Chapter 10 The Mirror
THE MIRROR
The awkward confusion after the aria was short-lived; the audience moved on, and so did I.
The ballet, the chorus and the other pieces performed passed without incident.
Even though I had felt something in my body when I sang the end of that cadenza, I wasn’t ready to admit that I had caused any of the strange electrical surge.
It was easier to chalk it up to coincidence.
A surge in the power grid that had occurred at the same exact moment.
That strange wind whipping at my dress and hair was harder to explain, so I pushed it to the back of my mind.
My mind was just playing tricks on me, trying to prove that I should never have sung in the first place. That was all.
The performers planned to go out to celebrate after the gala.
I wasn’t really in the mood and just wanted to go home, possibly head to the infirmary to check on Carlotta, and overthink what it all meant now.
But Maren managed to convince me that Carlotta would have encouraged us to have a good time.
We had received word that she would be fine.
She had a small concussion and a black eye, but overall, she would be alright.
She’d be spending the evening in the infirmary regardless.
The soloist’s dressing room was too big, the vast space yawning open before me as I entered after the gala.
Along one wall sat a large vanity mirror surrounded by round light bulbs.
The vanity below was fully stocked with every kind of rouge and powder, all sizes of brushes, hairpins, ribbons and anything one would ever need to get into full stage makeup.
To the right hung hundreds and hundreds of costumes, each gaudier and more elaborate than the next, voluminous skirts and petticoats in shades of pink, violet, black and gold, each waiting their turn to grace the stage.
And at the far side of the dressing room stood a full-length mirror.
Framed in ornate gold, it was heads and shoulders taller than me and wide enough that three people could comfortably view their full reflections.
I wasn’t comfortable having this enormous room all to myself; I missed the buzz and hum of the ballerinas’ dressing room—the camaraderie and collective effervescence of having just gone through the same thing together, for better or worse.
But I was here, playing the part of the prima donna this evening.
I didn’t think I’d ever come close to filling Carlotta’s shoes.
But I had done my best. I hadn’t fallen on my face or made a complete fool of myself. So that was something.
I changed into my outfit for the evening and took note of my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I wasn’t going out with Seff or his father tonight, and I had chosen my outfit accordingly.
The neckline of this sparkling black dress plunged far lower than the curve of my generous breasts.
The drop waist accentuated my backside, and the hemline was several inches higher than my thigh-high stockings.
I gave a silent thanks to Carlotta as I raided her costume jewellery drawer, selecting a long string of pearls that knotted as it cascaded over my chest. I was in the process of darkening my eye makeup, smoking out the sides in a dramatic angle when a voice—strange and disembodied—drifted through the dressing room.
“Seraphina…” the voice beckoned. It was deep with a lilting accent that I immediately recognized.
Because I would never forget the tone of that voice—how it travelled all the way down my spine.
But where was it coming from? And how did he know my name?
I had never given it to him. My breath caught in my chest.
“Seraphina… the mirror…”
I froze, turning my head frantically, trying to locate the source of the voice—the source that I knew to be Ciaran Fahy.
He was there. Somehow, behind the mirror.
The same imposing figure, broad-shouldered and muscled, slightly foggy, standing on the other side of the mirror.
Strangely, I could still see my face, but I could also see him.
I had never seen anything like it. A tremor of fear went through me.
How long had he been there? Had he been watching me as I changed?
Fear turned to fury as I imagined him standing behind there like a creep.
“What the hell!” I hissed at the mirror, now simultaneously showing my reflection and his distorted figure.
“What are you doing in my dressing room? What the hell is wrong with you?” I should have called for help.
I should have run right out the door. But my rage got the better of me as usual, and my reaction was proportionately outsized.
“I do not have time to explain, I just need you to follow me. Now,” he had the audacity to command me. As if I was going to follow him.
“Are you out of your mind? Why the hell would I follow you anywhere?” I spat back at him.
I was still technically talking to my own reflection, his outline hazy and warped through the glass.
