Bo Li was somewhat worried that Erik would disappear again for a period of time. If that happened, her haunted house plan would have to be put on hold.
Yet the next morning, when she awoke, another complete set of dresses had appeared on her bed.
Bo Li: “……”
She put them on with mixed feelings, thinking that if he were to open a clothing shop, he would surely earn a fortune.
After breakfast, Flora told her that a middle-aged woman had come in response to the recruitment notice in the newspaper.
The moment Bo Li heard “middle-aged woman,” she thought of Madam Merlin, and could not help feeling wary.
She had suffered once already, and would not let it happen a second time.
The applicant turned out to be a Black woman. Her former employers all called her “Aunt Freeman.”
Aunt Freeman was large and robust, quick with her hands and feet, straightforward in her manner of speaking. She had previously worked in a sanatorium as a caregiver, specializing in tending to female patients with neurasthenia.
Hearing that she might need to take care of three deformed people, Aunt Freeman did not so much as raise an eyebrow: “I can look after such people.”
Bo Li thought for a moment and said, “But what I seek is not a hospital nurse, but someone who can be trusted as family—can I place my trust in you?”
She said this deliberately.
An employer who hastily played the emotional card and asked employees to be like family only revealed one thing—an unwillingness to pay wages on time.
If Aunt Freeman were a swindler or thief, eager to gain entry into the villa, she would have immediately accepted the title of “family.”
But if Aunt Freeman were an upright person, her first reaction upon hearing such words would certainly be that the employer was unreliable.
As expected, Aunt Freeman frowned slightly and said, “Miss Claremont, though my skin is black, my heart is bright—many people look down upon us free Blacks. How could I ask to be treated as family? I do not seek to be treated as kin, only that you treat me as you would a factory woman worker and pay my wages on time.”
Bo Li first apologized for her abruptness, then brought out an already-prepared agreement.
“Of course I will pay you on time,” she said. “This is the agreement. It sets forth your duties, working hours, and monthly wages. Should there ever come a day when I fail to pay you on time, you may take this agreement and file a complaint with an arbitrator.”
“Likewise, if you neglect your duties, I too may use this agreement to hold you accountable—”
“I understand,” Aunt Freeman said. “I can read. I am not one of those without learning or perspective who thinks anything in writing must be a trap.”
After reading the agreement, she neatly signed her name and pressed her handprint: “I know signing this is of benefit to me as well.”
Bo Li was very satisfied with Aunt Freeman and let her choose a room for herself.
Aunt Freeman chose the servants’ room on the villa’s first floor, reasoning that it was close to the kitchen and convenient for work.
The interview had gone so smoothly on the first try that Bo Li almost thought she could gather all her staff in a single day.
But as it turned out, those who came afterward were either glib and slippery, looking like common rogues, or else haughty, relying on their experience serving wealthy households, scorning her troupe of deformed performers.
A forthright, honest, and reasonable woman like Aunt Freeman was one in a hundred.
Two days later, Bo Li only barely managed to finalize the choice of a coachman.
Speaking of which, she had not seen Caesar in quite some time—that ill-tempered white Arabian horse must have been taken away by Erik.
Since Caesar only obeyed Erik’s commands, Bo Li did not miss it.
What she truly missed was Erik.
Since the day he left, he had never once appeared before her again.
And yet, every morning, when she opened her eyes, there would be another complete set of dresses laid out.
He was still shadowing her, still watching her, still choosing her attire for each day—he simply no longer allowed her to see him.
What gave Bo Li a little comfort was that he would also look through the script she had written for Marbelle regarding the haunted house, leaving brief remarks in red ink, as though a teacher correcting homework.
His mind was frighteningly sharp—calm and lucid in thought, quick to respond. Even in fields he had never before touched, he could swiftly draw analogies and master them.
At times, before she had even finished writing a passage, he had already guessed her meaning and provided a cutting, incisive insight.
Bo Li greatly enjoyed working with him.
