5. Chapter 5
As Odette crossed the empty stage, floating through the grey shadows, the air she displaced made the ghost light tremble.
Suspended on a tall holder, the candle was lit at the end of each day so that the theatre ghosts could use the stage overnight, which made them less likely to meddle in the performances of the living.
Its thick taper had already burnt halfway down, and yellow wax, smelling of cheap tallow, clumped in thick beads where candle met brass.
The flame grew long and thin as it stretched along the wick, and as it softened and calmed, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the contrast between the bright flame and the shadow of the sleeping theatre.
Dreams were such fragile things. They were like soap bubbles drifting over the muck of life, liable to pop beneath a sharp exhale.
How many performers had she seen disappear over the years?
Since she’d first set foot in Karl’s old theatre, Odette had shared the stage with some extraordinary voices.
Men with baritones that vibrated so low that the audience could feel the tremors in their ankles.
Tenors with voices that dripped as smooth and sweet as honey.
And the sopranos… so many sopranos. Beautiful singers with voices honed through hours of practice, many of them excellent, some even as gifted as herself.
So many of them lit up the stage, only to vanish before anyone could remember their names.
Many darts could burst the dream. Managers who spent more than their commission or who lost earnings because they could sell a voice but failed to negotiate a decent contract.
Some singers’ mothers became paranoid about the vices of the theatre and locked their daughters away, which left them unable to garner the necessary attention from the press to become a success.
Others flew too high too soon, believing that everything would come easily after a single successful show—only to fall from grace faster than a raindrop from heaven.
There had been one soprano everyone had tied themselves in knots over who woke up one day and couldn’t leave her bed, who simply couldn’t go on, as too many voices had lodged in her ears where praise and criticism collided.
She’d been a spark, a flame, then faded to a distant memory within two seasons.
Some starlets allowed jealousy to turn them inside out.
Some of them left the uncertainty of the theatre to become happy wives to astute businessmen, and other, less fortunate ones were forced into hasty marriages to cover a pregnancy—often to noblemen who promised much and gave nothing.
Most heartbreaking of all were those who forgot to look after their voice, who pushed themselves to breaking.
They tackled compositions not meant for them, strained their voice until it fractured, then lost their chance at an audition, or had to pass over a role.
And, like a butterfly on a breeze, their opportunity to shine alighted on the next singer and was gone.
Holding the stage, commanding the spotlight, and staying herself was a balancing act. It required a combination of protecting the bubble with two confident hands, mastering the breath to direct it where it needed to go, and attracting sufficient good fortune to make sure it did not burst.
And she had managed it. She had learnt how to negotiate, how to charm, had cared for herself and always trusted the luck.
Her reputation had been immaculate beyond this one small slip, but she would manage that, too.
And soon, very soon, she would be more than a name at the top of the playbill.
Her voice would be preserved in a composition.
In an opera written exclusively for her.
She would become immortal. Would reach the lofty heights they all dreamt of when they sang their first shaky notes at the piano.
The fantasies they didn’t dare voice out loud because too much ambition, too soon, could shatter everything.
The ghost light flickered.
‘I made it, Babcia,’ she whispered. ‘All the way. Thank you.’ And with a puff, Odette blew the candle out.
‘Surely it is bad luck to blow out the ghost light without a lamp for the living at the ready? Isn’t it best to light their way first?
’ The voice, unmistakably Cassius’s, curled up from beneath the stage.
Odette crossed to the edge, peering down into the sunken space.
Someone had lit a few of the lamps on the walls, and their warm yellow light washed across the angled floor, stretching all the way to the edge of the pit.
‘You make sport of our traditions,’ she called, searching the dark for some hint of him. ‘Yet you never break them. I think you believe them as much as the rest of us.’
‘You have me. I promise, in all my days I will never wish you good luck before a show, and I will never say Macb—’
‘Cassius! Don’t you dare!’
