Page 29 of Our Strange Duet

I let my eyes drift up to the spotlight which framed me, allowing the glare of the beam to dazzle my vision as I swirled Elissa’s tasseled scarf before me, striking a dramatic pose. I dropped my jaw and softened the tension in my tongue to let the soaring notes of the aria surge from me.

“Think of August when the trees were green—don’t think about the way things might have been.”

My tone was bright, and the words flowed out, ringing all the way to the back of the auditorium. I lost myself, swept up in the bittersweet, wistful wishing of the Carthage queen.

“Think of me, please say you’ll think of me, whatever else you choose to do. There will never be a day when I won’t think of you!”

I offered the scarf out to my faraway love and—though it should have been impossible to hear over the music—there was a gasp from somewhere in the audience. It pulled me out of the music, and I had to quicken my steps to keep up with Elissa’s blocking. I cast a wary eye over the house. The lights were too bright to see around, but I sensed movement in the managers’ box.

A bolt of doubt stabbed through my core. Was someone getting up to leave? Perhaps Monsieur Firmin or one of his important guests? Had I done something wrong? I knew I did not have the acclaim of La Carlotta, but until that moment, I’d believed I had done well. I had been proud of my performance and had felt as though the audience had been receptive and welcoming. But if someone was walking out…

The problem with live performance was that I had no time to wonder. The final verse was quickly approaching, and I hurried to make my position at center stage. I was going to finish this aria. Even if they booed, I would at least take comfort in knowing I had seen it through to the end.

“Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade—they have their season, so do we…”

Deep inside my satin shoes, my toes curled, preparing for the most difficult section of coloratura in the entire opera.

Don’t tense, I told myself, fretting unhelpfully as my worry manifested. My shoulders hunched tight, and my fingers seemed to flex into claws. Don’t you dare tense!

“Be the bell, not the musician,” I heard.

I glanced toward the great rotunda and its massive, sparkling chandelier. It was as if the Angel were there, coaching me even as I performed onstage. I heard him over the swell of the orchestra and my racing doubts.

His voice rolled over me like a warm wave, and I felt my muscles relax, all but melting.

“But please promise me that sometimes you will think…”

The cadenza poured from me as easily as speaking. The notes were high and radiant, and I felt as if I truly were a bell, ringing my joyous song, casting it into the air and letting it be caught on a summer breeze. I was Elissa, sending my love to Hannibal, far across the sea, certain he would hear it and smile.

I rose to my tiptoes, unable to hold back my euphoria as my throat opened even farther and a high E came bursting out. It hung in the theatre so perfect and pure that I swear I heard the crystals of the chandelier tremble, clinking against each other to create the most beautiful effect I’d ever heard.

When the aria was done, I couldn’t help but bring my hands to my lips, covering a smile as bright as the sun. I never wanted to forget this moment, this triumph. For those few seconds, I felt as if I’d had all of Paris within my grip. I closed my eyes, struggling to hold back tears of happiness.

“Brava! Brava!” Maestro Messenger’s praise came from the pit, and I opened my eyes to thank him.

I sank to the stage in a deep curtsy, wanting to savor every second of this magic.

And the applause…

Oh, the applause…

Chapter 10

I heard it in my head even after the grand drape had come down for the final time, putting an exclamation point on what had been a magical performance.

There had been seven curtain calls—the longest run in recent memory—with patrons standing on their feet for nearly half an hour after the last note had died, applauding and throwing roses and demanding that we principal singers return again and again so they might shower us with their appreciation. I’d sunk into so many deep curtsies—pressing a hand of genuine disbelief and gratitude to my heart—that my knees ached, but it wasn’t enough to wipe the smile from my face.

My ears were so filled by the white noise of the applause I could barely hear the shouts and praise from the corps as they raced onstage after the last call, surrounding me. They touched my hair and my costume, pressing their fingers to the paste jewels, as awestruck by my sudden ascent as I was. Everyone was happy and laughing, already looking forward to the champagne toasts and accolades that would be freely doled out at the after-party.

Without warning, Madame Giry came out of the wings like a wraith emerging from a crypt. She wore her usual black gown but had pinned a brooch of jet beads at the hollow of her throat to mark the evening’s festivities.

“You did very well,” she said, and I was struck by the enormity of her words, however simple. Madame Giry was not known to hand out praise lightly. “He will be pleased.”

I furrowed my brow, unsure of who she meant. The managers? My father, watching from Heaven? The opera’s newest patron, the Vicomte de Chagny?

My face flushed at the thought.

With all the hasty preparations of the last twenty-four hours, I had not allowed myself to think of the managers’ announcement. I had not let myself wonder if the vicomte might bring his son with him to the performance.