Chapter 10
I heard it in my head even after the grand drape had come down for the final time, putting an exclamation point on what had been a magical performance.
There had been seven curtain calls—the longest run in recent memory—with patrons standing on their feet for nearly half an hour after the last note had died, applauding and throwing roses and demanding that we principal singers return again and again so they might shower us with their appreciation.
I’d sunk into so many deep curtsies—pressing a hand of genuine disbelief and gratitude to my heart—that my knees ached, but it wasn’t enough to wipe the smile from my face.
My ears were so filled by the white noise of the applause I could barely hear the shouts and praise from the corps as they raced onstage after the last call, surrounding me.
They touched my hair and my costume, pressing their fingers to the paste jewels, as awestruck by my sudden ascent as I was.
Everyone was happy and laughing, already looking forward to the champagne toasts and accolades that would be freely doled out at the after-party.
Without warning, Madame Giry came out of the wings like a wraith emerging from a crypt. She wore her usual black gown but had pinned a brooch of jet beads at the hollow of her throat to mark the evening’s festivities.
“You did very well,” she said, and I was struck by the enormity of her words, however simple. Madame Giry was not known to hand out praise lightly. “He will be pleased.”
I furrowed my brow, unsure of who she meant. The managers? My father, watching from Heaven? The opera’s newest patron, the Vicomte de Chagny?
My face flushed at the thought.
With all the hasty preparations of the last twenty-four hours, I had not allowed myself to think of the managers’ announcement. I had not let myself wonder if the vicomte might bring his son with him to the performance.
Oh, Raoul…
I pictured the sandy-haired boy he’d been, cheeks reddened after he dove into the sea to save my scarf, which the Deauville winds had stolen away.
“But you!” Madame Giry turned, staring daggers at the dancers surrounding us.
They were in a tizzy of excitement, describing their new gowns and wondering who they might dance with later on.
“You were a disgrace! Such ronds de jambe. Such temps de cuisse! Come—we rehearse while our mistakes are still fresh in our muscles.”
“But the party…” Sophie began.
Madame Giry struck her walking stick against the stage floor. “Now!”
With resignation, the corps took their positions and began running through a quick warm-up, hitting their poses with an expediency that was sure to anger the ballet mistress.
With a rueful smile goodbye, all too happy to not be in their toe shoes, I slipped into the wings.
I knew I needed to get to my room. A slew of dressers had been assigned to me earlier in the day, and they’d be anxious to remove my costume, transforming me from Elissa to plain old Christine.
They’d want to hurry through their end-of-performance checklists so that they too might go out and celebrate the gala’s success.
But I paused in the darkness, wanting to savor the evening for just a little longer. After being rush-rush-rushed throughout the day, it felt a relief to be still and reflect on everything which had just happened.
There’s nothing on earth like the quiet backstage after a show.
The air sounds different there: softer, with a velvety texture you can actually feel.
Without the heat of the stage lights, a delicious chill pervades the shadows, causing goose bumps of anticipation to rise.
Backstage feels like a place where magic is not only possible—it’s expected.
Anything could be hiding in its shadows. Anything could ha—
“Bravi…bravi…bravissimi.”
The Angel’s voice floated through the air like flakes of snow and landed upon me like a soft caress.
“Angel?” I whispered, hardly daring to believe he’d returned. Though I’d heard his voice onstage, guiding me through my doubts, I hadn’t been certain it was truly him. I’d feared it was my own imagination conjuring things I only wished could be.
“Christine? Christine?” Meg’s voice cut through my wonder, dousing my kindling hope like a bucket of water over open flames.
“Christine…” the Angel echoed, and I longed to follow him into the darkness to a world of our own making. Meg’s presence was an unwelcome intrusion, and, I’m sorry to admit it, but in that moment, I wished her gone.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, pale and golden against the dark masking. “I snuck off while Mother’s back was turned, but then you didn’t come to your dressing room. Why are you hiding back here?”
I tried to answer, but she steamrolled on.
“You were perfect tonight, really! I was so surprised by this change in you. You were confident and masterful, and the way you moved across the stage…I must know! Who is your new tutor?”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. After my moment of quiet reverie, her chatter and questions felt like an invasion, catching me off guard. “I…”
She frowned, looking cross. “Oh, don’t keep secrets, Christine. We tell each other everything.”
We used to, I wanted to say, but I bit my lip.
It felt churlish and mean, something I imagined a star prima donna might hiss at someone they believed they’d outgrown.
And for as much as I hoped that tonight had changed me, thrusting me onto a stage bigger than anything I could have ever dreamt, I didn’t want it changing all of me.
Not like that. I didn’t want to be like Carlotta, lording my status over all I encountered, terrorizing the company with my whims.
And so I took Meg’s hands and pulled her into the corridor.
“Do you remember the stories I told you of my father and the Angel of Music?”
Meg nodded, but even in the darkness, I could see she looked doubtful.
