Page 94 of Our Strange Duet

Carlotta came around the corner, barreling by us in a blur of dark brocades, feathered trim, and clacking heels before throwing wide the office door. “Outrage!” she screamed, stepping inside. “Every bit of this is an outrage!”

Quieter footsteps echoed down the hall, and we turned to see Ubaldo.

“Ah, buongiorno,” he said, cheerful and out of breath as he doffed his bowler hat to me. “Happy New Year to you both.”

“Happy New Year,” Raoul responded, and pointed toward the office. “What’s all that about?”

“Have you seen the size of my part?” Carlotta’s screeching was impossible not to overhear.

Ubaldo let out a sigh. “This year already feels like a decade.” He paused and fixed a stern look upon his face before ducking in, clutching a torn envelope with a familiar wax seal. “Just look at this—it’s an insult!” he cried.

“Not you as well,” we heard Monsieur Firmin mutter.

Raoul loosened the knot of his scarf and studied the door. “There’s no time like the present, I suppose.”

“I don’t want to go in,” I admitted, whispering. “What if we run?”

It had been a lighthearted suggestion, an attempt to make him smile, but he only stared at me with a strange expression clouding his face before stepping inside. There was nothing for me to do but follow.

I’d never had cause to visit the managers’ office before. Every piece of furniture felt too large and intentionally imposing. Tall mahogany wainscoting trimmed the walls, and several posters of past productions hung in enormous gilt frames.

Two large desks were in the center of the room, pushed together so that the men might spend the day glaring at one another, and several wingback chairs filled the rest of the space. It was only after ten in the morning, but the office already smelled of cigars and port.

“Oh, here she is,” Carlotta sniped, turning as we entered. “Our darling little flower.”

Monsieur Firmin hurried to rise from his seat. He looked completely disheveled: His jacket was missing, and his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. His hair stuck out in all directions as if he’d been tugging at it, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. “Miss Daaé! Monsieur le Vicomte. Welcome, welcome. So good of you to join us. Thank you for your haste. You know how much we appreciate you both.”

I glanced at Raoul. Whatever I’d expected, it had not been…this.

Monsieur André crossed to us and placed a fawning hand on my back. “Marvelous to see you. Simply marvelous.”

From her chair, Carlotta rolled her eyes heavenward. “Just get on with it!”

Monsieur André shuffled a series of papers about before finding a large bound manuscript. He clutched it to his chest before handing it to me. “Congratulations are in order. It seems you have secured the largest role in our new production of Don Juan Triumphant.”

I looked at the object in my hands, dumbstruck.

It was a score. Erik’s score.

Slowly, I shook my head and set the music back on the desk. I couldn’t bear to look at it. I didn’t want to even touch it.

Carlotta let out a bitter tfft. “This is absolute lunacy. The casting. The music. Have you even read the score? Do you know its demands? Of course not! If you did, you would know that Christine Daaé doesn’t have the voice to pull it off. We all know it. Look! Look! Even she knows she can’t—”

“Signora, please,” Monsieur Firmin snarled.

“I’m not a fool!” she insisted. “I see what’s happening here. This little ingénue finds herself a powerful lover, and you all move heaven and earth to please her.”

“How dare you!” I hurled the words at her as if they were physical weapons. “You evil woman!”

“You think I’m blind?” she roared, turning on me.

“This isn’t my fault!”

“Not yours,” Carlotta agreed, casting a vicious side-eye toward Raoul.

“Not mine either,” Raoul snapped.

Monsieur André stepped between them. “Neither of them had anything to do with this casting. I assure you, they’ve been in the dark as much as the rest of us. No. This decision—like so many other of these artistic choices—comes down from the composer.”