It didn’t matter; I was in a blind rage and I could hardly see anything anyway, my vision narrowing to a point.
“I know it sounds crazy, but you are in danger, Seraphina. Please, just put your hand on the glass. I need you to come with me.” His voice softened. He sounded as if he were… genuinely worried.
“Oh, I know I’m in danger,” I retorted. “I saw what you did in the paper. Terrorist.”
“Seraphina, I’m not a terrorist.” I couldn’t see his eyes clearly, but I could practically hear them rolling in the tone of his voice. “But you are in danger. And I will explain everything if you just put your hand on the fucking mirror,” he said with a growl, the softness gone from his voice.
“Absolutely not! I’m not going anywhere with a pervert who gets off on watching through women’s dressing room mirrors.” I turned to walk away, when the dressing room door rattled.
The door was locked, and theoretically no one should have been trying to get in. It was a private room. What was going on? As I turned back, Ciaran walked through the solid mirror.
By some trick of the light, or hallucination on my part, he was physically in the room.
Before I had a chance to react, he growled and grabbed my arm, pulling me into the corner, between the costume racks and the wall.
I tried to pull away, but he was too strong.
He wrapped one arm around the front of my shoulders and chest, crushing me into his body.
He placed his other hand gently over my mouth; it was a warning.
“Don’t make a sound, love,” he whispered into my ear.
Darkness crept around us as we stood; we were now entirely shrouded in shadow.
Terror flooded my system as I struggled against Ciaran’s solid arms. I couldn’t budge, and I was about to scream when the door to the dressing room burst open and three menacing male figures stalked inside.
The men, brutish and stupid looking, barged into the room where I was presumably alone. They didn’t have any distinguishing clothing, and I had never seen them before.
“Where’s the bitch? Boss said she would be in here,” the first man asked in a gruff voice.
My eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and I didn’t dare breathe too loudly.
Was I the bitch? Who was the boss? I was so confused.
And suddenly my terror was not directed at the man who held me captive in the corner, but at the ones who had just broken into my dressing room.
I shrunk back into Ciaran and his arms banded around me tighter.
“Keep quiet, love.” His warm breath in my ear sent shocks straight to my core, goosebumps rising on my arms.
“She’s in here somewhere. There’s no other way out. Keep looking,” the second man answered.
They couldn’t see us huddled in the corner. We were completely hidden within the cocoon of shadows that seemed to be emanating directly from Ciaran. I didn’t know where to begin trying to process what was happening. So, I stayed still and quiet, watching as they tore apart the dressing room.
Ciaran’s chest moved as he breathed, tense against my back, and I couldn’t help but notice how much bigger he was while I was flush against him.
I breathed in his scent, detecting soap and something herbal once again.
It didn’t make sense, and Ciaran had broken into this room just as surely as these other men had, but he was protecting me.
I couldn’t explain it rationally, but I felt safe with him.
His arms flexed as I shifted against him, completely enveloped in his warmth, those mysterious shadows deepening around us.
I shouldn’t have trusted him; he was a wanted man.
An enemy, as Seff had put it. But here Ciaran was, hiding me from these intruders, with shadows that seemed to be leaking from him, swirling like paint in water.
He had walked through a solid mirror. Solid.
If I didn’t know better, I would say that it was me, not Carlotta, who had been concussed, because none of this made any sense.
But my instincts kept me quiet. Regardless of what Ciaran was, my gut told me that these men, trashing the dressing room, were worse.
They tore apart the costume racks and overturned every piece of furniture, walking right by us, close enough that I could have reached out and touched them. But they couldn’t see us. Whatever these shadows were, they shielded us completely.
“There’s no one here,” the first man said in his gruff and raspy voice. It was almost funny—they were like something out of a cartoon—but the danger was very real, and though it was absolutely absurd, I kept my chuckle to myself.
“Let’s go,” the third man said with authority, as if he were the one in charge. He aimed a kick at a pile of costumes that had fallen to the ground during the ransacking, as if I might have been hiding underneath. “She’s gone.”