He was too clever—so clever that she sometimes felt as if she had never crossed over at all, but was conversing with a modern person.
No, even some modern people did not necessarily possess the breadth of vision he had.
He had traveled too widely, seen too many landscapes, learned too much. He was near omniscient, almost the most complex person in the world.
Bo Li longed to speak with him face to face, but no matter how she pleaded, even to the point of threats and enticements, he refused to appear.
She had not expected things to turn out this way.
Not long ago, to him, frightening her had been nothing more than a game—a game of seeking physical contact.
Now, when she wished to play that game, he had sheathed his dagger, no longer intimidating her with the same unrestrained ease as before.
Should she feel glad—or saddened?
Bo Li shook her head, pushed aside the jumble of thoughts, and devoted herself to writing.
Before the official performance began, there was one more task she had to complete—marketing.
In modern society, how did one turn a person into a commodity?
—By constructing a persona.
Like the television programs of earlier years, when contestants would stand on stage and speak at length of their tragic experiences in order to draw votes.
Later, though such vote-drawing methods faded away, the approach of “building a persona and attracting fans” was preserved forever.
In modern times, netizens had grown weary of the endless stream of personas presented by celebrities and influencers, even developing a spirit of resistance against them.
But fortunately, this was the nineteenth century. People had never seen such a marketing strategy.
Bo Li planned to write the life stories of several of the circus’s deformed performers into short pieces and publish them in the local newspapers.
Then she would hire a few newsboys to hawk them in crowded places such as taverns, theaters, restaurants, gardens, and squares.
After that, she would employ two men to pose as gentlemen, arguing over the matter in a tavern—so heatedly that they would nearly draw pistols for a duel—thus attracting the attention of those nearby.
Of course, there would be no real duel to the death. It was only a gimmick, meant to stir curiosity in people about the contents of the newspaper.
Bo Li had never been a merchant, and did not know if the method would succeed—it was merely a tentative attempt.
Many people thought that actors need only know how to act, but in truth, it was a profession of immense complexity—not only requiring the performance of what was written in the script, but also a certain creative ability, to design a character’s lines, movements, and gestures.
In order to become a good actress, Bo Li had read many books on drama. She possessed a certain foundation in writing—her prose could not be called refined, yet Marbelle’s story was already so thrilling in itself that even without embellishment it could shake the heart.
When she had finished, she went to the local newspaper office, slipped the manager a sum of money, and asked him to print it on the front page.
The local papers usually published trifling matters: a lost dog, a runaway cat, a hat left behind on the tram, a plague of rats somewhere with a generous reward offered for extermination, and the like.
When she went to make her submission, she deliberately dressed as a man, looking cultured and refined, like a young gentleman of talent.
The newspaper manager assumed she was some wealthy youth with idle dreams and money to burn. Without even looking at the content, he agreed, for there was no great news at the moment anyway.
At first, people paid little attention to Marbelle’s story—until two “gentlemen,” quarreling over it, nearly came to the point of dueling.
Though it ended without incident, it stirred no small amount of excitement in the city.
Many began asking: Who was Marbelle?
Where was this circus, and when would it be performing in New Orleans?
Bo Li was in no rush to announce the performance date. She continued to build momentum in taverns and other such places.
She spread the word: anyone who could watch the entire performance without leaving midway would receive one hundred dollars.
If Marbelle’s story had stirred only a small circle of discussion, this announcement set the entire city ablaze with talk.
One hundred dollars!
One must know—even if one worked at a factory treadling a sewing machine until sparks flew, one could only earn a single dollar in a day.
—Was the circus manager mad, or did she simply mean to rake in money and abscond?
For a time, ladies and gentlemen alike were debating the matter.
Many were convinced it was a swindle. There was everything in the world, except a “performance that could not be endured to the end.”
Unless, perhaps, the circus manager was playing word games, forcing them to watch without food or drink for several days and nights.
It could only be said that the circus manager’s insight was shallow—she had never seen the destitute poor.
