Chapter 8 Accidents and Opportunities
ACCIDENTS AND OPPORTUNITIES
By the next morning, I had no time to ruminate on the swirling thoughts that darkened my mind.
It was the dress rehearsal for the gala, and it would be all consuming.
I dressed and applied my stage makeup in the harsh light of the ballet chorus change room mirrors.
The rouge on my cheeks gave the illusion of a permanent flush, and my lips were painted blood-red to match the special shoes we wore just for this piece.
My smoky eye makeup was as dramatic as the piece we would be dancing.
I applied a layer of powder to set everything, then slid into line with the rest of the dancers, who were stepping into a box full of rosin to ward against the slippery stage.
Dress rehearsal days were a flurry of activity.
Dancers flitted about while the chorus singers in their gaudy baroque dresses took up space in the narrow hallways.
The set crew, busy putting the final touches on set pieces, snapped at anyone who got too close to a final coat of paint.
We danced our piece through so many times that I thought I was going to collapse with exhaustion.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched—it was a creeping sensation, like ice down my spine.
I tried to brush it off and told myself I was just out of sorts because of the events of the past few days.
But the feeling persisted all through the rehearsal—like a pair of dark depthless eyes watching me.
Carlotta took the stage after we were finally finished rehearsing—her towering, ridiculous wig visible from the wings opposite.
It had to be at least two feet above her actual head.
I wasn’t sure how anyone could balance such a thing.
I weaved in and out of the performers and stage crew, on my way to stage left, where I could watch Carlotta sing.
But before she began, Madame Giselle interrupted, walking onto the stage through the wings on stage right. The company was a titter, craning to see what was happening. Madame Giselle walked out onto the stage with Viscount Erik de Barras.
“Good morning, everyone, so sorry for the interruption,” Madame Giselle began in her throaty voice, thick with the Lutesse accent. “I would like to take this opportunity, before we make the official announcement this evening, to introduce you to our new owner: Viscount Erik de Barras.”
I thought for a moment I must have misheard Madame Giselle; my heart plummeted to the sound of polite applause by the cast around me.
It was jarring—having the viscount here, in my domain.
I thought back to the moment at the table in Montmartre, when the viscount insulted the theatre so thoroughly, questioning its value.
For a few seconds, I felt like a fish that had been unceremoniously dumped on land—my mind flopping back and forth as I watched the viscount’s imposing figure darken my sacred space: the stage.
But as his lips turned up in a menacing grin, I gained clarity.
The archbishop’s sermon came back to me in a flood of snippets and flashes—the viscount had bought up several “egregious” secular locations in order to claim them for Scion.
Was that what he was doing here? There was no other rational explanation.
My stomach lurched, like I’d missed a stair.
“Thank you, thank you,” the viscount said, twisting his face into an unflattering grin.
“The arts are such an important part of the cultural landscape of this city, and I am proud to be a patron. I am so excited to make the official announcement at the gala this evening, and I can’t wait to see you all perform.
It’s going to be an enchanting evening, and I know you’ve all been working very hard, so please, don’t let the bureaucrats keep you from your rehearsal. ”
“Would you like to stay and watch Carlotta rehearse? I believe she was just about to perform the aria—it will be opening the whole gala,” Madame Giselle explained.
“That would be lovely.” Again, he had that half-sneering smile. His eyes met mine from across the stage and I held them—I was not going to cower today.
At centre stage, Carlotta rocked onto the balls of her feet, sending her ethereal dress rustling around her.
Downstage, the pianist began to play softly, and Carlotta began to sing the piece I had sung on the rooftop the night before.
Memories of that night came back in a rush, twisting my stomach into knots, guilt and anger all churning in a vat of shame.
Would my mother forgive me, wherever she was now?
Forgive me for breaking my promise? I wanted to sing so badly, my fingers flitting up and down as I followed along silently while Carlotta trilled.
Her voice gave me chills, all the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up as she moved through the final stanzas of the aria.
Was that frisson from Carlotta’s voice? I couldn’t shake the feeling.
I felt a distinctly creeping sensation, once again, that I was being watched.
My eyes darted all around the stage and side-stage area as I chewed on the inside of my cheek.
The viscount was watching Carlotta, looking mildly entertained.
There was no one watching me. I was being ridiculous.
