25. Chapter 25
No air in the world hummed like the air on opening night.
Fear, excitement, and anticipation infused every breath, every inhale cut through with fresh paint and sawdust, with perfume and acrid sweat, with the scent of make-up powder, fresh linen, and old costumes.
Ancient props were given a new lease of life, dragged from cupboards or forgotten corners of the costumer’s box, while fresh wooden settings had their debut.
Chorus members paced the hallways, giggling and practising their scales, while ballerinas sniped at one another as they straightened their ribbons and tulle.
Disconnected notes peppered the air as the musicians warmed up—bass, bassoon, flutes, and violins.
Too much lime in the lights made some stagehands sneeze and blow their noses into large handkerchiefs.
The enthusiastic chatter of the crowd drenched the air with possibility as they waited with barely contained expectation, eyeing one another, examining fashions, wives, and rivals.
Journalists tucked notebooks into pockets to have them at the ready for scribbling down thoughts later.
The hopes and worries, the good and bad luck, the ghosts of the past and the guardians who watched over those who gave their life to the stage…
Odette always sensed their presence on opening night.
And tonight, she even felt Babcia, like her spirit sat right on her shoulder.
Anything could happen on opening night. Nobles spotted pretty faces from a distance and turned dancers into mistresses, offering them comfort and opportunity.
Audiences fell in love with songs and turned composers into household names.
Managers made fortunes. They lost them, too.
Unknown singers and musicians were thrust into the spotlight. Stars were made and extinguished.
And conductors sent cryptic notes, and sopranos who should know better dutifully followed.
A sharp knock came, clearer than all the other hubbub from outside her dressing room. ‘Miss Delaney?’
‘Enter.’ Odette watched the reflection of the door in the mirror as it opened. Anton started to say something, but as he cast his eyes about the room, the brightness drained from his expression.
‘Where are all your things? It’s only the first night.’ His head jerked from the cleared table to her empty dresser, then to the small carpet bag near her feet. ‘There’s weeks to go. There’s…’ His words trailed off, and he stared at her, helpless.
She should have noticed sooner. Far too concerned with her own problems, she had, once again, missed the struggles of those closest to her. ‘Who do you care for, Anton? A mother? A father?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s just me and my sister. She’s littler than me. She likes the oranges.’
‘How old?’
‘Eight,’ he said.
Odette rose from her seat. ‘Soon, a young girl named Emma is going to be living in my house. She is almost as old as your sister. She’s going to have a special teacher and learn anything she wants.
But I worry that she will be lonely if she only has me for company.
Maybe you and your sister could come to visit whenever you are hungry for oranges?
’ Odette searched the boy’s hopeless face.
‘Or perhaps while you are an apprentice learning the ropes, and until you make a man’s wages, you could live with me, too? ’
‘My sister… she’d like that. Most days, she helps a lady in the row with her mending. She don’t get much time for play.’
She tapped his cheek. ‘I would like that, too. You came here to tell me something?’
‘Mr Zadora. He… he’s waiting onstage.’
‘Will you send a message to Miss Sheppard? To Freya? Can you ask her to wait for me in the wings? And if you see Mr von Miller, don’t tell him.’
‘On it, miss!’ Anton called, his voice already retreating into the maze of rooms and hallways.
Odette turned to face the mirror, one last time.
After Cassius’s letter had arrived, she had agonised about what to wear, eventually drawing Nora to help her decide.
Not green, not blue—as both were bad luck—not red for the seductress, not pink like a child, and not yellow because it washed out her complexion.
Not purple either, and definitely not white.
They had settled on a black ballgown embroidered with gold thread and mirrored beads that swirled their way around her hem and circled her bodice before breaking into tiny embroidered shards.
It was perfect. Black for her grief, gold for hope, and mirrors to dazzle them.
The ringing came once again, holding her, crowing at her. Odette closed her eyes, then found herself in the mirror. ‘It is not me. It is with me, but it is not me.’
Lifting her skirts clear of her slippers, Odette strode into the hall and through its dimly lit lengths and climbed the stairs.
The musicians had stopped tuning their instruments, and now the only audible noise were the whispers behind the stage and the murmurs of the crowd.
She paused in the wings and peered through a gap in the velvet.
The curtain had already been raised, and the stage stretched out before her, a sea of wood that melted into lights so bright they blotted out the audience beyond.
The piano had been raised from the pit, and beside it stood Cassius, wearing his conductor’s tails.
When he spotted her, he swept his hand in a wide arc, a wordless invitation.
Odette took a fortifying breath and stepped out of the shadows.
As she crossed to him, a smattering of applause filled the auditorium, accompanied by the chatter of confused questions. She took Cassius’s hand, and he kissed her knuckles.
‘You came,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
Her heart fractured with joy and grief, with love and loss, but even that felt right.
Odette moved closer to the lights, drifting towards the point where the haze receded.
From here, it was still not possible to make out individual people, only the rough outlines of their bodies.
She stopped just short of the edge of the stage, in the place where the acoustics were best and would carry her voice.
What to say? How could she tell them what her life had meant to her?
How could she explain that saying goodbye felt like a death?
Should she try to tell them that every step on the boards, every note, every clap had fixed itself in her heart forever, that she had treasured every minute, every second?
That she had felt their laughter, worn their scorn, that even when she wanted to resent them, she could not?
