Page 21 of Our Strange Duet

The word fell out heavily, seeming to charge the very air around me. I felt the hairs on my arms stand at attention and was suddenly terribly aware that I still wore my dance uniform from class—nothing but a short practice tutu, a corselette, and tights.

“And Psyche was the mortal woman who became his bride,” he added, sounding careful, cautious.

“Oh.” I swallowed. “Of course. I think…I think I remember that story.”

“It’s a very good one,” murmured the Angel. “Another love story.”

“Will you tell it to me?” I asked, drawing closer to my usual perch beside the mirror. It somehow always felt like the area of the room closest to him.

“Eros was the son of Aphrodite,” the Angel began. “An archer with enchanted arrows, which would inflame desires in whoever they struck. One day, Eros was readying his bow to shoot a beautiful woman who had earned his mother’s ire when he accidentally pricked himself.”

I twirled the rose between my fingers, careful of any wayward thorns. “What happened to him?”

“She was the first thing he saw after—Psyche—and he was overcome with the urge to have her, to claim her, to make her his. But he worried she would only love him because of his great powers and beauty, so he came to her on a moonless night, when not even the shine of the stars would give him away. He wrapped himself in a cloak of the cosmos, covered his face in a mask of shadows, and wooed the fair maiden.”

“Lucky girl.” It came out before I’d even realized the thought was in me.

And the Angel of Music…laughed. “Some might say ‘Lucky god.’ ”

I stared at my reflection, noting how large my pupils were, how dark that made my brown eyes seem. There was a rose-colored flush across my face, in nearly the same shade of red as the flower I still held. My chest felt heavy, and my heart thudded with so much force that I wondered if the Angel could see its pulse. I could barely manage to whisper my next question. “Then what?”

“He…” His voice lilted surprisingly hesitant, a curious change from his usual grandiose confidence. “Napoleon loved the roses,” he said, switching stories so skillfully I would have almost forgotten what we’d been talking about if not for the strange ache of disappointment panging within me.

“Oh.”

“Have you ever been to the Château de Malmaison? It’s as every bit as beautiful as Joséphine dreamed it would be.”

“Never.”

“You must go. The roses are still there. They look like little jewels, so luminous in the moonlight.”

“And Eros and Psyche?” I asked, hopeful he’d continue the story. It didn’t matter that I had a vague recollection of how it ended. I wanted to hear it told in his words, with his voice.

He made a quiet sound. “Sadly, their statue did not survive the War of 1870. Only the roses remain. There’s something poetic in that, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t tell if he’d deliberately misunderstood me, or if it was merely unhappy chance.

“I…” I knew it to be impossible, but the Angel sounded nervous. It was such a human response, I found his unexpected vulnerability endearing. “I always thought their story would make a most enjoyable opera. Joséphine and Napoleon’s,” he clarified quickly. “The last thing the world needs is another Greek tale put to the stage.”

I tilted my head, considering what a production of such scope would look like.

“I…I once thought of writing it myself,” he admitted.

“Truly?” My interest piqued, sharp and fast. What sort of opera would an angel write?

“You’d make a wonderful Joséphine.”

A cry of disbelief caught in my throat, and I found I could scarcely draw breath. A role written for me, by the Angel of Music himself! It was a dream beyond imagining, far too good to be believed. I wanted to laugh. I feared I might cry. It was all too much, and he was too good, and too kind, and—

“And Napoleon?” I asked, unable to wrap my mind around Ubaldo taking on the emperor’s role.

“A baritone, I think.”

“I thought you said it was a love story.”

He let out a laugh, and I noticed just how lovely and low the notes of it were.

It spurred me to boldness. “Perhaps…perhaps if you ever do write it, we could sing it. Together. Surely there will be a duet or two?”