“For so many years, I dreamed he’d appear to me. I prayed and imagined, and now…he has, Meg. The Angel of Music has come.”
“Christine…” she began, but her voice trailed off as we approached my room.
My dressers had not yet arrived, and I pulled her in so that we could continue uninterrupted. I so badly wanted her to understand.
“Here,” I went on, and began taking off the costume jewelry, feeling more myself with every piece of paste I removed.
“He visits me here. We have our lessons, and, oh, Meg, I wish you could hear him. His voice is…” I paused, working an earring free, unsure of how to describe it.
“It’s…soft. Soft but powerful and full of glory.
And he…he’s a genius, Meg. He’s taught me so much. He’s shown me wonders!”
“You’ve seen him?” she asked, and there was a curious disbelief in her voice that made me stop my gushing and notice she’d not followed me in. She remained on the threshold, looking as if one unexpected sound would send her flying.
“Of course not. He’s an angel…It would be too much to take in, too much to behold. But I—”
Meg’s gaze had drifted from me to something just past my right shoulder. I turned but saw only the mirror.
“Meg?” I prompted.
“Everything has changed so fast,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the glass. “You’ve changed. It frightens me.”
“Don’t be frightened,” I whispered, wanting to reassure her. But suddenly, Madame Giry was there, filling the doorway with a face so stern I trembled.
“Meg Giry.”
Meg jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice, the spell broken.
“Are you or are you not a dancer?”
“I…” Meg’s fingers twisted together, and I could see she wanted to blurt out my secret.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” I said quickly, eager to stop Meg. I’d been foolish and shared too freely with her. I had to put an end to the conversation before she revealed anything. “I stole Meg from rehearsal. In all the excitement, I just didn’t think.”
Madame Giry only gestured toward the stage, giving Meg no chance to protest.
My friend threw a worried glance over her shoulder before hurrying off to join the rest of the corps.
“I am sorry,” I repeated, uncomfortable under the ballet mistress’s heavy stare.
“I was asked to give you this,” she said, removing an ivory-colored envelope from her side pocket. It was the size of a calling card.
“Thank you,” I said, accepting it. The paper was thick and creamy.
She waited, and I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to open the note in front of her. Though the Girys were like family, I hesitated, wanting to keep whatever this was private.
Madame Barbier saved me from having to make the decision. She bustled into the room with a beautiful white robe, all silk, lace, and ruffles, thrown over an arm.
“And how is the opera’s newest star?” she cooed.
I turned to thank Madame Giry, but she was already gone.
As Madame Barbier worked, helping me out of the massive skirt and the trimmed corset, she chattered on about how the performance had gone. She seemed to know exactly who had been in attendance, and mused aloud about what their reactions must have been.
“You’re sure to be splashed all over the papers come morning,” she predicted, cinching me into the robe before removing the wig and setting it on a muslin form. “Should I send them in then?” she asked once my costumes had been bundled into a wicker basket.
The underclothing would need to be washed this evening, while the heavier, harder-to-clean pieces would be sprayed down with diluted vodka to keep away unpleasant smells.
“Them?” I echoed with confusion. She spoke so fast and did her job with such brisk efficiency I felt as if I’d been caught in a windstorm. My mind struggled to keep up with who she’d last been speaking of.
“Why, your adoring fans! The new managers and their wives! I saw them coming up the hall with champagne and the biggest bouquet of sterling roses I’ve ever seen! They look ready to start the celebrations here and now.”
“Oh.” I looked into the smaller mirror at my station, taking in the garishly bold stage makeup I still wore and the wig cap reining in my hair.
“I can tell them you’ll need a minute?” she offered kindly as I snatched the cap off and began to finger-comb my curls into a presentable state.
“Please,” I said. “Or two?”
“Of course, milady.” Madame Barbier offered me one last bob before leaving the room.
I cleaned the heavy foundation and rouge from my face but left the eye makeup as it was, shimmering and golden.
Almost all of the performers, from the supers to principals, opted to keep some of their stage cosmetics on for after-parties.
It set us apart from the rest of the crowd, giving us a touch of otherworldly enchantment and marking us special as we rubbed elbows with the patrons.
We could never hope to match their extraordinary wealth, but we’d been endowed with something their money could not acquire: talent.
It elevated us into their world of power and prestige, giving us an exotic glimmer, like mystical creatures, as we wandered in their midst.
My gaze fell from my reflection to the small frame resting on the table among hairpins and pots of lip stains.
It was a photograph of my father that had been taken during his only year playing with the Vienna Philharmonic, just before I’d been born.
He held his violin across his chest, as if presenting it to the photographer.
His eyes were beaming bright with pride.
“I wish you could have been here today, Father,” I whispered, reaching out to trace over the violin. As I did, I spotted the little envelope Madame Giry had passed along to me, all but forgotten in the chaos of my dressing table.
I picked it up and flipped it over, and the two words scrawled across its front made my breath catch.
Little Lotte…