Page 110 of Our Strange Duet

I swept my eyes across the vast number of choristers, watching for any strange movements. When two baritones raised their arms at the same moment, taking sips of tea with near-perfect synchronicity, I nearly jumped out of my skin. But then Francis set his to the side, while Alejandro kept his in his lap. Their gestures continued on independently, each man acting of his own volition, and a bit of the tension pulsing behind my sternum began to ease.

I swallowed hard, trying to pull myself together. So convinced had I been that Erik would somehow materialize from the remnants of my awful nightmare, I’d retreated from my bed to pace about the flat with watchful eyes until darkness finally ceded to the cool grays of morning. As a result, I felt frayed raw and wholly unprepared for a full day of rehearsals.

“Miss Daaé,” Ubaldo called out, interrupting their conversation with a little wave of his fingers. “Welcome. Join us.” He tilted his head toward the empty seat beside him. But before I could so much as take a step toward it, Carlotta sniffed, and I could feel the waves of heated fury roll off her.

“Thank you,” I said, offering him a tight smile. “But I think I will sit over here.” I sank into the chair beside Marc.

“You look like you slept as well as I did,” the bass said to me, moving aside one of the stands so I could begin arranging all my necessities.

First came the score, then a box of pencils and small pad of paper for notes. Then a shawl—the rehearsal hall’s drafts were notorious—as well as the lovely cashmere scarf Raoul had given to me at Christmas.

“Bad dreams too?” I guessed.

Marc shook his head. “That music!”

“Don’t you like it?” I couldn’t help but take a quick glance at the wall of mirrors behind us. This all felt too familiar, my dream repeating itself in real life.

Marc ran a hand through his dark waves, his nails scratching his scalp. “It’s impossible! I was up half the night trying to make sense of the time changes. I think it will be good, but”—he shook his head—“too complicated for me.”

Down the row, Ubaldo nodded sympathetically.

I opened my score, suddenly concerned. I’d looked through Aminta’s aria before bed, certain that’d be the most pressing piece to become familiar with, and hadn’t given much time to the recitative.

Marc had been with the Opéra Populaire for years, playing all the great villains with ease and swagger. If he thought the music too difficult…

Before I could begin my study, Maestro Messenger walked in, deep in conversation with Monsieur Loggia. Monsieur Reyer trailed behind them. From his seat at the table at the front of the room, our stage manager, a slight man named Marceau, clapped his hands, silencing the group and announcing the start of rehearsal.

The conductor took his seat at the podium and looked out over the company. “Welcome to the first rehearsal for our newest production, Don Juan Triumphant,” Maestro Messenger began, twisting the baton round and round between his fingers. “I appreciate every one’s flexibility and adaptation to the…unexpected change in the season’s programming. I have no doubt that when we finally arrive at Tannhäuser, we will all be wonderfully prepared.” He cleared his throat before opening the massive score before him. “Now to the task at hand—Don Juan. We know him as a legendary lothario, a man of great passions, set on living life to its fullest, staking claim to every pleasure and fancy to cross his path.”

As his character was described, Ubaldo’s posture straightened and his chest expanded, swelling with pride.

“Until, of course”—Maestro’s eyes landed on me—“Aminta.”

I could feel the room’s attention shift my way, and I dared to glance around, returning smiles to several of the choristers who’d offered nods of encouragement.

Ballerinas and supernumeraries never had cause to attend first rehearsals, when the focus lay squarely on the music—the tempos and intonations, the pacing and the diction—and I found myself unsure of how to respond.

“For all Don Juan’s wealth and power, his charisma and uncanny luck, he is brought to his knees and given due recompense by a fresh-faced, starry-eyed country maid…as well as a whole host of thwarted demonic brides,” Maestro added, looking toward the soprano section of the chorus.

They all cheered with boisterous glee.

“Now, I know we normally work through the score from start to finish in these early days,” he went on. “But I find myself returning over and over again to the first meeting between Don Juan and our lovely ingénue. There’s something so compelling about that encounter that I’d love to jump straight into it.” He let out a short, dark chuckle. “And it doesn’t hurt that it’s the trickiest bit in the whole opera.”

Beside me, Marc laughed.

Maestro Messenger tapped the baton on the edge of the stand. “Signor Piangi, Miss Daaé, if you please.”

My body went rigid, and I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my inner ears. “Right…right now?”

Maestro Messenger peered at me over his music stand, looking like a great horned owl ready to swoop down and devour its prey. “Do you have somewhere more pressing to be, Miss Daaé?”

“No! No. I only just—” My cheeks flushed painfully hot as I stammered. I could sense every company member in the room staring at me with curiosity. “I thought that I might have more time to prepare,” I said. “To warm up,” I hastened to clarify. “Aminta’s first entrance isn’t until Act II.”

He blinked. “I know this is your first music rehearsal with us, Miss Daaé, so for today—and today only—I am willing to overlook this. But from here on out, if you set foot through those doors, you do so fully warmed up and prepared to work.”

I hurried to nod and tried to keep back the tears springing from the corners of my eyes. “Yes, Maestro. I’m so sorry. It will never happen again.”

“It won’t,” he agreed. “Well, go on.”