22. Chapter 22
‘I should make you wait,’ Karl tapped his fingers over Cassius’s contract. ‘To be sure you actually conduct. You might abscond before the ink is dry.’
‘What am I going to do? Lounge about in Dover for two days while I wait for my steamer? Besides, my name may not be the headline act, but I do have a reputation to maintain.’ Cassius remained stern.
‘I want to leave as soon as the performance is over, however. My train departs early the next day. And I hate opening night parties. You know this.’
Cassius stared Karl down, holding tight to the story.
Part of it was true—he did hate opening night celebrations.
As conductor, he’d always been expected to attend the exclusive suppers where the rich and titled that Karl squeezed into the boxes chatted and congratulated themselves on securing a seat to the first show.
He would go through the motions. Try not to see who gravitated towards Odette, or who she gravitated towards.
Perhaps strike up a conversation with an abandoned wife.
But he didn’t give a damn about his London reputation. If he stayed, it would be for Odette.
Opening night was different from other nights.
So much hung in the balance, suspended by a thread.
The anticipation of that first public performance.
Whether the audience liked the show. If they did, then they’d boast about having already seen it to anyone and everyone.
If just one powerful person came, others would scramble to attend, too, in hopes of striking up a conversation and forging an important connection.
Newspaper reviews ensured a steady flow of bookings.
Managers, directors, and composers watched with intent focus, often preparing letters of offer or requests to audition on the basis of an opening night performance.
And on the opening night of his opera, Ezra would be watching with his doe-eyed excitement and exactitude.
If Odette slipped on a note or was a fraction late, he would know, and if he mentioned an imperfection to others, it would not take long for rumour to spread as fast as an incalzando.
As Karl said, she’d been too perfect for too long.
Far too many would delight in the spectacle of her downfall.
And to make matters worse, the thing she’d desired more than anything in the world was an opera that would forever be linked to her name.
As long as Cassius was there, he could help.
He could cover a slip or adjust an introduction to match her.
He could make a clarinet louder or ease the percussion.
And if Ezra noticed an inconsistency in his conducting and took offence, what did it matter?
He was leaving for Vienna, and Vienna did not care what a musical backwater like London thought of opera or its musicians.
After opening night, if Odette did falter on a note—and for all her worrying, it would only be a note—it wouldn’t matter half as much.
There were other musicians in the orchestra who could conduct, those who worked the matinees or other shows.
By then, the reviews would be in, and the reputation of the show determined, and no one would notice if she was anything other than perfect.
It was the one thing he could do for her.
The one way he knew to be useful. He could give her this one last dream.
Afterwards, she’d have her friends to help her with whatever she chose to do next—because if he knew anything about Odette, it was that she wouldn’t rest. She would find something else to make truly magnificent.
Karl tapped the paper, then scrawled his signature over the contract and flipped it to the edge of his desk. ‘The sooner you go, the better. Now get to the pit. It’s bad enough that Odette isn’t here.’
Cassius plucked the pen from Karl’s desk, but paused, the nib hovering just above the paper. ‘She isn’t here?’
‘No note, no message, nothing. Sopranos,’ Karl said with an eye roll. ‘Not that the baritones are much better.’ He leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. ‘The show will sell well. I could increase your salary. You will not be easy to replace.’
Cassius scrawled his signature onto the page. ‘I wish you luck in finding a new man to steady the course.’
The ink of his name shimmered midnight blue, then dried to black. Done. It was done. He was free of London. As Cassius reached for his hat, a sharp rap sounded on the door. ‘Expecting someone?’ he asked.
Karl shrugged. Cassius opened the door.
‘Daniel.’ Cassius took a step back as Odette’s imposing manservant stepped into Karl’s office.
He looked down at Cassius, and for a moment, Cassius was sure his lip curled with disdain.
Then Daniel’s expression settled back into nothing, and he approached Karl’s desk, reaching into his inside coat pocket and retrieving an envelope.
He held it out, and its sapphire blue wax seal reflected the light from the lamp.
Karl eyed the envelope, then sought Daniel’s eyes, as if he was searching for a hint of what might be inside.
Or perhaps he retained some hope that his hunch was wrong.
For all his complaining, Karl knew full well that Odette would never skip a rehearsal without explanation.
Especially not one so close to opening night.
She had always been like that—obsessed with perfection.
Practising, rehearsing, walking the boards, learning how the ropes worked, making sure she understood every inch of a theatre so she could not just be her very best, but the very best. She would sooner cut off a limb than risk being a note out or a beat behind.
Or, she would not take to the boards at all.
‘Don’t open that!’ Cassius lunged forwards and snatched the letter from Daniel’s grasp.
He backed away, retreating to the door, scrabbling with the handle, and just as Daniel took a step towards him, Cassius twisted the knob.
He dove into the maze of hallways and rooms beneath the stage, dashing down the stairs and around corners.
‘Stop!’ Daniel’s voice came from further down the hall. ‘Bring back that letter!’