The next afternoon, the front of the tavern was packed so tightly with onlookers that not a drop could slip through, all citizens come to watch the spectacle.
Bo Li arranged for the newspaper reporters to be placed in a hidden spot—where they could both observe the performance and yet not disturb the three gentlemen in their immersive haunted-house experience.
Upon hearing the news, the policemen thought it over and decided they still ought to warn the three gentlemen.
Bo Li was currently basking in too much attention. If all three gentlemen were frightened, she might, in one leap, become the most famous woman in the entire city.
This could very well mislead the city’s ladies and young misses, prompting them to follow her example and brazenly show themselves in public.
In that case, the police’s workload would increase drastically—for ladies and misses were so delicate that they had to be accompanied by men whenever they went out, otherwise they would attract the jokes or covetous gazes of improper fellows.
The policemen had no wish, on Bo Li’s account, to be scurrying about the streets every day, guarding a crowd of fragile women.
Thus they sought out the three gentlemen and told them that Bo Li’s performance was exceedingly novel, unlike anything they had ever seen.
Once inside, they would each take on different roles; only by finding clues and solving puzzles could they leave the tavern.
Only leaving the tavern could be counted as “having seen the entire performance.”
The policemen further added that the reason Henry had fainted from fright was because he had drawn the identity card of “Marbelle.”
If any among them were to draw the “Marbelle” card, then either Bo Li must be asked to change it, or that person must be specially protected, and they must not scatter apart.
Otherwise, Henry’s fate would serve as their cautionary tale.
The gentlemen—Mitt, Wright, and Davis—fell into deep thought after hearing the policemen’s advice.
Mitt was a handsome young man, the one with the best family background and the most high-spirited among the three.
Wright and Davis had little desire to stand out. When they saw Bo Li say in the newspaper that they were unlike Southern gentlemen, they had already felt inclined to retreat. It was Mitt who forcibly kept them there, declaring that he must teach Bo Li a lesson.
During the heated disputes in the newspapers, Wright and Davis had been astonished by Bo Li’s shamelessness.
They had never seen such a troublesome woman.
Had Bo Li possessed even the slightest sense of shame, she would have already taken her own life in humiliation the moment they accused her of parading herself in public.
Do not underestimate the weight of such an accusation.
What is the most important thing for a person in this world?
—Reputation.
In high society, whether man or woman, all placed utmost importance upon their reputation.
Without it, those around you would cease to greet you, cease to invite you as a guest, cease to include you in various associations and clubs.
Such were the rules by which this world operated: everyone dreaded being branded with a bad reputation and cast out by their neighbors.
Yet Bo Li cared nothing for her reputation.
At Mitt’s instigation, Wright and Davis had resorted to using the most vicious words they had ever spoken to a woman in their lives—unfaithful to womanly virtue.
Any respectable woman, upon hearing such a charge, would be gravely shaken and shut herself indoors.
But Bo Li acted as though she had heard nothing, continuing each day to dress in men’s clothing and go out as usual.
Wright and Davis both wanted to give up. In the past, if they had let slip a curse word in front of ladies, they would apologize repeatedly; to quarrel with Bo Li to such an extent truly appeared disgraceful.
Mitt, however, said indifferently, “This only proves she is not a respectable woman. If you call a courtesan unfaithful to womanly virtue, how much reaction can you really expect from her?”
Wright and Davis exchanged glances, feeling that although Bo Li could hardly be considered a proper lady, she was by no means reduced to the level of a courtesan.
Still, they did not argue; there was no need to quarrel with Mitt on Bo Li’s account.
“What should we do then?” Davis asked. “I went to the hospital to visit Henry Jensen. The doctors all said it was indeed because of excessive fright that he had been sent there.”
“Gentlemen,” Mitt said carelessly, “this style of performance is indeed unheard of. But we already know that, during the performance, someone will come out to frighten us. Unless one is a coward of the most pitiful sort, I truly cannot imagine who would be so frightened by such a method as to faint.”
“But the policemen’s warning did not seem false,” said Wright.
“Those policemen have been sitting idly in their posts, doing nothing, for more than a day or two,” Mitt said coolly. “Most likely, they took money from Claremont and came to intimidate us.”
Wright and Davis were persuaded by Mitt.
