Page 107 of Our Strange Duet

Again, I looked at the mirror.

The rehearsal had exploded into chaos. All around me, people were trying out the offending line to see if they could sing it correctly. Monsieur Reyer continued to pound out his version while Monsieur Loggia tried to take back his seat. Maestro Messenger had tossed a whole series of papers to the floor, and Ubaldo looked near tears.

“Don’t listen to them, caro,” Carlotta said, trying her best to comfort him.

“I just don’t understand why it is so hard. There is no beauty, no music.”

“Settle down,” called out the stage manager, desperate to regain control of the room. “We all need to calm down and regroup. Perhaps a five-minute break—”

Carlotta let out a pent-up shriek, nailing Ubaldo’s line with painful clarity. “Those who tangle with Don Juan!”

“Well, actually,” Monsieur Reyer began, and the entire room descended back into anarchy.

I wanted to cover my ears. Such bedlam was beyond belief. It disrespected everyone—the singers who had prepared, the creative team, Maestro, Erik…

Erik…

I wondered if he was beyond the mirror now, watching the insanity play out. Was he enraged? Amused? For years, he’d sent notes and letters, criticizing the skill and professionalism of our company. Watching such disordered madness must be gratifying somehow, even if it was his own music everyone now stumbled over.

My insides twisted, roiling as the protests grew louder and louder. I wanted to bare my teeth and howl against such unnecessary drama. I wanted to shout at everyone. I wanted to scream.

Then, predictably, Carlotta did.

“Cessate! Cessate! Mi torturata l’anima!”

Her voice screeched over the melee, as biting and commanding as her stage presence.

Suddenly, Monsieur Reyer let out a horrified gasp and nearly fell off the side of the piano bench as he pushed himself away from the instrument.

It was enough for the entire company to notice—and to realize that though neither Monsieur Reyer nor Monsieur Loggia was anywhere near the piano now, it had not stopped playing.

Ubaldo took a tentative step toward the instrument, creeping up to it as if it were a wild beast.

And in a way, perhaps it was.

I leaned over my music stand, watching in confused wonder as the keys pressed down on their own. It looked as though they were being played by a ghost.

My eyes flashed once again to the mirror: I was certain they were.

Erik was most definitely here.

Erik was most definitely enraged.

The piano continued on, tapping out the music with deft, if unseen, hands.

It set every hair at the back of my neck on end.

But even more disturbing was the company’s reaction. Immediately, the chorus rose, giving the song more reverence now than they’d had all rehearsal. Though Maestro Messenger did nothing to cue them in, they all began to sing, nailing the tempo and hitting every phrase with perfect precision.

Then Carlotta and Ubaldo chimed in.

“Poor young maiden! For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets, you will have to pay the bill—”

Slowly, as if being pulled on strings by a puppeteer, everyone turned toward me. Their eyes all pointed in my general direction, but I sensed that none of them truly saw me. Everyone’s expressions were glassy and dazed, as if they’d all collectively lost their train of thought at the exact same moment.

“Tangled in the winding sheets!”

There was more to be sung, more verses, more refrains, but the piano fell silent, and so did everyone else, suddenly freezing in place.