He chuckled as he stepped out from beneath the stage. ‘I am not backstage. I wouldn’t dream of bringing the curse of the black king upon us. The riggers would have me strung from the curtains. Which would be far worse luck than evoking any old superstition.’
Cassius leant against the wall beside his conductor’s podium, resting one foot on the lower step.
His jacket unbuttoned, dressed in a morning suit with a tweed waistcoat and a black tie, he looked remarkably striking.
Only Cassius could blend in with every other clerk on the street and still exude the cool confidence that was all his own, like he carried a concerto in his pocket.
He’d always been like that—towering, calculating, and ready to scowl if something failed to please him, yet somehow unassuming.
He rarely smiled his praise, sprinkling hints of approval by way of thoughtful nods, or muttered off-handed compliments like good or better.
He’d once cut a musician from the orchestra for gossiping, stating that he could control a note but not an idle tongue prone to chatter, and that anything less than total obedience had no place in his world.
The musicians feared him before they respected him, but they also knew what Karl and Odette knew—the crowds came because she was on the playbill, but they returned because Cassius gave them something extraordinary.
When he conducted a performance, the audience didn’t so much lose track of time as they forgot time even existed.
As the unifying force between the musicians and the stage, he pulled every thread between the two worlds and manipulated them like a puppet master.
Now he was ambling alongside the curved wall, to the spot where the floor in the orchestra pit sloped higher. He rested his palms on the stage—just about level with his shoulders—jumped, pulled himself up, and twisted to sit, his legs dangling off the edge.
That was another thing about Cassius. This combination of litheness and strength, of grace and machismo.
Not even a curl had slipped out of place during the manoeuvre.
He pushed himself to standing and crossed the stage, his movements as fluid as a tiger’s.
No wonder all those neglected wives and lonely widows sent him letters of praise or commissioned him for ‘lessons’ and ‘private performances’.
They followed him from theatre to theatre as a quiet and well-behaved entourage, and while no one cared about a man’s reputation for such things—certainly not in the way they obsessed over hers—he still conducted his affairs with care.
Whether that was to protect his lovers, who were usually married, from scandal, or to control anything that might distract him from the music, she’d never determined.
He stopped less than a foot from her, so that she had to look up to meet his gaze.
His smoke grey eyes shone brightly, even though shadows embraced his face in the weak light.
How effortlessly he’d contained all his youthful beauty as a skilled pianist and allowed it to grow into the striking presence of the man commanding the orchestra.
His eyebrows drew together into the crease that preceded a frown, and his lips twitched.
Other men she could read like the bold print on a newspaper.
Cassius was the fine print on a pamphlet that had smudged in the rain.
‘You are angry with me,’ she chanced, holding his stare. Odette looked down for no one, especially not for him.
‘And what would be the purpose of anger? You always get what you want. Princes. Dukes. Crowns. Why not me?’
‘Duchesses. Countesses. Diplomatic diversions. You get what you want, too.’
His lip twisted, not quite edging into a smirk. He thought himself so clever, but the stagehands and the ushers were on friendlier terms with her, and they were always happy to gossip about what they had seen and heard.
And she always listened.
He leant in, so close his coat brushed the lace ruff of her dress. Orange water and something softer, fresh linen and shaving soap, he even smelt camouflaged and secret. He was undoubtedly forming some barb, but she would not let him strike first.
‘How are you going to captivate me?’ she asked.
His head jerked, and he mouthed the word captivate, but did not give it voice. How delicious. How unexpected, to catch Cassius off guard, even if he reverted to stoicism with a breath.
‘You cannot just go walking with someone like me.’ She pivoted on her heel, swishing her dress with the movement.
‘Nor can you stalk around in secret like you usually do. This affair must be believable and very public. Karl will not release you if you do not at least try to play the part of the devoted suitor.’
‘Perhaps you are entranced by me,’ he called after her. ‘Perhaps I did nothing. Perhaps you are the lovesick fool.’