23. Chapter 23
Odette had always found it hard to settle the night before an opening.
The excitement, the anticipation, the worry, and always, always a good drop of stage fright—the emotions ran too high.
No matter how often she told herself that she was ready, that the orchestra was in good hands and the other performers were talented and committed, she always found herself pacing the long length of the windows, singing her lines one last time.
Each note bounced off the domed ceiling, and each echo would assure her that she had mastered every song.
Which would be harder—tonight or tomorrow night?
Or the day after, when the papers realised she had not performed, when the pages would be overflowing with criticism, or worse, with praise for her replacement, calling them better?
Surely, after these two nights without the stage, it would hurt a little less?
And then less the night after, and after, and after?
Perhaps, by the time the show closed, she would feel nothing at all.
She wouldn’t wake to a damp pillow or find herself humming the songs as she washed each morning or went about her day.
After tonight, after tomorrow, she would be distracted by her friends and all her newfound obligations.
She would soon learn how to fill her days.
In no time at all, the theatre would become a memory.
Tomorrow night would likely be the hardest, but after that, the ache would lessen.
Odette was sure of it. Because after tomorrow night, Cassius would be on his way to the continent.
Then she could imagine some other man in front of the orchestra and not feel as if she were letting him down.
And she would not spare a thought for him in a beautiful city, surrounded by even more beautiful women.
Surely. Surely that would be how it would go?
Odette pulled her shawl tighter around herself and pressed a finger below her ear, trying to ease the buzz.
But as the familiar sound eased, another noise continued.
Shouts and hollers somewhere in the distance.
It was about time for Daniel to return after she’d sent him off with a letter explaining everything to Karl.
She’d expected Karl to rail at the news that she wouldn’t perform, but she’d hoped he might be compassionate.
As she crossed the room, the voices outside the front door became clearer.
She opened it to find Daniel and not Karl, but Cassius.
The two men were grappling with one another, a sheen of sweat painting both of their faces.
Cassius wasn’t wearing a hat, and as they scuffled, Daniel’s was knocked loose, falling to the ground.
‘Give me back that letter. It was for Mr von Miller, not you.’
‘Not until I speak with her.’
‘Haven’t you done enough damage? Caused enough pain?’
‘Five minutes. Just five. Please.’
‘You had your chance.’
‘Listen, you—’ Cassius forced a step over the threshold. ‘I know you’re doing what you were told, but this is important—’
Daniel braced against the door and pushed back, both of them struggling, their hands flailing, their feet scuffing the floor.
‘Daniel. Let Zadora go.’
Daniel lowered his hands but held his ground. ‘He took the letter before I could give it to Mr von Miller.’
Cassius rested his hands on his knees, gulping air. ‘You can’t!’ He raised a hand, then bent over again, breathless. ‘You need to… you…’
Odette nudged Daniel out of the way to take his place in the doorway.
She leant against the frame, too tired to even hold herself upright.
‘Give my letter to Karl. Please. He needs to know so he can plan for my absence and inform the cast.’ And she gripped the wood, trying to wrench back her heart from him.
Of course, she failed.
Fine. He could have it. She withdrew to push the door closed.
‘I’m sorry!’ Cassius shouted. Odette paused, just before the doorjamb reached the lock. ‘I should not have said what I did. You have always been proud, but never uncaring, and never—’
‘You were right.’ She opened the gap a little wider.
‘I have not been here for my friends when they needed me. I have not been useful when I should have been. It is well past time I abandoned the stage. It is just singing. They are just little songs that people hum to amuse themselves. There is so much more to worry about in this world. So much heartache. So much pain. I do nothing but add more noise to an already noisy world.’
‘You don’t believe that. You can’t.’ Cassius drew himself up to his full height, his breath settling.
He moved slowly but with purpose, resting his hand against the door and nudging it wide enough to step inside.
‘Songs are beautiful. They move people deep inside. They connect us to those before us who wrote them, who we will never know, and they become our gifts to hand down to the ones who will outlast us. They give us permission to break and pull ourselves back together. They give us space to revel in the light parts of our souls, and to stumble through the dark. The music, the melody, the words… they are the difference between living and being alive.’
‘Cassius, don’t. Don’t remind me. Don’t taunt me—’
‘You are allowed to be sad about this.’ He enveloped her in his arms. ‘You don’t always have to be perfect. You are allowed to just be.’ He stroked her hair and the back of her neck as he held her tight, and with a shudder, she let herself collapse against him and wept.
She wept for the life she had loved, for the music, for her friend who was gone, for Iris, for everyone. For all the pain and grief that had swept over her this spring, for all the uncertainty and all the memories she would never make. For Babcia. And, selfishly, for herself.
‘Who am I,’ she asked, her voice hoarse from crying. ‘Who am I, if I am not Miss Delaney?’
Cassius ran his thumb along her jaw. ‘You have always been more than Miss Delaney. You have always been a friend. A perfectionist. An aggravation to conductors and theatre managers everywhere. And an exceptional performer.’ He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the letter.
