Chapter Twelve Scribbles on a Page

CHAPTER TWELVE

Scribbles on a Page

A SALTY SCENT of sweat hits me as I walk into the rehearsal room. Located in the rear part of the opera house, it's a vast round space adorned with decorative columns around the walls. Six large windows look out over the city below—packed streets threading together like veins, feeding Lutèce's pumping heart.

"Ma chérie!" José plants kisses on both my cheeks. "I was starting to fear you weren't coming."

"Am I late?" I scan the room, taking in the circle of chairs in the middle, most still empty.

"Not at all, I just took you for an early bird." He laughs, the sound booming in my ears. "Come sit by me."

I smile as we sit down, nodding my greetings to the rest of the people in the room. I recognize some of their faces from the gala, though I do not remember their names—a short-haired mezzo-soprano in a frilly blue gown, a broad-shouldered baritone with a thick mustache, another young man I recall being an assistant to Maestro Mette. But the musical director himself is still not here, nor is Madame.

Véronique is the next to enter the room, floating in with a cloud of silver chiffon and white feathers. "What a god-awful smell. Someone, open the windows!" She wrinkles her dainty nose as her clear blue eyes fall on me. I feel almost compelled to follow her order before a maid darts from behind her.

Taking a seat opposite me, Véronique pulls out a round bottle of perfume from her beaded purse and sprays the air around her, acting as I imagine a proper diva would. I have to fight to stifle a laugh. Am I supposed to act this ridiculous? She smiles as the sickly-sweet scent of roses laces the stuffy room. Thank heavens the maid opened the window.

Soon the circle of chairs is full, and Maestro Mette walks into the room, followed closely by Madame, who takes her seat at the grand piano in the back. She doesn't even bother to nod or smile when her eyes meet mine.

Could I have offended her by going to her house uninvited yesterday? Is she the type of person who wants to keep her personal life away from her job? Maybe she's upset that I stole some of the attention. Or perhaps . . . did she not want me to meet Renée?

Whatever it is, I have no time to ponder as Maestro Mette claps his hands, demanding our attention.

"Bonjour, everyone!" He smiles at us, though as his gaze moves around the room his eyes remain markedly severe. "I trust by now you all know why I gathered you here. I'm aware this is earlier than usual to start working toward the upcoming season, but I've decided this to be appropriate, since we'll be working on a newly commissioned opera."

Maestro Mette waves his hand and two men scurry inside, carrying piles of books. They go around the circle, handing a copy to each of us. The book is heavy, the red cloth binding velvety and adorned with golden letters: L'Enchanteresse by Léo Chabrier. "Each of your copies is already marked to indicate your assigned role. If you look at the first page, you can find the full list, as well as a brief synopsis of the story, courtesy of our wonderful librettist, Ernest Barbier. Now—"

"Is this a joke?" Véronique cuts in.

"Lady Battu?" Maestro Mette raises an eyebrow.

"I believe there must have been a mistake. This copy cannot possibly be mine. "

"Is your name not on it?"

"It is, but—"

"Then I can assure you, no mistake was made. I prepared the copies myself."

Véronique's powdered face turns a shade whiter, then scarlet. Her nostrils flare as she glares at Maestro Mette, as if she's ready to pounce and scratch his face with her well-manicured nails.

I risk a glance at the list of roles, finding my name next to the first one, "Nova—The Enchantress," followed by José Muratore as "Alain—The Lover." I skim the rest of the names until I reach Véronique's, almost at the bottom: "Valerie—Jealous Sister of Nova."

"As I was saying," Maestro Mette continues, "we have less than two months to rehearse, and the premiere is set for September 3."

"What about the summer social events?" the mezzo-soprano asks. According to the list, her name is Marie Arnould, and she will sing the role of Nova's mother.

"Not to worry, Lady Arnould, all events have been taken into account," Maestro Mette says. "Now, please open your scores. I'd like to start with a musical reading."

Véronique stands and clears her throat. "I'm afraid that won't be possible."

"Lady Battu—"

"Given how low it is on the list, the role I've been assigned cannot have more than a line. I will not play second fiddle again just because there is a shiny new toy around."

The room erupts into chatter, but I can't understand a word over the ringing in my ears. José is now also on his feet, and Maestro Mette is striding to the middle of the circle with his arms raised. My pulse quickens; my mind is foggy from the heavy scent of Véronique's perfume. Head spinning, I'm about to stand when Madame's eyes meet mine. She shakes her head—a warning. It's enough to keep me glued to my seat.

I watch as Madame stands, full of elegance and command. Her black dress sweeps along the wooden parquet behind her as she steps out of the room. No one seems to notice.

"This is not the place to discuss this!" Maestro Mette's voice rises.

"Would you rather I gave an interview to the paper instead?" Véronique lets out a high-pitched laugh, each note sharp and clean. "No . . . that's more your style."

The vein in the Maestro's forehead is now bulging. He's about to retort when a knock on the door makes the entire cast turn.

