more myself bareback on Vale’s mare than I did sitting here, still, tightly braided, and obedient.

“Go on, then. They’ll be expecting you backstage.” I perked up, and she added, “To sweep up feathers, probably, or act as a pretty net for the high fliers. Don’t get excited yet.”

“At least my feet will be on the stage.”

“That’s the spirit, kid.”

I stood and stared at the open door. It stared right back.

“Thanks for your help and advice . . .”

“They just call me Blue.”

“Thanks, Blue.”

“Be careful out there, kid. You will never be the most dangerous predator in Paradis.”

I nodded, one hand on the doorjamb. I really didn’t want to go out there. I was far more terrified of being backstage than I was of feeling the spotlight and a thousand eyes. I already knew how to perform. I didn’t know how to fit in with my new coworkers, especially without Cherie at my side. In the past six years, I’d come to rely on her, for her knowledge, friendship, and understanding. Now I was alone. And I couldn’t get through the door.

Until I heard a certain familiar voice on the other side.

“Bonjour, bébé.”