Yet just as they had dressed properly and were about to leave for the tavern to watch the performance, they were stopped with great concern by their wives.
“…That day, after Claremont came to see us,” Mrs. Davis found it hard to speak, “something very dreadful occurred.”
“Let me speak,” Mrs. Wright stepped forward. “That day, we were holding a reading circle when Claremont somehow found us and asked us to watch your test of courage… Her behavior was perfectly normal, but after she left…”
She drew in a deep breath, exchanged glances with the other two ladies, her face still pale: “Every lady present suffered a most severe hallucination—it was as though we were possessed by some evil spirit—”
“That will do, ladies,” Mitt interrupted them, not sparing so much as a glance at his own wife who was struggling to speak. “Thank you for your warning. We shall, of course, be most cautious.”
The three then boarded the carriage. Wright, recalling the look on his wife’s face, said hesitantly, “Catherine has never told a lie. Perhaps that woman Claremont truly has something uncanny about her…”
Davis was just about to speak when Mitt said scornfully, “Enough. You even believe the words of women?”
Thus the two could only fall silent.
When the carriage arrived before the tavern Bo Li had rented, the coachman was startled by the scene before his eyes—the street was packed with people, if not the whole city, then at least half its citizens had come to witness the spectacle.
Mitt, on seeing it, showed no change of expression; he only thought Bo Li all the more ridiculous.
He admitted that the performance she had devised was exceedingly novel, but that was all.
As a mere woman, how could she comprehend the vastness of men’s horizons? When she had still been studying embroidery at home, he had already traveled in Europe, and the landscapes he had seen outnumbered the people she had ever met.
With what could she possibly frighten him?
Mitt stepped down from the carriage, his face as calm as still water—only to see Bo Li standing at the very front.
In order to leave the gentlemen no grounds for criticism, Bo Li had deliberately changed into a gown—a tea-green dress, its hem shrouded in a gauze as light as mist.
She wore a wide-brimmed hat at a slant, the brim undulating like a lotus leaf, revealing half of a refined and lovely face. Her pair of brown eyes sparkled with life, as though they might at any moment extend a paw to scratch.
Mitt was instantly struck dumb.
He had seen Bo Li before—at that time, dressed in men’s clothing, passing by his doorway. Wright had called him to look; he had put down his cards, glanced casually, and thought her nothing remarkable.
Who would have thought, once she donned a gown, she would be so—
Captivating.
Wright and Davis, too, were stunned.
What shocked them even more was that Mitt, who only moments ago had worn a face full of impatience, now seemed like an entirely different person. He stepped forward, nodded politely to Bo Li, and said with refined courtesy, “Miss Claremont, to see you in person far surpasses what I had heard.”
Wright and Davis had both seen how he cursed Bo Li in private, so to witness him now in such a manner left them utterly dumbfounded.
Bo Li made a soft sound, “Mm—are you Mr. Davis?”
“I am Mitt,” Mitt fixed his gaze on her, enunciating each word, “Walter Mitt.”
Bo Li smiled and nodded. “Very well, Mr. Mitt, this way, please.”
She turned around and led them into the tavern, had them sign a waiver agreement, and informed them of the matters to keep in mind while watching the performance.
Throughout the entire process, Mitt never once ceased staring into Bo Li’s eyes.
He was exceedingly confident in his own appearance; any woman who had ever laid eyes on him invariably succumbed to his handsome looks.
So long as Bo Li would but take a closer look at his features, he was certain he could hold her in the palm of his hand.
But who could have thought—she seemed to see through his intention, and never once cast him a proper glance:
“Gentlemen, please draw a card—these are the identity cards for the performance.”
Mitt drew one at random, turned it over, and saw that it was the “Marbelle” card.
Wright whispered, “The policemen said this card is problematic… Should we change it?”
Bo Li blinked her lashes. “We generally do not provide a card-changing service. Whatever card is drawn, that is the role one must play. But if Mr. Mitt happens to be rather timid and easily frightened, it would not be impossible to let him switch…”
Mitt’s brows knit slightly. He cast a cold glance at Wright and said in a frigid tone:
“If you wish to change your card, then go and change it. Leave me out of it.”
Davis tugged at Wright’s sleeve and whispered into his ear, “Don’t bring trouble on yourself. He’s taken a fancy to Claremont.”
