Page 5 of Our Strange Duet

In the dressing room, I kept my eyes on the mirror, ostensibly watching Meg’s pacing, but in my mind, I imagined myself onstage, dressed not in wispy bits of flaming, diabolical silk but in Marguerite’s floral gown, with a swag of dazzling jewels newly draped around my neck. Power coursed through my bloodstream, intoxicating and dazzling. It sizzled through my veins until it had nowhere to go but out. Out through my lips, out in my words, out into a soaring triumph of coloratura and—

“Who is singing my aria?”

The question hit hard, as shocking as an icy wave slapping my face.

In the mirror’s reflection, I caught the horrible sight of Carlotta poised upon the threshold. Fury painted her face scarlet. She’d been halfway through changing out of Marguerite’s final costume, and though she wore her own diaphanous dressing gown—heavy-laden with braiding and Brussels lace—a headdress of heavenly golden rays was still pinned in her hair and looked strangely threatening.

“Well?” she snapped, the single word infused with such enraged impatience the last of the song withered to sour ash within me.

Lisette traitorously tipped her head in my direction.

Carlotta’s eyes flashed toward me with heated animosity. “You? A little ballerina? A little nobody? What is the meaning of this?”

Meg, loyal to a fault, dared to take a step forward. “Christine was only helping me run through a combination. She was humming—”

“Singing!” the diva screeched, her Italian accent as sharp as razor blades. “She was singing. I heard her—I heard my aria! Through these damnably thin walls!”

She lashed out at one of the walls in question, wincing as her knuckles made contact.

“Heavens! What on earth is going on in here?”

At the sounds of Monsieur Lefèvre’s voice, every remaining ballerina stood at attention. Lisette angled herself into an alluring pose, dropping her eyes so that she might gaze up through her lashes as the theatre manager entered our room.

He was a slight man, graying, with a perpetually panicked expression, like a rabbit hiding in wide-eyed wait for a fox to approach. But he was as rich as Croesus and made every decision at the Opéra Populaire, from programming to staffing and even casting. It was said that as a schoolboy, he had heard Carlotta sing at a country festival and been instantly besotted with the young soprano. When he became manager, he’d brought her in, elevating her to prima donna assoluta, and she’d remained as such for five seasons.

“This…this…dancer”—Carlotta spat out the word as if it contained poison—“is trying to steal my aria!”

Instantly, Monsieur Lefèvre fell over himself to assuage her. He clasped her hands, kissing her bejeweled fingers. “Signora, that’s not possible. No other soprano could ever hope to—”

She cut him off with a whisk of her hands, swatting at him with annoyance. Lisette’s eyes bulged as the most powerful man at the opera was treated with all the civility shown to a gnat.

“I know what I heard!” Carlotta insisted. “Are you in on it, then? Have you cast her as my understudy?” Her eyelids fluttered as if she were on the verge of a fit. “My own manager, conspiring against me! It is too much!”

“Of course not! My lady! Never in all your years at the Opéra Populaire have you ever had an understudy. And you never will! Who could hope to measure up to your greatness? It would be an exercise in futility. I…I…” He darted his gaze about the room, searching for a way to soothe Carlotta’s fit. “I shall ensure that this dancer does not bother you again.”

A chill swept over me as our eyes met. He was going to fire me, here and now. I opened my mouth, ready to protest, ready to beg and plead for mercy, but before I could, Carlotta sank into a deep swoon, her fingers curved over her brow with a pretty theatricality I did not doubt she’d practiced at length. Monsieur Lefèvre struggled to catch her before she went careening to the ground.

“It’s these walls,” she lamented, her voice cracking. “How many times have I told you—they’re too thin! All day long I hear nothing but these rats’ chatter. And now, I am subjected to this. It is too much! My concentration is ruined! The Muse has deserted me. I will never be able to sing Marguerite again without first hearing that creature’s voice in my head!”

Monsieur Lefèvre went pale. It was a risk he courted every production, refusing to cast an understudy for his soprano. It stroked her ego, often drawing great performances from her, but it also allowed Carlotta to hold the entire company hostage to her imperious demands.

“Certainly, that’s not— Surely you can’t mean—” he stammered, sweat breaking out along his hairline. He labored on shaking legs to keep Carlotta upright.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, monsieur,” Madame Giry said, appearing at his elbow. “But I have found a note addressed to you.”

He looked pained, at wit’s end. “Oh? Where…where did you say you found it?”

Madame Giry gestured to the hall beyond them, and I caught sight of a white envelope in her hand.

The theatre manager snatched it from her, nearly dropping Carlotta in the process. He tore open the envelope, caring not for its crisp linen or its elaborate wax seal. He read through the missive silently, with narrowed eyes, then glanced about the room in a dazed confusion.

Monsieur Lefèvre looked as if he’d wholly forgotten who we were and what was going on between Carlotta and me. When his eyes landed on me, I braced myself for my immediate dismissal. Beside me, Meg grabbed my hand and squeezed hard.

“Madame Giry,” he began, and it did nothing to alleviate my fears. Of course he’d have the head of the ballet terminate her own dancer. “There’s a little unused dressing room off stage left, isn’t there? The one just past the stairs to the trap room?”

Madame Giry’s brow furrowed, but she nodded.

“Is it free?”