Page 11 of Our Strange Duet

The score was opened to “The Jewel Song.”

It was too tempting to ignore, though I tried my best.

I took off my wig and removed my costume, putting both of them away with care, then slowly removed my heavy stage makeup. All the while, my eyes unconsciously strayed back to the piano.

As a dancer, I had no cause to ever come into contact with a score. Our movements were instructed by measurement claps and the pounding of Silvio’s piano. Earlier in the season, during rehearsals for Samson and Delilah, Silvio had fallen ill with a nasty cough, and we’d been forced to learn the choreography with only the beats from Madame Giry’s walking stick under our dance.

So why was this score now in my dressing room?

A dark part of me wondered if Carlotta had instructed her entourage to plant it here so that she could discover it in my possession and use it as further proof that I was plotting to steal her role.

Why else would it be here? Why else would it be open to the very page that would look the most damning?

I had to get rid of it.

I wanted to hide it away in some unused corner in the darkest part of backstage so that it would never be found. I wanted to…

My fingers twitched.

I wanted to study it.

Father had taught me how to read music when I was quite small. I knew how to pick out time signatures and keys. I knew what each of the notes and symbols meant. Sometimes he’d brought home whole scores, with the entire orchestration laid out across the page, and he would have me hum one of the instruments’ parts as he zipped through a tricky section on his violin. I’d been a decent sight reader, playing the piano with serviceable skill, but it had been many years since I’d had reason to look through pages of music.

I put on my own clothing, keeping a careful watch on the score as if it might come to life and attack me, and I readied my belongings as if about to head out for the night.

Only…

When the time came to walk out of the dressing room, I didn’t.

I waited until I was certain every performer had left, then took a seat in front of the old upright. I ran my fingers across the keys, feeling out the chords, before I committed to pressing them down. I checked behind me once, twice, a full three times to make sure the door to my room was shut. And then I took a deep breath and played the first notes while attempting to match their pitches.

Immediately, I knew I sounded terrible.

There was no power, no support. I felt like a fish hooked out of the Seine, flopping about on the quay, gasping for water.

I tried again. This time, my voice was right and it was true, but it was not enough. I wouldn’t be heard in the front row, let alone from any of the balconies.

Frustrated, I shoved myself away from the piano and paced the room, humming through a quick warm-up. The notes sounded sweet, neither sharp nor flat, but when pushed to become louder, to sound richer and fuller and more there, I floundered.

I closed my eyes, picturing myself onstage. I wore Marguerite’s costume from Act IV, Scene ii, a sweeping brocaded gown, complete with veil and rosary beads. I was a penitent, heartbroken woman, pleading with God for forgiveness and mercy.

“Seigneur, daignez permettre à votre humble servante de s’agenouiller devant vous!” I began.

A mouse could have sounded more convincing.

“Seigneur—”

My voice cracked; I was sharp. I played the phrase on the piano, making sure to correct my intonation. I hummed the melody again. Then again.

“Seigneur, daignez permettre à votre humble servante…” I shook my head, determined to get it right. “Seigneur, daignez permettre à votre humble servante…Seigneur…”

I let out a shriek of frustration, and even that sounded small and insignificant.

I sank onto the piano bench, picking out the next part, but any desire to sing it had died. I buried my head in my hands, clunking out a jumble of discord as my elbows slammed into the keys.

“Try again,” a voice said, low-pitched and masculine.

I looked up, horrified someone had borne witness to my dismal attempts. But the dressing room door was still shut, the latch twisted left from when I’d locked myself in before starting this futile endeavor.