Wright was stunned, lowering his voice to a whisper, “Didn’t he say Claremont was worse than… a courtesan?” The last words he pressed down to the barest breath.
Davis, somewhat disgusted with Wright’s slowness, said with a trace of exasperation, “He saw how Claremont looks and regretted it, that’s all. In a while, don’t say another word—if you provoke Mitt’s temper, you’ll suffer for it.”
Mitt did not notice the exchange between Davis and Wright. He was feeling somewhat irritable, not knowing how to attract Bo Li’s attention.
What vexed him even more was that there were far too many people around.
Otherwise, he would simply have pinched her chin and forced her to look at him.
Before the performance began, they had to pass through a secret passage.
Mitt finally seized the chance, walking to Bo Li’s side, and asked in a low voice:
“Miss Claremont, if I should be fortunate enough to pass the test, may I invite you to dine with me?”
Only then did Bo Li notice Mitt’s odd behavior—so, the reason he had been staring at her all along, occasionally touching his nose, was merely an attempt at striking up conversation.
She had thought he was about to raise a hand against her.
After all, most of the harsh criticisms that had filled the newspapers had come from his hand.
“Isn’t it a little too early to say such things?” Bo Li gazed at him with feigned innocence. “You have not even begun the test.”
Mitt leaned closer, his breath almost brushing against her face. “I only want a promise.”
It seemed he had rinsed his mouth with cologne; his breath carried a refined fragrance.
Yet Bo Li felt nothing but genuine disgust.
Suddenly, a jarring thought flashed through her mind—if it were Erik pressing so close, would she feel disgust?
Not in the least.
She would even find it thrilling.
She would hope he came nearer, nearer still, until his breath and his muscles pressed down upon her completely.
Bo Li had never been able to make sense of that fluttering in her chest whenever she faced Erik. Was it fear, or was it attraction?
Or perhaps… it was both.
After all, who could ever clearly draw the boundary of what is called “attraction”?
Bo Li did not resist the idea of love. Her attitude toward it was simple: if it could be had, she would have it; if not, then she would let it go.
If Erik also liked her, she would not mind having a romance with him.
But the question was—would Erik like her?
This was the world of The Phantom of the Opera. Erik was its male lead; whether in the original work or in horror films, he would fall in love with the heroine, committing murder upon murder for her sake.
Bo Li was not a woman of low self-esteem. She knew she had some small gift in the arts, yet compared with Erik, that gift was scarcely worth mentioning.
—He was a character in a work of fiction. No one could surpass the brilliance and genius of a fictional creation.
Her own singing was ordinary at best, not even half as good as that soprano he had mocked the other day.
Under such circumstances, would he truly fall in love with her?
The look in his eyes when he gazed at her—at times chillingly cold, at times burning with a restless agitation.
Like a fire about to explode at any moment, yet also like a dark, obscure hunger.
Bo Li had no gift of mind-reading; she could not tell in the least what that gaze meant—was it the desire to embrace her, or to strangle her?
She lingered too long in distraction. Mitt, watching her expression, thought his advances had finally stirred her emotions. He asked once more, “Miss Claremont, you still have not answered my question.”
Bo Li raised her eyes to him.
She disliked this man—hypocritical, self-important, already with a wife yet still lavishing attentions upon her.
Nor had she forgotten how he had slandered her character in the newspapers.
But if she were to smile at him, to accept his invitation—would Erik react?
Bo Li tilted her head, casting Mitt a sidelong glance.
In the dim light, her light-brown eyes deepened into near-black, but more than ever resembled a wildcat stretching out its claws:
“Of course you may—so long as you pass the test.”
The moment the words fell, a cold gaze shot toward her.
That gaze was so direct, so fierce, it almost pinned her to the spot.
It was just like their first meeting, when he had tapped her teeth with a knife.
Gooseflesh rose all over Bo Li’s skin, her entire body shrouded in a needle-prick chill from head to toe.
Yet soon after, that familiar throb of unease welled up again; her cheeks grew warm, her breath came faster.
To this very moment, Bo Li still did not know whether she liked Erik, nor whether Erik liked her.
The only thing she could be certain of—
Was that she liked this feeling of drawing near to danger.