Page 121 of Our Strange Duet

The night before, Passarino had come across the lovely Aminta and—knowing she was the one woman in all of Spain who had refused Don Juan’s initial advances—invited her to join him for a secretive dinner at his master’s estate. There, Don Juan, dressed as Passarino, would wine and dine her until “the master of the house” arrived, interrupting their fun and forcing them to hide away in a bedroom, where Aminta was meant to finally surrender herself to his charms.

“Poor thing hasn’t got a chance!” sang Marc as he departed, leaving Ubaldo to hide behind the swags of curtains surrounding the bed. He let out a loud burst of laughter, the cue for my entrance.

I fixed a dreamy smile on my face and strode out from under the archway, skirts flouncing.

“No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy,” I sang, tilting my head to admire the vast grandness of the hall. I removed my shawl and tossed it upon the long table before beginning to pick at the fake food dressing the plates. “No dreams within her heart but dreams of love,” I trilled, finding the apple I needed for the start of the duet.

I took a short glance toward the front of house. Though the strong stage lights filtered most of the audience from view, I could still sense their presence in the auditorium, filling the space with their bated anticipation. They were waiting, breathless and on the edge of their seats, eager to see how this final conquest would unfold.

I caught a shiver of their excitement as if it were a viral, contagious thing, and my chest tightened as we—both the audience and I—waited.

But something was wrong.

Ubaldo had missed his entrance.

I wanted to turn upstage and see what the problem was—he had already been dressed in the Passarino cowl and cloak; there should have been nothing to further delay him—but I couldn’t think of how to make it seem natural with my intended blocking.

Through the glow of the footlights, I met Maestro Messenger’s stare and offered the slightest, questioning rise of my shoulder. He only shook his head, biding time while the orchestra held a painfully long vamped note.

When Ubaldo finally did emerge in a swish of curtains, the conductor sighed with relief and ushered in the underscoring instruments with a gracious flick of the baton. So eager was he to get back on track, he’d overlooked one horrible, awful truth.

That was not Ubaldo’s voice.

I froze, listening to this disguised Don Juan sing of wished silences and merging passions, backward glances and descending dreams, and I was unable to react, unable to do anything but continue with the staging. I did not need to see his figure to confirm it. I would have recognized the sultry vibrato of his baritone anywhere.

Erik was onstage.

Erik was masquerading as Don Juan.

I heard the approach of his footsteps, felt his presence behind me, running his hands down my arms to snatch the apple, carrying on with the staging as if we’d practiced it together a hundred times before.

And in a way, I supposed we had.

I did not doubt he’d attended—out of sight and unremarked on—each and every one of our rehearsals. He knew this opera just as well as any of us onstage. Better, even. He had crafted our characters, shaped our intentions and driving desires. He had thrown the wrenches into the plot. He had poured his blood, sweat, and tears into this music. Who else but Erik could step in at such late notice?

I did worry over what could have happened to Ubaldo to make Erik, who’d been watching every aspect of tonight’s performance, step in, lest the show be ground to a halt and ruined.

Had something gone wrong with his costume? Had his throat suddenly seized?

I wanted to stop. I felt compelled to look for him.

But the show must go on.

It was an adage every person in theatre knew. From the lowest supernumerary to the brightest star, from the stagehands in the flies to the musicians in the pit, we all would do whatever was needed to keep the production going, no matter how bumpy it might feel to us. We could never let the audience catch on.

So when it came time to begin my part of the duet, I continued the ruse. I didn’t shout for Raoul or cry out to the gendarmes I knew were dotting the auditorium, stationed throughout the horseshoe like pawns ready for battle.

No.

Instead, I pasted on my most arresting smile, turned to the hooded man who was most certainly not Ubaldo, and continued with the show.

“You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment when speech disappears into silence…silence…”

I lost myself in the flow of notes, the pulsing melody. I sank deep into my character, feeling all the things Aminta felt, acting upon her every desire.

I’d once wished with all my might for this, singing on one of the biggest stages in the world, with my Angel of Music. This wasn’t exactly the way I’d pictured it, him stepping in for another, with armed men keeping watch, but it was finally happening, and I wanted to savor every second. I wanted to perform the best I ever had and make him proud.

The song flew by as we both dared the other to bring out the best performance we could. Our voices swooped and soared, playing over each other’s with an electric pulse. Every word dripped with seduction and power. Every note rippled with yearning and heat.