But still, I couldn’t seem to rid myself of the odd sensation.
As I tried to determine why I felt such unease, someone from the rafters cried, “Watch out!”
A snap, a fluttering of canvas, and suddenly, a beam that was holding up one of the backdrops came crashing down. Carlotta tried to move out of the way, but she was too slow in her full regalia: the beam collided with the side of her head, knocking her down and pinning her underneath it.
I was on my feet before I knew what had happened.
Someone was screaming; maybe it was me. I was at Carlotta’s side in an instant.
Some of the stagehands grabbed the beam and hauled it from her.
“No, no, no, no, no. Not again. Not you too.” I heard myself saying the words as I knelt beside my friend.
I couldn’t lose someone else. I couldn’t lose her too. “Lottie…” I whimpered.
She was alive. She had been stunned: not fully unconscious, but she was out of it. Blood ran from an ugly gash on the side of her head where the beam struck. The shimmering gossamer dress she was to wear at the gala tonight would be ruined.
“Call for help!” someone cried out behind me, but all I could do was take Carlotta’s hand and gently squeeze it.
“Lottie, it’s me. I’m here. It’s going to be alright.”
People were circling; someone had a first-aid kit and was tending to the bleeding. Carlotta moaned, her eyes fluttering as if she was trying to regain consciousness. She had to be alright. She had to be alright. I kept thinking it over and over. Not her too. I couldn’t lose her.
“What in heaven’s name happened here?” Madame Giselle, a general on the warpath, stomped toward the place where the set crew gathered around the rope that was supposed to be holding the set piece aloft. It was apparently frayed and had snapped as Carlotta stood beneath it.
Several minutes later, medics arrived with a stretcher for Carlotta.
I hadn’t moved from her side; I stayed there, stroking her hair, matted with blood, holding her hand.
I stood awkwardly as they loaded her onto it, carting her offstage.
As I watched her go, dread replaced panic.
Worry creased my brow as I turned to face what was to come next.
“The gala is tonight.” The low menacing voice of the viscount spoke somewhere behind me. “It is oversold. Our patrons have paid to see Carlotta. Who will perform the aria?”
A beat of uncomfortable silence followed the viscount’s question, for there was no one who could replace Carlotta.
“Seraphina can do it,” a higher, shakier voice, barely a whisper, spoke up from the gathered crowd of dancers and singers. Maren.
My scalp tightened. My palms prickled. I didn’t feel altogether tethered to the earth as I turned to look at her, and she nodded, almost imperceptibly. She knew about the singing.
There were indistinguishable murmurs from the crowd.
“Who?”
“The ballerina?”
“She’s not a singer.”
My tongue turned to sandpaper.
“Surely, Madame Giselle, there is an understudy,” the viscount hissed. His mouth formed a severe line, pale brows knitting together.
“I’m afraid there is no understudy for La Carlotta.”
“Seraphina can do it. She’s as good as Carlotta. Maybe better. Please. Let her sing for you now. She can do it.”
Dozens of pairs of eyes burned into me. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, as my arms hung limply at my sides, and everything I thought I knew to be true slipped away.
Madame Giselle rounded on me. “Is this true?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? I know the piece. I can sing, I guess. I wouldn’t say I’m as good as Carlotta.” I froze as the ground shifted beneath me. I couldn’t even come up with a convincing lie. I just stammered and stuttered like a blathering idiot.
“She is,” Maren interrupted, “she thinks no one knows, but I’ve been hearing her practise for years. Please. Let her sing for you. She’s incredible.”
She had been hearing me practise for years. And she had no idea. No idea that the simple act of her hearing my voice was borderline heretical to me. No idea that she was exposing me. She might as well have stripped me naked in front of the entire cast and told me to prance.
“Madame Giselle, there’s got to be someone else who can do the solo. Please, I don’t sing in front of people,” I pleaded. But a small voice in the back of my mind whispered to me… Just do it. What does it matter? She’s dead anyway. You kept your promise for years. You deserve this.
“Sing it now—” Madame Giselle glared at me, fury in her eyes, “—and we will decide. This is no longer up to you, Seraphina.”
So, despite the nausea roiling in my gut, and despite the ever-present prickling on the back of my neck that told me that there was something watching me from the shadows, I sang that oath-breaking song, Carlotta’s aria, again, just like I had on the rooftop.