24. Chapter 24
Cassius tucked a full bottle of bad vodka beneath his podium.
Tonight of all nights was begging for some extra luck.
He always hid it on opening night—not on closing, like he’d told Odette—so that it could soak in the applause and the good tidings of the entire run.
Tonight, instead of leaving it there when the show was finished, he would grab it, pack it in his case, and take it to Vienna with him in the morning.
A small piece of her luck in the city of song wouldn’t hurt.
Maybe not so much as a wish for luck, but as a hope that, in time, she’d follow.
‘Mr Zadora?’
‘Anton.’ Cassius leant against the podium as the runner wove between the chairs and stands laid out in readiness for the orchestra’s arrival that evening. He was carrying a small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a length of twine. ‘Who is that from? Not Miss Delaney?’
Anton shook his head. ‘A man left this for you with the ushers at the ticket booth. They offered to fetch you, but he said no thank you, and run off.’
With a rush of relief, Cassius took the package. He tugged on the bow and loosened the wrapping to reveal a thick board printed with an ornate script: Jones and Son, Photographers, London. He turned it over.
The image wasn’t as sharp as those he’d seen for sale, or even as clear as the one of Odette that had made its way to the stationers on the high street.
They must have moved a little during its capture, because her features were soft, as were his.
It lacked the crisp style and elegance of the cartes de visites of rivers and cathedrals and seemed more suited to a mantelpiece or the corner of a desk.
Regardless, Cassius sucked air between his teeth as he looked down on the photograph of himself and Miss Odette Delaney, darling of the stage, operatic angel.
A million papers, a million members of the audience, dozens of nobles and a handful of lovers—not a single person who had met her would profess to her being anything other than an exceptional beauty.
Her stunning features, ready smile, and a silhouette she was only too ready to use in her favour made men crumble.
Every day Odette rendered men, musicians, nobles, and even princes useless in her presence.
Weeks had passed since the piano rehearsal and the visit from the photographer.
The memory lit up brightly inside him. How she had posed beneath the stage lights.
How he’d made her laugh on a whim, then caught her by the waist, how they’d posed together.
She’d been so beautiful… it had been worth bullying the photographer into making him a copy so that he could keep a tiny piece of her, just for himself. Of her when she was his.
In the decade and a half since they’d met, he must have seen her perform hundreds of times.
During operas they’d both worked, him before the orchestra, her before the world, he’d witnessed every possible expression of emotion on her ever-so-beautiful face.
Obsession, loss, pain, death, and elation.
But had he ever seen her like this onstage?
The way she looked, captured in sepia, while he was holding her in his arms?
A playful twist to her lips, eyes bright and daring. Her hand light on his arm, trusting that he would not let her fall. A moment when he’d caught her out, when his own guard had fallen… Now, he could see that hers had, too.
Was it possible she felt the same?
All these years he’d jealously guarded his heart, always fearful that she’d fling it to the ground, bloodied and still beating. He’d never been brave enough to risk her rejection.
Her debut had thrust her centre stage, but then she’d done it over and over again.
As he turned his back on audiences, she stepped before them, with new parts, in different theatres and other countries, and with other operas.
She’d bared herself for the audience and the press, had absorbed their criticisms and focused on the adulation, always moving forwards.
Her freedom wasn’t a gift, but a path that she’d chosen.
He’d been angry at her freedom.
He’d never even thought to ask if he could join her in a song.
Cassius grasped a sheet of music from one of the stands and tore a blank strip off one end. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and scrawled a message.
If I played, would you sing with me?
‘Anton. I need you to take a note to Miss Delaney. Number 2, Honeysuckle Street. Bring her message back to me as fast as you can. Take a cab there and back. Can you do that?’ He fished some small coins from his pocket and tipped them into Anton’s hands, then folded the note.
No time for envelopes or wax seals. The boy shouted something, snatched the paper, and darted away, weaving between the chairs and racing through the door before Cassius could urge him to hurry.
Cassius paced the curve end of his pit. Would she come?
He pulled out the photo and brushed a thumb against their likenesses.
He could not know for certain, but he had to try.
He had to hope. Had to walk onto the stage and face the audience and trust that she would not let him fall.
And so, trusting her love, and perhaps feeling himself deserving of it, Cassius strode through the halls until he found the stagehands.
They were resting against the wall, smoking and kicking at the plaster as they chatted about their lives.
‘I need your help,’ he said to the group. ‘I need to hoist the piano from the pit and onto the stage. In time for curtain rise.’
They grumbled amongst themselves.
‘It’s for Miss Delaney.’
Now that got their attention. A wave of concern rippled through the group.
‘What for?’ one of them called. ‘There’s no piano in this opera.’
‘No,’ Cassius agreed, as he rolled up his sleeve. ‘But tonight is a special night. One time show. I am going to play.’