Her bright blue wax seal shimmered, still a complete, unbroken circle.
‘You do not end with a whimper. You will end as you began. As a perfect, shining star. Tomorrow night, come to the theatre.’
‘I cannot. I will not risk it. I would rather be nothing than be imperfect.’
‘Have I ever let you fail? Have I ever led an orchestra that did not make you soar?’
Odette shook her head against the misgivings in her heart.
‘Come to the theatre tomorrow night, for opening night. One last performance. I will make sure you are perfect. You will say goodbye on your own terms. You will never forgive yourself if you don’t.’
Odette pressed her ear to his chest, and the steady drumbeat of his heart pulsed against her cheek.
‘I cannot go with you to Vienna,’ she said. ‘A better woman would, but I cannot. Living in the city of music and watching from the edges… I would come to hate you. Here, I won’t.’
‘And I would not wish such a life on you.’ Cassius smoothed his hand down her back.
He held her not like a lover, not even like a friend.
He held her like she completed him. Or perhaps, that was what she felt herself, for there would be no one else after he left.
No other lover she could feign interest in, no other man who could compare to him.
Her friend, her foil, her colleague, and her dearest, deepest love would forever be Cassius.
‘Will you play for me? One last time before you go? Please,’ she added.
Not even this stung her any longer—allowing herself to almost beg.
He knew the way to the piano, and she trailed after him.
She called for supper and tea, then slipped off her boots and curled into a wing-backed chair.
Cassius asked for a blanket, and when Nora brought it, he tucked it around the pockets between her body and the cushions. Then he settled on the piano bench.
Songs from other worlds, songs they loved, songs they had performed together…
he played until his fingers must have ached, but she could not ask him to stop.
He played so beautifully. She had never heard the stiffness he claimed had transformed his career, had only ever heard the passionate love of music that she shared.
When she yawned and her eyes grew heavy, he finished the final refrain, then gently closed the fallboard.
He scooped her into his arms and carried her to her chambers, pressed close to his chest. With too much familiarity, he assisted her with her ribbons and laces until she wore nothing but her chemise and helped her climb into bed, drowsy and sleep addled.
When he pulled the covers over her, she caught his hand.
‘Stay,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Once he had stripped, he slipped in beside her.
His arm rested heavy across her waist, his breath caressing her nape, his chest expanding and contracting against her back.
He felt too familiar. Too comforting. Too permanent.
As he kissed her behind the ear and whispered goodnight, the moment throbbed with domesticity.
Odette caught him, twisted around, and made him kiss her deeper.
Soon, she was without a chemise and he without underclothes, his hands, mouth, and breath everywhere—but even this felt too familiar.
They understood how to make one another sigh and gasp, whimper or cry.
Odette kissed a line down his torso, already knowing he would like it.
He teased her everywhere except between her thighs until she grasped a handful of hair and guided his mouth to her, and then he licked and indulged her.
And when he pressed his chest to hers, allowing his weight to push her into the sheets even as he slid his cock inside her, she shuddered at the completeness of it.
His grunts, every rocking motion of his hips, every rise and fall of her body…
whatever they did, they moved in sync, chasing what they wanted, giving what they could give.
Odette gripped his shoulders as pleasure raced through her body, digging her nails into his taut muscles as he plunged deep inside her, then pulled back just far enough to search her face.
‘Louder,’ he said, each syllable a thrust. ‘Sing. For. Me.’
A warbling note full of lust, underscored by a moan far, from any semblance of order or precision, burst from her lips.
It was a song for him, lit by the spread of fire from her belly to her fingertips, for her racing heart as her climax engulfed her, and for the dark warmth of his storm grey eyes as he wrung every pleasurable feeling from her.
Perfect peace, bliss, and a sense of utter completion…
they flowed through her and washed all the loss and the sadness away, if only for tonight.
A heartbeat later, he withdrew and spent his seed on her thigh.
Then, still breathless, he cleaned himself and her body with a cloth from her basin.
Afterwards, they lay together like interlocking puzzle pieces, his shoulder the perfect shape to rest her head, her body slotting into his side.
Cassius traced circles on her shoulder. He placed her hand on his chest and hummed a song, and the vibration made her fingertips tingle.
Then he kissed her senseless, and when she begged, he made love to her again.
They fell asleep somewhere near the point where the May night sank into pitch black, and when the spring sunshine inched into their world just a few hours later, he crossed to the windows completely naked, drew the curtains, then curled up beside her again.
They slept until midday. Ate bread with cheese and drank coffee, lounged in bed talking, laughing, and watching the light stain the walls.
‘You will come to the Constellation?’ he asked her as he dressed. ‘You swear it?’
Odette swallowed her impulse to call him back to bed.
To tear off his coat and prise open his buttons, to strip him and claim him over and over again.
To beg him to stay. To hold him here, and selfishly, greedily, keep him for herself.
But she had to let him go. She had never held another performer down, and she would not begin with Cassius.
And, holding on to the thought of having one last opportunity to see him, to please him, she said…
‘Perhaps.’