Page 61 of Our Strange Duet

Meg gestured for another round of champagne and flopped back into her chair. “I think I’m in love!”

I studied her quizzically. “With Marcel?”

“With this place! With this life! Look at where we are, Christine! Isn’t it magnificent?”

I tipped my head up, taking in the curtains and lights. A new act had come out: a group of five dancers, falling into split after split until the whole stage was nothing but a sea of ruffled petticoats. “I certainly never thought we’d be here.”

“You’re so lucky,” she mused, then paused as the waitress returned, swapping out the empty coupes for new ones, sparkling and filled to the brim. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help watching you two. I’ve never seen anyone so lovestruck!”

I felt the urge to protest, as if we were two young girls whispering over first crushes. “I’m not—”

“Not you,” she clarified. “Him! The way he was looking at you, Christine! Surely you noticed.”

I couldn’t stop my smile. “He was, wasn’t he?”

She nodded. “I feel like I’m watching Lisette and Philippe all over again. He’s already in love, and soon you will be too, and there’s going to be another wedding to plan.” She blew out a long breath of air before picking up her drink. “Maybe one day it will be my turn.”

“It will,” I said quickly, grabbing her hand. “It absolutely will. But I thought…Aren’t you happy being in the ballet? You’ve always dreamed of—”

“I dream of lots of things, Christine.” She shrugged. “But at the end of the day, this is what we all want, isn’t it?” She drank deeply. “An absurdly handsome man to dote on us, to care for us, to obsess over us?” Meg nodded again. “That’s the dream. The big one.”

We watched another troupe of girls prance onto the stage. Their paillettes were bright and blinding, and they lulled me into a contemplative reverie, pondering Meg’s words. Love was what all of us wanted at the end of the day. A caring smile. A warm pair of arms to sink into. A sense of being complete and adored.

It was the big dream, the one that usurped all others. Ambitions and triumphs…wins and conquests…none of them really mattered much if there wasn’t someone to share them with.

As Raoul emerged from the elephant, I offered him a grin from across the courtyard, and my heart delighted as he waved to me with earnest enthusiasm.

The night had begun to twist with melancholy, but a single smile from him was enough to hold it at bay.

Meg leaned over to me, whispering quickly so that the men wouldn’t catch the last of our conversation as they returned. “Don’t you worry about me, Christine Daaé. Lisette might have her Jockey Club boy, and you might have your vicomte, but I’m going to get someone too. Someone grand. I can feel it.”

“You will,” I promised. “I know you will.”

“And he…whoever he is…is going to be so much more than any of this!” She let out a startling champagne hiccup before dissolving into giggles. “How are we ever going to get through rehearsal tomorrow?”

Chapter 20

Il Muto’s opening night had sold out.

It stung more than I was ready to admit. Despite my triumph as Elissa, Carlotta’s return to the stage had been orchestrated with nary a public complaint. It was as though every opera patron had forgotten how I’d enchanted them. They’d forgotten how I’d shone.

And now, they filled every seat and every box in the house, hungry to witness La Carlotta all over again.

I bustled about the set, plumping pillows, dusting furniture, and swaying my hips with theatrical exaggeration as a group of chorus members delivered the backstory of the roving Don Attilio and his equally faithless bride.

Serafimo was a pants role, meaning a woman was cast as a male character. Normally, this was because a mezzo could more easily tackle certain roles written in finicky keys, but as Serafimo was mute, I could only assume it was because patrons would rather watch two women climb into the ridiculously oversized bed together.

In this scene, the page boy had disguised himself as one of the countess’s maids so that he could sneak into her chamber and seduce her, with the count none the wiser.

I had on both my page boy livery and the maid’s skirt and frilled mobcap. The layers were scorchingly hot beneath the stage lights, and I felt as if my performance was just as limp and lackluster.

Though we played to a full house, the audience had been all but silent tonight. Their applause after the overture had been tepid at best, and I wondered if they were as tired of seeing this style-galant chestnut as we were of performing it. Even Maestro Messenger looked one basso continuo away from openly yawning.

The only thing which kept me going was that somewhere out there, in the sea of listless people, sat Raoul. He’d promised to attend tonight before escorting me to the company after-party. It would be the first time so many of his peers saw us together, and my heart was giddy with anticipation. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but tonight felt important.

“Serafimo,” Carlotta trilled, drawing my attention back to the staging at hand.

She wore an elaborately full gown, with swagged skirts of pink satin so wide she had to go through the backstage doors sideways. Her wig was a towering confection, bedecked with ribbons and bows, like a wedding cake. A trio of heart-shaped velvet beauty patches formed a constellation across one cheek. Another set adorned her deep cleavage.