Page 31 of Our Strange Duet

Meg’s gaze had drifted from me to something just past my right shoulder. I turned but saw only the mirror.

“Meg?” I prompted.

“Everything has changed so fast,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the glass. “You’ve changed. It frightens me.”

“Don’t be frightened,” I whispered, wanting to reassure her. But suddenly, Madame Giry was there, filling the doorway with a face so stern I trembled.

“Meg Giry.”

Meg jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice, the spell broken.

“Are you or are you not a dancer?”

“I…” Meg’s fingers twisted together, and I could see she wanted to blurt out my secret.

“I’m sorry, Madame,” I said quickly, eager to stop Meg. I’d been foolish and shared too freely with her. I had to put an end to the conversation before she revealed anything. “I stole Meg from rehearsal. In all the excitement, I just didn’t think.”

Madame Giry only gestured toward the stage, giving Meg no chance to protest.

My friend threw a worried glance over her shoulder before hurrying off to join the rest of the corps.

“I am sorry,” I repeated, uncomfortable under the ballet mistress’s heavy stare.

“I was asked to give you this,” she said, removing an ivory-colored envelope from her side pocket. It was the size of a calling card.

“Thank you,” I said, accepting it. The paper was thick and creamy.

She waited, and I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to open the note in front of her. Though the Girys were like family, I hesitated, wanting to keep whatever this was private.

Madame Barbier saved me from having to make the decision. She bustled into the room with a beautiful white robe, all silk, lace, and ruffles, thrown over an arm.

“And how is the opera’s newest star?” she cooed.

I turned to thank Madame Giry, but she was already gone.

As Madame Barbier worked, helping me out of the massive skirt and the trimmed corset, she chattered on about how the performance had gone. She seemed to know exactly who had been in attendance, and mused aloud about what their reactions must have been.

“You’re sure to be splashed all over the papers come morning,” she predicted, cinching me into the robe before removing the wig and setting it on a muslin form. “Should I send them in then?” she asked once my costumes had been bundled into a wicker basket.

The underclothing would need to be washed this evening, while the heavier, harder-to-clean pieces would be sprayed down with diluted vodka to keep away unpleasant smells.

“Them?” I echoed with confusion. She spoke so fast and did her job with such brisk efficiency I felt as if I’d been caught in a windstorm. My mind struggled to keep up with who she’d last been speaking of.

“Why, your adoring fans! The new managers and their wives! I saw them coming up the hall with champagne and the biggest bouquet of sterling roses I’ve ever seen! They look ready to start the celebrations here and now.”

“Oh.” I looked into the smaller mirror at my station, taking in the garishly bold stage makeup I still wore and the wig cap reining in my hair.

“I can tell them you’ll need a minute?” she offered kindly as I snatched the cap off and began to finger-comb my curls into a presentable state.

“Please,” I said. “Or two?”

“Of course, milady.” Madame Barbier offered me one last bob before leaving the room.

I cleaned the heavy foundation and rouge from my face but left the eye makeup as it was, shimmering and golden. Almost all of the performers, from the supers to principals, opted to keep some of their stage cosmetics on for after-parties. It set us apart from the rest of the crowd, giving us a touch of otherworldly enchantment and marking us special as we rubbed elbows with the patrons. We could never hope to match their extraordinary wealth, but we’d been endowed with something their money could not acquire: talent. It elevated us into their world of power and prestige, giving us an exotic glimmer, like mystical creatures, as we wandered in their midst.

My gaze fell from my reflection to the small frame resting on the table among hairpins and pots of lip stains. It was a photograph of my father that had been taken during his only year playing with the Vienna Philharmonic, just before I’d been born. He held his violin across his chest, as if presenting it to the photographer. His eyes were beaming bright with pride.

“I wish you could have been here today, Father,” I whispered, reaching out to trace over the violin. As I did, I spotted the little envelope Madame Giry had passed along to me, all but forgotten in the chaos of my dressing table.