Page 49 of Our Strange Duet

A painted drop had fallen on her, its strings mysteriously sliced. Joseph had blamed the Opera Ghost. And if the Opera Ghost and my Angel were the same being…

I startled as a hurried knock rapped on my door.

“Meg!” I exclaimed, surprised to see my friend standing outside. Her cheeks were pink, and she pressed a hand over her chest, looking flustered.

“Oh, Christine, what a morning!” she said, ducking past me in a breathless rush.

She took off her hat and her purse and dropped them unceremoniously on a small side table in the entryway. She wiped the back of her hand over her damp brow before turning to me.

“I’ve just come from the theatre. The Il Muto cast list was being decided, and—you truly won’t believe how wild it got. I’ve never seen Mother quite like…It was…Let me first catch my breath.”

Remembering the production list I’d seen earlier, I closed the door to hide my smile of delight. Meg must have learned about being cast as Serafimo and raced over the moment she’d heard the happy news. I wanted to jump up and down and share in her good fortune, but I wouldn’t deny her the chance to tell the story in her own words.

“Oh?” I asked innocently, my insides already dancing with excitement for her.

Meg grabbed my shoulders and pushed me toward the little settee near the window. It wasn’t exactly big enough for us both, but we squashed together on it anyway. She took a deep breath, looking far more serious than I’d expected.

“So,” she began, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “The managers have worked out the cast list for Il Muto, and…” Her eyebrows knit together, and she looked so unhappy my side hitched with sudden apprehension. “And…you’ve been given a part.”

I frowned. This was not how the conversation was meant to go. My name had not been on the list. I’d assumed I’d be back in the corps, relegated to a country nymph in the Act III ballet. But then I recalled the violent line slashed through Carlotta’s name, and a dizzying thought began to unwind within me.

Carlotta had stormed out of the final dress with such earnest fury…What if she’d truly decided not to return—not just for Hannibal, but for the rest of the season?

The idea sparked a wild rush of visions, each layering upon each other like a winning hand of cards falling upon a gaming table.

I could see myself as the Countess, with Meg playing opposite me as Serafimo. Our comedic timing would be perfect. We had a natural rapport, and it was certain that audiences would fall in love with us both. Sold-out performances would guarantee us more parts—bigger and grander parts—until we each were stars in our respective fields. We would take Paris by storm. The newspapers would sing our accolades, naming us queens of the Opéra Populaire, touting our talents and inspired—

“You’re going to be Serafimo,” Meg said, interrupting my whirling fever dream by answering the question I’d not seen fit to ask.

So lost was I in the fantasy it took a moment for her words to fully sink in. “Serafimo?”

Meg made a face, commiserating with an emotion I did not yet feel. “I know it seems a step down after Elissa, but Carlotta was bound to get the role of the Countess,” she said carefully, and I wondered then if the managers had sent her over to my apartment to break the bad news.

Foolish cowards.

The angry thought came out of nowhere, swift and unexpected and sounding suspiciously like Erik. I rubbed at my temple to push the words away and concentrate on Meg.

“Carlotta. She’s back?”

“She couldn’t stay away, especially after reading all the wonderful reviews in the papers this morning. Haven’t you seen them?”

I shook my head, still feeling dazed.

Meg threw her arms around me, happiness returned. “They’re marvelous. Every single one. Christine, they loved you! We should go and buy a dozen copies of each.”

I heard her words but couldn’t muster the joy which they should have brought.

I couldn’t be Serafimo. That part was meant to have gone to Meg.

Blessedly, she didn’t notice my distraction. “You’re really doing it. You wanted to become a singer, and look! A triumph of a debut and a solo role in the next opera. I know it’s not the part you—or any one of us—thought it would be, but…” Her brow furrowed again, and she looked as if she was going to say more, but then she shook her head, clearing away the discomfort. “You’re an inspiration, Christine.”

I balled my fingers together. Her praise was too much. “I…I thought the part would go to you.” I said the words slowly, testing the waters to see if she knew there’d ever been a chance of it.

But she only gave me a curious stare. “I’m just a year into the corps. Maybe next season.” Her mouth widened into an irrepressible grin. “Can you imagine? Next season, you’ll be singing in every show, and I’ll move up to featured roles…We’ll take Paris by storm!”

Her daydream so closely echoed the wild fantasies which had played out in my mind I wanted to cry.

It didn’t seem fair to celebrate my good fortune when it should have been hers. And she was so effusive with her praise, so wonderfully, genuinely happy for us both.