How she knew that, to them, she was only a singer of songs, but to her, this life had been the most precious gift.
That a million lifetimes would not be enough to sing every song she wanted to bring to life, to give birth to every character she wanted to play.
That luck and hard work had been her mantra, and that both had given her meaning and joy.
Oh, how she longed to tell them how much richer life was when it was filled with music, and she hoped they would never, ever stop singing.
She looked out into the dim expanse of them, at their unclear faces, their shuffling feet, and their whispers.
‘I have decided to retire from the stage,’ she said. ‘This is my last song. Thank you, my darlings. Thank you so much.’
Odette walked back to the piano. She placed her right hand on its edge, and her left hand on her heart. As she began, so she would end. With her voice, a piano, and Cassius.
‘Which song?’ she asked.
‘You know which song.’ He laid his fingers on the keys. ‘Ready?’
It had begun as a song to align with the broken notes on a piano, with no meaning at all, just a jumble of words fuelled by laughter and vodka.
For some reason, it had stuck with her and become a loop in her memory.
She sang the nonsense of it, her voice dancing over the light melody that had made them both laugh until they almost couldn’t continue.
Tit tip tapping through the streets, jumping puddles and chasing muddles…
Light and free, the tune drew on memories they wished they’d had in homes they’d never know.
Then it turned darker, and here, there were no words. Only deep chords and Cassius playing as the keys spoke of what he could never say. Nothing but rolling waves, heavy with loss and sadness.
And finally, the end. Hope. Quiet, persistent hope.
And though I will kraj
with you we will find
our
way
home.
The last chord clung to the air, a trembling ache that surrounded her and Cassius. For a beat there was perfect silence, only the two of them sharing the stage.
‘How was I?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ he replied. ‘As always.’
The applause came in then, like an avalanche, tumbling down from the mezzanine, roaring up from the front row, shouts and cheers ringing from the boxes and even vibrating through her feet from the orchestra below.
Odette bowed. She gestured to the musicians, to the rigging, to the lights, to the audience, and finally, to Cassius.
Then she turned to the wings and beckoned to the person just beyond the curtains. ‘Freya. Join me.’
The little soprano with a voice as good as her own, with her easy smile, coquettish lilt and, deep inside, the heart of a lioness, stepped lightly across the stage.
Odette held out her hand. Freya clasped hers in return, and Odette raised both their hands, directing Freya into a bow with a soft nudge.
Here, audience, she wanted to say to them.
Watch her, for she is special. It was the closest she could come to bestowing the crown.
She would not be replaced. She would have a successor.
Had Freya earnt it? Would she be good? Would she be grateful?
Would she fail? Would she be kind to the other performers, or would she use her chance to push others down?
It was not for Odette to say, because underneath all the work, that was the way of their world.
That was how luck worked, how chance fell, and how opportunity landed wherever it chose, without rhyme or reason. And today, it chose Freya.
The young soprano looked from Odette to the audience and back again, frowning. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘I am not going to sing.’
‘But it is opening night. Your opening night.’
‘Not any longer. This is your starring debut.’ Odette gestured at the murmuring faces beyond the lights. ‘They are yours now.’
‘Mine? For how long?’
‘For a night. It is only ever for a night. Look after them.’ Odette kissed Freya’s cheeks. ‘Now go change your costume, Marietta, as quick as you can. For they are fickle, and you cannot keep them waiting.’
As Freya left the stage, Odette turned towards the audience. She placed a kiss on the tips of her fingers and sent it out into the auditorium, like a butterfly of hope. One final breath of dying applause, one last bow, and she gathered her skirts.
‘Stop.’ Cassius rose from the bench. He crossed the short distance to stand before her, and they faced one another, centre stage before the world.
The lights glanced off his cheekbones, and his scowl—that little line at the edge of his mouth that hid the secret of his laughter and the storm in his eyes—glimmered and receded in the light and shadow. ‘We are not done.’
And before all the world, Cassius Zadora dropped to one knee and took her hands in his.
‘Miss Delaney. Odette. I love you. I have loved you and said nothing for far, far too long. Because I was not ready. Because I was scared. But no more. I want you beside me, every day. I want to wake up in your bed. I want to step into your world and whatever comes next, whatever magnificent thing you do, I want to be there for it. You are a force to be reckoned with, and this is not your end. This is a beginning.’
‘But what about Vienna?’
‘I do not want Vienna if I can’t have you. You are the song in my heart, the notes in my step, the lyrics and the melody. Without you, there is no music.’
‘Everyone is watching you,’ she whispered.
‘I thought the soprano deserved a proposal to make the papers.’ And he grinned, both sure of himself and, perhaps, a little scared. Waiting. Waiting.
This was the best part. When breath bunched in chests made the air ache, when the world turned tight, when every eye watched the stage. When she held them all—the nobles, the princes, the journalists, the common man and woman, even Cassius—in her palm.
‘Yes,’ she said, just loud enough for him, and then once more, louder, for the world. ‘Yes, Zadora. I will marry you.’
As Cassius rose to his feet, he gripped her, raised her, and spun her so that her skirts flared and her heart soared. The theatre erupted into applause and cheers, gasps and shouts of immodesty! and immorality! and brava! and hurrah! ringing clear through the auditorium.
‘Lovesick fool,’ he said as he lowered her to the stage and stole a kiss. ‘I never doubted it.’