Teresa dreamed that Papa was playing the fiddle and keeping time with the heel of his boot: Thump, thump, thump—and then someone whimpered.

“Who’s there?” Teresa opened her eyes and gasped. A wiry gray dog, its paws resting on the blanket beside her chin, looked her in the eye. Its fur stuck out every which way. Teresa laughed. “Hello. Who are you?” She reached out and scratched the dog behind one ear. Its mouth curled up on one side, like a smile, and it made a happy grunting noise.

“You’re all dressed up,” Teresa said. An orange plume bobbed on the dog’s back, attached to a shoulder harness, and a matching orange bow made a short ponytail on top of its head. The dog’s tail swept the floor, and when Teresa smiled, its tongue rasped over her fingers.

Teresa climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Pascal. “Edna!” a woman’s voice called from the landing below. “Edna, come! Has anyone seen my dog?”

Teresa clucked to the dog and led it downstairs. A young woman with long, jet-black hair dashed toward Teresa, gave her a sideways hug—as if they’d been friends forever—and cried, “You’re brilliant! Edna, you naughty pooch—where have you been?”

The dog wagged its tail and gave the woman that half smile again. Teresa laughed. “I never saw a dog smile.”

“Isn’t she cute? Audiences love her for that, especially people in the front row. Can you spare a minute?” The woman didn’t wait for an answer, but took off down the hall at a fast clip, the dog trotting at her heels. Teresa hurried after her. “You’re obviously good at finding things—maybe you can help me. I’ve lost something even more valuable than Edna, but don’t tell her I said so.”

As if Edna understood, she gave a mournful howl. “Hush!” the woman cried. She hurried to the end of the hall, pushed open a door with a faded number 7 painted in the center, and pulled Teresa in after her. “Don’t let them out.”

“Them” turned out to be a pack of white terriers, all smaller than Edna. One dog slept at the foot of the bed, another was curled up on the room’s only chair, while a third lay in a tangle of blouses, underclothes, and belts spilling from a steamer trunk.

The smallest terrier, its tail wagging, wriggled all over as it wound itself around Teresa’s ankles. Like the others, it was white with a brown splotch across its back, but it also had a furry black patch surrounding one eye. “You look like a pirate,” Teresa said, scratching her behind the ears. Was that a nose, poking out from under the bedspread? The room smelled of animals, Sterno gas, and perfume.

“How many dogs do you have?”

“Six.” The woman waved her hand around the room. “Meet ‘Madame Maeve and her Marvelous Marching Dogs’—though I’m not ‘Madame’ since I’m eighteen and not married. Also, the dogs don’t ‘march.’ Never mind. Silly details.”

Maeve was “marvelous” looking: Her hair fell in glossy black ringlets down her back, contrasting with very pale skin. Her eyes were a bright jade green, matching some of the rings that glinted on almost every finger, and her dress was made of some sort of gauzy fabric that made her look as if she were floating. “What are the dogs’ names?” Teresa asked.

“One for each of the first six letters of the alphabet,” Maeve said. “Alix, Bronwyn, Cleo, Dixie—our pirate—and Edna, whom you’ve met. Fido is the only boy—every canine family needs a Fido. Woe to the man who tries any funny business with me when Fido is around. And Dixie runs the show, don’t you, girl?”

The pirate-patch dog wiggled all over. “Poor gray-haired Edna doesn’t match,” Maeve went on, “but we started out together back in Illinois, so I have to keep her. Now please—help me figure out where on earth I’ve stowed my earrings.” She rummaged hrough the mess on her dresser. “You’d think I could keep track of something as valuable as diamonds.”

Teresa gasped. “You have diamond earrings?”

“I did. Don’t worry; I won them fair and square. What did you say your name was?”

“Teresa. Teresa LeClair.”

“What a great stage name. Are you on your own?”

Pascal! Teresa gasped and started for the door. “My little brother’s sleeping upstairs. I’d better see if he’s all right.”

Maeve pulled her back. “Brothers are always fine; I don’t know how they do it. Be a dear, won’t you, and help me look for a few minutes? I have to wear my drops when I go to the Palace. It will make such an impression—”

“The Palace Theatre? But it just opened! Are you performing there?”

“If only. I’ve won some amateur nights lately, so my agent is meeting me at Keith and Albee’s booking agency to see if they’ll give me a route. I must look my best—now where are those jewels?”

Maeve seemed to know everything about getting onstage in New York. Teresa searched for the earrings on the rug and under piles of old newspapers. She moved a dog aside and looked through a pile of scarves and beads. She lifted a stack of bright-colored hoops, got down on her hands and knees, and looked under the bed. Edna licked the back of her neck and Teresa sat up quickly— knocking her head on a wobbly end table near the bed.

“Ouch!”

She caught the table before it fell, but a drawer opened, showering the rug with coins, hairpins, safety pins, a string of beads—and a pair of earrings.

“Brilliant! You’re brilliant!” They knelt together, picking everything up, and Maeve helped Teresa to her feet. “Did you hurt your head?”

“It’s hard as a rock,” Teresa said.

“Does that mean you’re as stubborn as I am?” Without waiting for an answer, Maeve wiped the earrings on the hem of her skirt and dropped them into Teresa’s hand. “Hold them a sec. I don’t want to lose them again.” She brushed her hair with quick strokes, then pinned it up in a thick coil.

The earrings twinkled in Teresa’s palm. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen such big diamonds.” She’d never so much as touched a diamond, for that matter.

“Go to Panic Beach and you’ll see more diamonds than sand on a real beach,” Maeve said. She clipped on the earrings. “Mine are in and out of hock, depending on my luck. It seems to be on the up and up lately.” She glanced in the mirror, gave her reflection an approving nod, and turned to Teresa. “Now—how can I help you?”

“Could we go with you to the Palace?”

“Of course. You have an act?”

“Not yet. I’m a singer—I want to break in. I don’t know where to start—”

“At the bottom, love, right where we all do.” Maeve’s smile lit her green eyes. “You’ll try every amateur contest in town, until someone notices you.” She squinted at her. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen. But—”

“‘But’ is right. As of today, you’re sixteen; otherwise you’ll have the Gerry Society after you.”

“What do they do?”

“Enforce the rules; make sure child performers are sixteen.”

“I was onstage when I was six,” Teresa said.

“Not everyone obeys. And how old is this little brother of yours?”

“Pascal? Almost nine.”

“Hmm. That’s a problem.”

“I need to send him home, somehow. He followed me here.”

“Does he have a skill?”

“He juggles.”

Maeve’s wide smile was infectious. “Perfect! We’ll take our chances.” Before Teresa could ask how and why, Maeve threw the window open and waved her hand at the street below. “Wash your face, dress yourself up, and wake that brother of yours. Manhattan awaits you!”

Excerpted from The Life Fantastic Copyright © 2017 by Liza Ketchumand published by F+W Media, Inc./Merit Press. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.