Chapter 14 Chandelier
CHANDELIER
Iwas back in the ballerina’s dressing room and happy to be there.
The chaotic energy before the show took my mind off all that I had spent the previous night mulling over—all my insecurities and regrets playing in a loop across my empty ceiling.
I got up, early and on time for once thanks to my lack of sleep, and made my way to the little cafe down the street to get some blessed coffee into my system.
My mood improved significantly as I set up my makeup station beside Maren, and we gossiped and chatted about nothing in particular while we layered makeup on our faces.
I twisted my hair into a low boyish ponytail at the base of my skull and shoved some pins in to keep it in place.
Maren expertly created a bun, twisting and pinning her chin-length hair.
I don’t know how she did it; perhaps she was the one who could truly wield magic.
She flashed a cheesy grin in my direction and batted her lashes. “Good?”
“Great.” I couldn’t help it. I flashed a grin back at her.
Here, everything felt a bit less serious.
This was my home. These were my people. I didn’t have to make any big decisions today.
I didn’t have to do anything, just be. My racing thoughts settled and my breathing became deeper and slower.
In the light of the dressing room mirrors, those nighttime fears seemed distant and small.
And then it was time. The curtain call sounded throughout the backstage area.
The energy amped up. Maren and I went to find Carlotta before we had to be onstage.
Our little trio had a pre-show ritual: clasping hands, sending up a prayer to the theatre gods, while we bounced on our tiptoes in a circle.
It was silly—we had started doing it back in our school days—but those in the theatre were so superstitious that we knew we had to do it, or some great tragedy would occur.
We were walking down the hall toward Carlotta’s dressing room when someone grabbed my shoulder.
I whirled around, nearly jumping out of my skin. It was the viscount.
“I just wanted to wish you good luck.” His eyes raked over me, his gaze lingering over my breasts and then again at my hips. A creeping sensation crawled up my spine as a leering smile spread across his face. “You seem nervous.”
“Er… thank you—”
“I’m sorry, respectfully,” Maren interrupted, with bravado, “but you can’t say that in the theatre.
That is very bad luck.” Maren was perhaps the most superstitious of us, making sure to follow all the unwritten rules to which stage performers adhered.
“You should say break a leg to the actors, and merde to the dancers.” Somehow, Maren’s air of confidence didn’t diminish at all, even as a scathing, wrathful look flashed across the viscount’s face.
“I’m afraid I’m not much for superstitions.
” All trace of wrath was gone and casual nonchalance remained.
“In fact, they are quite heretical. I wouldn’t be bragging about those beliefs in civilized company.
” The viscount sneered as he rolled his shoulders.
“So good luck to you both. I hope your limbs remain intact and there is absolutely no shit on the stage.” He nodded once and stalked off toward the stage door.
The fact that this man was allowed backstage should have been heresy.
He had no business among the artists and performers.
He had money. That didn’t qualify him to be allowed into this sacred space.
Overhead, the curtain call chimed once more—we had to find our places.
Being held up by the viscount meant that we couldn’t do our pre-show ritual.
I couldn’t remember a time where we hadn’t done it, other than when Carlotta had been injured and in the infirmary.
I locked eyes with Maren, hers flared in panic.
“The ritual!” She gasped.
“No time.” I sighed and began dragging her toward the stage door. We were expected to be in our places in less than ten seconds.
Maren spat three times as we ran, “toi, toi, toi!,” muttering her superstitious words to counter the incredibly bad luck that had befallen us.
I usually didn’t hold to these superstitions and only went along for the fun of it.
But I had to admit that it felt like a bad omen.
Something had shifted in the air, in my mood and in the atmosphere when the viscount had been backstage. I didn’t like it. Not at all.
The lush pastoral scenery of this particular opera clashed with the dread that I felt as I approached the stage.
I didn’t know why I let the viscount affect me this way.
I had been so settled—but no more. My mind was a raging storm, with lightning flashes of his leering face, Seff’s casual dismissal of my wants and needs, Ciaran’s scarred face twisted with rage, Carlotta’s face battered and bruised, Maren’s swan neck and long graceful arms, my own insufficiencies, all roiling together in a swirling whirlpool.
I was a boat being tossed by these images.
I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t get enough air down.
But then the music started, and I had to shove it down.
Down, down, down. I plastered the swaggering smile of the pageboy onto my face and stepped out onto the stage to play with Carlotta.
I prayed that no one could see the roiling tempest beneath.
Everything started off well. Carlotta’s makeup was so good that you couldn’t even tell there was a black eye beneath.
Her towering wig must have been uncomfortable, but she was such a professional that you would never have guessed.
She hit each note with the accuracy of an expert marksman, leaving me in awe.
And I played along with her, even though the tension within me resisted the melting effects of the stage.
We finished the first act, where the countess’s brutish husband comes home in the middle of our amorous embrace, and I had to quickly pretend that I was the maid. After the act ended, we stood side-stage to watch the ballet in act two.
Maren was exquisite. She hypnotized me; I couldn’t take my eyes off the way she moved, her neck, her legs, the way her toes pointed so impossibly, like they extended somehow, further from her legs than any normal human, with each arabesque.
Her pas de chats were as graceful as the feline they were named for.
Her pirouettes were effortless and she pulled three, four, five turns with ease.
She leapt through the air as if she were a piece of dandelion fluff floating on a spring breeze.
The small voice inside me, that sliver of envy, muttered that I could never dance like that, that I could never look like that if I tried.
I gulped again, trying to get air down, but it wouldn’t come—it was like something had sucked all the air out of the room.
Try as I might, I couldn’t take any in, sweating from the effort.
The third act came after the ballet. It began with an aria.
Carlotta took the stage and a hush fell over the crowd.
The prima donna was here to show us all why she held that title.
To reclaim her throne. She began. I still couldn’t get air down.
I couldn’t… couldn’t… couldn’t… my costume was too tight, the area in the wings was too small.
The heavy velvet curtains were suffocating me.
I was frozen, against my will, my limbs heavy as lead.
My ears rang, and though my feet were glued to the spot, it felt like my body was flying through space.
Dizziness overtook me, but I still couldn’t move.
I didn’t know what was happening to me. It was like all the panicked feelings from the conversation with Seff and everything I had been feeling for the past few months had caught up with me.
All those feelings flooded my system, and I was overloaded.
I had never felt this level of sheer panic before.
My chest ached. I was going to collapse.
I didn’t have time to worry about my own mental state for long, though.
Above Carlotta’s ethereal form there was a flash of lights.
The stage plunged into darkness. Lights flickered.
Once. Twice. Three times. The audience began to murmur.
The lights surged again, and the row of round bulbs at the front of the stage began to burst. To explode. One by one.
People screamed, both in the audience and backstage.
The lights overhead flickered, casting us in and out of darkness at an alarming speed.
I didn’t know what to do. My body moved of its own volition.
I had to get to Carlotta. I had to get her out of the middle of the stage—she was still injured and whatever was happening, she was in danger.
I darted out to where Carlotta stood, frozen centre stage, right above that golden coin, eyes wide with horror, staring up at the apex of the theatre. It was then that I heard an enormous groaning sound amid the popping and flashing of bulbs.
The chandelier.
I shoved Carlotta out of the way as it began to move.
She crumpled to the ground in a heap of skirts and petticoats.
Time slowed for a moment as the entire chandelier swayed, each individual bulb attached to the behemoth fixture exploding, set off like a horrible domino effect, sparks and bits of broken glass flying into the audience below.
People were shouting, but all I could hear was the creak of the chandelier—the pop of the bulbs.
It swayed once, twice, one more time, and then, it began to fall.