Page 25 of Our Strange Duet

I bit the side of my cheek as I watched Monsieur André fall over himself as he did. He kissed the monstrous lion ring on her finger as if she were the pope himself, and an acerbic ache thrummed in my ribs. They were just as besotted by her as Monsieur Lefèvre was.

“And, of course, Signor Ubaldo Piangi,” he went on.

“An honor, signor,” Monsieur Firmin said, touching his hand to his heart.

Ubaldo straightened his posture, all but preening. “Piacere.”

Monsieur André rubbed salt in my wounds as he tilted his head, offering Carlotta a fawning smile. “If I remember correctly, Monsieur Lefèvre was telling us Elissa has a very fine aria later in Act III. May I be so bold, signora—as a personal favor to Richard and myself—would you oblige us with a private performance?”

Carlotta’s eyes lit up, triumph flashing in them like cursed topazes. She tilted her head, playing at bashful. “If my manager commands.” Her smile faded as she turned to the pit. “Maestro Messenger?” she snapped.

The conductor gave her a little bow from the pit. “As my diva commands.” He tapped his baton, signaling for the orchestra flip through their scores. The rustle of turning pages filled the air. “Will two bars be sufficient introduction?”

Carlotta nodded as she made her way to center stage, narrowly avoiding a collision with the elephant as stagehands rushed to clear the deck. She waved her long scarf at the beast as if shooing it from her presence. The rest of us all shifted too, forming a large semicircle around her.

“Signora?” Maestro Messenger asked.

She dropped her chin in a disingenuous bow. “Maestro.”

The opening bars played, and Carlotta fixed a distant expression on her face. Instinctually, my own vocal cords flexed, ready to begin the aria. I caught myself just as my lips parted, and feigned a stretch in case anyone had noticed.

“Think of me, think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye.”

She played the role with a far heavier hand that I would have, attacking phrases and laying into the delicate melody, turning the wistful aria demanding and brash.

I schooled my face into a mask of pleasant neutrality while watching the new managers’ reactions from the corner of my eye.

Now that Carlotta was downstage of them and unable to see their faces, they’d eased up, releasing a bit of their nervous zeal. I tried hard to not let hope kindle, but did Monsieur Firmin look…bored?

As if sensing their waning interest, Carlotta rounded back, losing sight of Maestro Messenger’s baton and falling out of tempo with the underscore.

“If you ever find a moment,” she trilled, and threw the length of scarf round Monsieur André’s neck, pulling the little man in close enough that she could briefly caress his cheek, “spare a thought for me.”

With a grand flourish, she released him and traveled farther upstage, sweeping the heavy fullness of her bejeweled skirts out of her way. My fingers itched to mime her gestures as she moved fluidly from one pose to the next.

“Think of me,” she sang, beginning the next verse. “Think of me warmly—”

Without warning, one of the Act IV backdrops, hung high and out of sight in the fly loft, plummeted to the stage, acting as a massive guillotine as it cut off Carlotta from the rest of the company. The yards of falling fabric piled up, entangling her in their folds.

She let out a bloodcurdling scream that knocked the air from my chest.

Other shouts rained down as the crew scrambled to action.

“On the rail! Hoist the eighteenth batten! Now, man, now!”

We heard the clunk of a break being unlocked, then the racing whizz of something zipping through the air. Everyone startled at the sound of metal crashing into metal. The batten—a long length of pipe used to hoist drapes and other scenic pieces—had struck the uppermost section of the grid, but the heavy canvas drop remained onstage.

Confusion reigned as men called out to each other, checking in from their stations and reporting what they saw.

“There’s nothing on the pipe!” cried a voice from high on the pinrail. “The backdrop’s still down!”

A crew man ran out, inspecting the ends of the drop. “The ties have been cut!”

“He’s here!” Meg announced loudly, her eyes wide and fearful. “The Phantom of the Opera!”

The company huddled together in panicked groups as they hissed out whispers and warnings. I scrambled toward Madame Giry. She was always a steadfast presence and so resolute that I couldn’t imagine the Opera Ghost ever daring to cross swords with her.

“It’s the Ghost!”