Page 118 of Our Strange Duet

Her lower lip trembled. It was disconcerting to see her emotions laid so raw, so bare. I’d never looked past her theatrical artifice, her trumped-up indignation, her exaggerated persona. Seeing her here now, so wholly open and vulnerable, I found myself wondering who the woman behind the paste jewels and furs was. What thoughts went through her head? What worries and fears clutched at her heart? I reached out to cover her hand. “Carlotta, I—”

“No,” she said briskly, and her eyes flashed with anger. “I do not want your sympathy. I have had an immensely rewarding career. I’ve sung for emperors and presidents, kings and their mistresses. My voice has soared as high as the angels. You may not show me pity.”

I nodded silently.

“It’s a strange thing, giving your heart to the muses, to the public. They take and take, and at the end of it all—when you know all you’re meant to know and have the confidence to understand what to do with it—where are they? They’ve left you. Gone and lusting after the next bright young thing.” Her smile brought tears to my eyes. “I don’t hate you, Miss Daaé. Even when I…even when I blamed you. I know that you were not at fault. It wasn’t your doing. You have no more control over any of this than I. It’s just…life. I wanted you to know this,” she said. “I don’t blame you. Not anymore. And years from now, when you’re in my position—looking across the table at some fresh-faced girl and feeling every one of your wrinkles and covered gray hairs—I hope you don’t blame her either.”

I couldn’t think of what to say or how to respond. I started to squeeze her hand, but she jerked it away with a little shudder.

“This production will be my final performance with the Opéra Populaire,” Carlotta announced, gaining control over her tone once more and sounding like the brusque soprano I’d always known. “I want my public to remember me as I was in my best days. I don’t want them to see whatever is to come. Smaller roles, older roles, roles you take just to hang on for another show, another season. That is not the ending for La Carlotta.” She stood up with sudden resolution, and when her eyes met mine, they looked content. “I hope tonight’s performance brings you everything you wish for, Miss Daaé.”

“And you as well,” I whispered.

Her lip curled—it was not exactly a smile, not entirely a sneer—and then, in a swish of skirts, she was gone.

Chapter 40

No amount of greasepaint could mask my pale, ashen face. I selected the prettiest shades of pink, running the heavy makeup over the apples of my cheeks to conjure the persona of a young woman at the peak of her desirability, secure in her charms and confident in her power to sway men’s wills.

Opening night was supposed to be a time for joyous nerves and giddy anticipation. In just over an hour’s time, the curtain would rise, and we would share our production with the very finest of Parisian society. It was a sold-out house, and we’d been told that reporters from all across Europe had come to cover it. I was about to sing my first lead role, a part I’d rehearsed for weeks, a character I’d crafted into my own. I should have been on top of the world.

But the girl who stared back at me in my mirror only looked troubled and tired.

Were we truly going through with this?

Dress rehearsals had been quiet, as if Erik sensed the company needed a reprieve to concentrate on perfecting every facet of his opera.

There’d been no unseen outbursts.

There’s been no more messages.

Save for one.

Arriving at my dressing room, I’d been accosted by a series of enormous bouquets, each larger than the next and made up of dozens of roses in the same shade of pink that Aminta wore. A quick glance through the cards showed they were from Ubaldo, the opera managers, and Raoul.

But resting on the table before them all was a single Rosa Joséphine, tied with a black satin ribbon.

One of Erik’s telltale envelopes was near it, and I cracked open its burgundy wax seal with trembling hands.

Soon all the world will hear my score. Soon all the world will know the workings of my mind…Christine, your voice at last shall soar, and then the world at last shall find your voice and my spirit intertwined.

There was no signature.

One wasn’t needed.

No one but Erik would have left it.

I’d run through a long vocal warm-up while getting dressed, then set about doing my makeup and hair. We were using my own in this production, letting my dark curls hang loose and long, with a pair of tortoiseshell combs to sweep the locks from my face.

And now, I sat before my mirror with nerves jangling, wholly unsure of what to do with myself. Stage management wouldn’t come by to announce half-hour and house opening for another twenty minutes. I felt as if I would crawl out of my skin before then.

There was a knock at my door, and I looked up through the mirror to see Madame Giry standing on the threshold.

“I wanted to come wish you love this evening,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

“Don’t you mean luck?” I asked, turning on my stool to face her properly. “I’ll need every drop I can muster.”

She shook her head. “No. Only love. Luck is for people who are unprepared or without talent, and you are neither.” Her expression softened for an instant, looking almost motherly. “I…I am very proud of you, child,” she murmured. “I know the singers don’t usually take part in it, but I wanted tell you…you are welcome to join us for class.”