—For the sake of a hundred dollars, even if they had to go without food for days and nights, they would endure to the end.
The affair even drew the attention of the New Orleans police. The sheriff came personally to warn Bo Li not to be clever at others’ expense—if someone were truly to starve to death watching a performance, it would be no trivial matter.
But Bo Li only smiled mysteriously: “Please be assured, the performance will not exceed three hours.”
At that, even the sheriff grew curious. What kind of performance could it be, that gave her the courage to make such a promise?
The reason Bo Li could make such a promise, of course, was Erik.
When she was writing Marbelle’s story, she had once spoken aloud into the air:
“…I have a bold idea. If it succeeds, we may earn a great deal of money, and become stars of the entire city. But if it fails, we may become infamous, even destitute.”
“Tell me, should we do it—or not?”
The bedchamber was silent.
But she knew—Erik was in the room.
He was watching her.
Breathing in the darkness.
As expected, when her words fell, a low, cold voice sounded at her ear:
“What idea?”
Bo Li blinked: “Can we speak face to face?”
No reply.
“Fine, fine,” Bo Li said a little peevishly, “whether this idea succeeds does not depend on me, but on you.”
He was silent for a moment, then slowly spoke: “Me?”
“As long as you can realize my design,” she said, “we will succeed.”
Bo Li did not know that as she said this, Erik was standing right behind her.
He had long been accustomed to dwelling hidden in darkness.
Without his permission, she would never perceive his presence.
He understood the meaning of her words.
She was testing his attitude toward her, forcing him to admit to the relationship of partners.
Her mind was more nimble than he had imagined—though lacking in great wisdom, she was exceedingly quick-witted in small matters.
She never shied from showing her face in public; when necessary, she would even don men’s attire, calling other men brothers, and, given the chance, would flirt easily with ladies and young misses.
He had noticed those incongruities upon her—an Eastern accent, though by rights she should never have set foot in the Eastern United States.
Nor was she like other ladies, so easily embarrassed.
Many ladies, in their skirts, revealed no more than two inches of shoe; yet she often wore Turkish trousers, rolling the legs up to her knees, revealing pale and smooth calves as she walked back and forth through the villa.
He knew she did this not out of wantonness, but most likely because she came from a region of freer customs—only if raised so from childhood would her conduct be so open and unrestrained.
Yet when he saw her appear thus before others, he still felt—jealousy.
He did not know what he was jealous of—her frankness with her body, or that he did not wish others to see it.
The thought filled him with an intense unease.
What unsettled him more was the realization that he seemed to have felt jealousy many times already, only now recognizing that this emotion was indeed jealousy.
Why should he feel jealousy?
Just like that day, when she pressed closer step by step, insisting on seeing his face—why then had he felt panic?
She was like a little bird in the palm of his hand.
He could so easily have killed her.
And yet—why could he not bring himself to do it?
Her neck was so slender, her bones so fragile.
Before, he had nearly snapped her neck.
Why could he not do it this time?
During this time, countless times he had wanted to kill her.
Yet the moment his palm closed around her neck, feeling her pulse, what came to him first was not killing intent—but a subtle tremor, like an electric shock.
He had killed many. Under his terrifying strength, no one had ever lasted more than three seconds.
Her skin was warm, the blood vessels beneath it throbbed, her breathing was even.
She was utterly defenseless before him.
He could, in an instant, snap her neck and end her life without pain.
It could even be counted a merciful death.
And yet, her warmth seemed to press against his body as though it possessed a life of its own.
He felt his disguise dissolving.
The shadows were driven away, the darkness receding.
Even in her sleep, she made him feel the shame of being laid bare beneath countless gazes.
As though his mask had been torn away, his gloves stripped off—leaving nowhere to hide.
Most terrifying of all, even to such a point, he still could not strike.
Just as now—he had heard the undertone in her words, her intent, her probing.
And yet he still gave his assent: “I can realize it.”
His tongue, his thoughts, all betrayed his will.
He felt himself no longer master of his own body—yet powerless to stop it.