‘Anton.I need you to take a note to Miss Delaney.Number 2, Honeysuckle Street.Bring her message back to me as fast as you can.Take a cab there and back.Can you do that?’He fished some small coins from his pocket and tipped them into Anton’s hands, then folded the note.No time for envelopes or wax seals.The boy shouted something, snatched the paper, and darted away, weaving between the chairs and racing through the door before Cassius could urge him to hurry.
Cassius paced the curve end of his pit.Would she come?
He pulled out the photo and brushed a thumb against their likenesses.
He could not know for certain, but he had to try.He had to hope.Had to walk onto the stage and face the audience and trust that she would not let him fall.And so, trusting her love, and perhaps feeling himself deserving of it, Cassius strode through the halls until he found the stagehands.They were resting against the wall, smoking and kicking at the plaster as they chatted about their lives.
‘I need your help,’ he said to the group.‘I need to hoist the piano from the pit and onto the stage.In time for curtain rise.’
They grumbled amongst themselves.
‘It’s for Miss Delaney.’
Nowthatgot their attention.A wave of concern rippled through the group.
‘What for?’one of them called.‘There’s no piano in this opera.’
‘No,’ Cassius agreed, as he rolled up his sleeve.‘But tonight is a special night.One time show.I am going to play.’
Chapter 25
Noairintheworld hummed like the air on opening night.Fear, excitement, and anticipation infused every breath, every inhale cut through with fresh paint and sawdust, with perfume and acrid sweat, with the scent of make-up powder, fresh linen, and old costumes.Ancient props were given a new lease of life, dragged from cupboards or forgotten corners of the costumer’s box, while fresh wooden settings had their debut.Chorus members paced the hallways, giggling and practising their scales, while ballerinas sniped at one another as they straightened their ribbons and tulle.Disconnected notes peppered the air as the musicians warmed up—bass, bassoon, flutes, and violins.Too much lime in the lights made some stagehands sneeze and blow their noses into large handkerchiefs.The enthusiastic chatter of the crowd drenched the air with possibility as they waited with barely contained expectation, eyeing one another, examining fashions, wives, and rivals.Journalists tucked notebooks into pockets to have them at the ready for scribbling down thoughts later.The hopes and worries, the good and bad luck, the ghosts of the past and the guardians who watched over those who gave their life to the stage… Odette always sensed their presence on opening night.
And tonight, she even felt Babcia, like her spirit sat right on her shoulder.
Anything could happen on opening night.Nobles spotted pretty faces from a distance and turned dancers into mistresses, offering them comfort and opportunity.Audiences fell in love with songs and turned composers into household names.Managers made fortunes.They lost them, too.Unknown singers and musicians were thrust into the spotlight.Stars were made and extinguished.
And conductors sent cryptic notes, and sopranos who should know better dutifully followed.
A sharp knock came, clearer than all the other hubbub from outside her dressing room.‘Miss Delaney?’
‘Enter.’Odette watched the reflection of the door in the mirror as it opened.Anton started to say something, but as he cast his eyes about the room, the brightness drained from his expression.
‘Where are all your things?It’s only the first night.’His head jerked from the cleared table to her empty dresser, then to the small carpet bag near her feet.‘There’s weeks to go.There’s…’ His words trailed off, and he stared at her, helpless.
She should have noticed sooner.Far too concerned with her own problems, she had, once again, missed the struggles of those closest to her.‘Who do you care for, Anton?A mother?A father?’
He shook his head.‘It’s just me and my sister.She’s littler than me.She likes the oranges.’
‘How old?’
‘Eight,’ he said.
Odette rose from her seat.‘Soon, a young girl named Emma is going to be living in my house.She is almost as old as your sister.She’s going to have a special teacher and learn anything she wants.But I worry that she will be lonely if she only has me for company.Maybe you and your sister could come to visit whenever you are hungry for oranges?’Odette searched the boy’s hopeless face.‘Or perhaps while you are an apprentice learning the ropes, and until you make a man’s wages, you could live with me, too?’
‘My sister… she’d like that.Most days, she helps a lady in the row with her mending.She don’t get much time for play.’
She tapped his cheek.‘I would like that, too.You came here to tell me something?’
‘Mr Zadora.He… he’s waiting onstage.’
‘Will you send a message to Miss Sheppard?To Freya?Can you ask her to wait for me in the wings?And if you see Mr von Miller, don’t tell him.’
‘On it, miss!’Anton called, his voice already retreating into the maze of rooms and hallways.
Odette turned to face the mirror, one last time.After Cassius’s letter had arrived, she had agonised about what to wear, eventually drawing Nora to help her decide.Not green, not blue—as both were bad luck—not red for the seductress, not pink like a child, and not yellow because it washed out her complexion.Not purple either, anddefinitelynot white.They had settled on a black ballgown embroidered with gold thread and mirrored beads that swirled their way around her hem and circled her bodice before breaking into tiny embroidered shards.
It was perfect.Black for her grief, gold for hope, and mirrors to dazzle them.
