Page 9 of Our Strange Duet

“What the devil is going on?” Monsieur Lefèvre demanded, skittering his way up the temporary stairs placed at the front of house during technical rehearsals for quick access.

“It was the Phantom. I’d stake my life upon it,” declared the chief flyman, Joseph Buquet, running onto the stage, out of breath from his race down from the rail. “The stairs were set, but they shifted anyhow. Surely the work of the Opera Ghost.”

“They weren’t,” I said, daring to disagree and join in on a conversation I had absolutely no right to be a part of. “I saw the wheels from my position. They were free.”

Joseph’s eyes flashed murderously, and he looked as if he might strike me. “My crew would never—”

“They did,” I insisted, unsure of where this rush of bravery had come from. I’d never so much as raised my voice during a rehearsal before, but it felt vitally important that the truth be told.

“Stupid girl doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he said to Monsieur Lefèvre before shouting for more men. “I’d never be so careless. As if a ballerina understands anything we do!”

It took seven stagehands to lift the broken scenery and carry it offstage. Ubaldo made motions to help before giving up and joining a group of choristers huddled beside one of the wing’s velvet drapes.

Watching the men strain under the massive weight of the arch sent a shiver of horror through me, and suddenly, I was trembling all over, a delayed burst of shock and adrenaline.

That could have crushed me, I realized belatedly. I could have died.

Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Carlotta flung herself at her mother, sobbing into her shoulder with great heaving cries, loud enough to ensure that the rest of rehearsal would not continue.

“You’re fools! Every last one of you,” she screamed, her voice cracking with an alarming hitch. “And you!” she spat, whirling around on me. “It will be a wonder if I ever walk again. My foot is ruined!” She pulled up her skirts, exposing an admittedly swollen ankle. “It’s all your fault!”

My jaw dropped. “If I hadn’t gotten you out of the way, you’d be suffering from things much worse than a sprain!”

“Miss Daaé,” Monsieur Lefèvre said, noticing me. “It seems we’ve spoken more in the last twenty-four hours than we have in your entire tenure at the Opéra Populaire. Curious, isn’t it?”

“I told you!” Carlotta said, jabbing a wickedly manicured finger at me. “She is trying to steal my role out from under me.”

“I’m not,” I denied, feeling the weight of too many hostile eyes upon me.

Carlotta and Monsieur Lefèvre.

Joseph Buquet and his crew of stagehands.

The chorus. The supers.

Even the corps de ballet.

I took a nervous step backward, feeling the heat of the footlights lick at my ankles. Part of me wanted to keep on going, right off the stage and into the orchestra pit. Disappearing into the bowels of the opera sounded like a welcome reprieve. “I—I’m not,” I stammered again. “I was only trying to help. I’m just a dancer. I would never—”

“If such ‘help’ continues, you’ll find yourself not even that!” Monsieur Lefèvre threatened. “In all my years as a manager—”

Carlotta cut him off with another wail, clutching her ankle. “It is too much! The pain! The pain! I cannot go on!” Without warning, she collapsed into the arms of her maid, confident she would be caught.

Ubaldo rushed to her side, barking orders as the group of women carried her offstage. The rest of the company shifted their attention to front of house, waiting for instruction. From the pit, Maestro Messenger let out a sigh of exasperation and began dismissing the orchestra for the night.

“Miss Daaé, a word?” Monsieur Lefèvre said as everyone began to shuffle back to their dressing rooms.

I noticed the dark silhouette of Madame Giry, watching from the wings. I wished with all my might that she would come rescue me, but she only gave us a long, unreadable stare before stalking after a group of dancers, clearing her throat as she prepared to give notes.

I turned to Monsieur Lefèvre, apprehension roiling in my gut. “You must believe me, monsieur, I didn’t mean for Carlotta to get hurt. Truly. I was trying to help her. The staircase shifted so quickly, and she didn’t notice—”

“Oh, quiet, girl!” he barked. “Anyone with eyes could see you were rushing to her aid, not her demise.”

I blinked, stunned by his change of tone.

“I’m quite grateful for your quick reflexes. Had you not been there…” He shuddered, scratching his neck, and I saw a flash of painfully red hives hidden under his cravat. “That said, I cannot have another instance of you upsetting her. She nearly screamed herself hoarse with those histrionics. Opening night is in just three days’ time, and we fly without a safety net here, Miss Daaé, as you know. I cannot afford to have her worried some ballet girl is trying to take her place!”

“But I’m not!” I protested, feeling a flush of heat rise in my chest. “Monsieur Lefèvre, I promise to you that I’d never. Never!”