Madame is standing at the entrance, followed by a group of what I can only assume are patrons, draped in finery and jewels no person should be allowed to flaunt on such an unremarkable morning. Bitterness fills my mouth. I clench my fists in my lap, and the ruby ring digs into my skin, a reminder: I am one of them—pearls adorning my neck and ears, a Talent sitting on my finger.

"We hope we're not interrupting," a short man with a squeaky voice says. "We couldn't possibly resist Madame's invitation to watch the musical reading."

Véronique opens her mouth when Vicomte Lenoir peeks into the room.

I straighten my back at the sight of him. But it's Véronique's transformation that's truly shocking. One look at him and her entire posture shifts—the sneer replaced by a delicate smile, the fire in her eyes muted by fluttering eyelashes. From a tigress ready to attack, she has turned into a kitten.

"Anything for our dearest patrons," she purrs.

Maestro Mette lets out a huff, and pats his vest before smoothing down his slicked-back hair. "Please, sit down," he says to the patrons.

"My lord, you can have my chair," Véronique says.

But the vicomte lingers at the doorway. "I'm afraid I cannot stay. I only came down to see what the commotion was about. Though I'm certain Albert would appreciate sitting."

The short man nods, already crossing the room to claim Véronique's chair .

I have to bite my lip not to smile at Véronique's scowl. The battle still clearly rages within her, but for now she has lost. Changing her mind in front of the patrons will not do her any favors.

The vicomte tips his hat goodbye, and a stray brown curl falls across his forehead. I trace it down to his emerald irises, and our eyes meet. Something between us shifted back at the gallery, a current of unspoken energy that left me unsteady. I can't quite put my finger on it. Every word coming from his mouth still makes me see red, yet his strange games have ignited a sense of curiosity within me. And for some reason, I feel he shares the sentiment. I can't call this a success yet—I'm still no closer to figuring out how to steal his Talent—but it's a start.

Neither of us shies away as we stare at each other, but as I nod my head in acknowledgment the vicomte's face shifts in response—a subtle twitch at the corner of his lip that leaves me wondering what he's really thinking. And then he's gone. And I'm left with no air.

I shake my head to clear it when I notice Véronique is glaring at me.

"Please open your scores," Maestro Mette says once all the patrons settle down.

"Ignore her," José whispers to me. "Just have fun rubbing your beautiful Talent in her face."

I chuckle, and force myself to focus on the first page. By now, the musical symbols aren't completely unfamiliar to me: the five lines, the curving key signature, the bows above the notes. All I have to do is let the gem take control—let its magic flow through my blood, and my voice will do the rest.

The Maestro gestures with his baton and Madame starts to play. Yet no sense of familiarity washes over me, no matching pulse from my gem. There is a flow of magic, a steady stream that lets me follow the notes on the page, but nothing more. I try to slow my breathing, to soften my gaze. I even rub the ring with my thumb. But the melody, as beautiful as it may be, feels strange.

José starts to sing, his tenor voice powerful and warm, commanding yet effortless. He is no longer the cheerful man meddling in the soprano drama, he is a lover. A knight from a far-off land, saving innocents on the battlefield. Goosebumps cover my skin. It makes no sense that such an immense sound could come from one man.

He gestures with his arm, letting his emotions lead him, and a bracelet appears from under his long sleeve—a delicate band of silver, embedded with an amber gem. With each beautiful note drawn from his lips, the gem gives off a faint glow—a pulse of magic fueling his blood.

But his lines are passing quickly, and Nova's lines are drawing near, and the music still feels unfamiliar, and my gem is not thrumming, and Véronique is staring at me, and everyone is staring at me. And all of a sudden the notes on the page look like meaningless scribbles.

I take a deep breath, focusing on the magic in my blood—my Talent knows what to do. Generations of knowledge accumulated within my ruby. The gem remembers . . .

But the gem cannot remember what has never been experienced.

And this opera has never been sung.

It is Véronique's smirk that fills my head when I draw out the first note, and I know I have failed.

It takes all I have not to sprint out of the room as soon as Maestro Mette ends the rehearsal. Instead, I plaster on a smile, doing my best to avoid Madame's glare as I head for the door, down the stairs, and onto the street.

I just embarrassed myself, not only in front of the musical director and other singers, but in front of the patrons.

Someone bumps into my shoulder and a second later Véronique is in my face. There's no more anger in her eyes, just a glint of triumph. She flicks a perfect golden curl away from her forehead as she leans in and whispers, "And for a second, I thought I had to worry about you. "

I don't get the chance to answer before her carriage pulls up.

She throws me a dazzling grin and climbs inside. Then she sticks her head through the small window. "Mark my words—this role is mine. You'll be out within the week."

"We'll see about that," I say, but her carriage is already pulling away, swallowing my voice in the sound of turning wheels and stomping hooves.

Even though my words were confident, that's the last thing I feel inside. The magic in my ring was enough to help me stumble through, but everyone could see I was struggling. And the more stressed I became, the worse it got. Notes slipping away. Pitch faltering. The markings on the page shifting in and out of focus. Lines sounding clear in my head, only to be replaced by deafening silence. Thank heavens the vicomte didn't stay to watch.

My future depends on establishing myself among the Elite, and this role will define that. I cannot let Véronique take it. If she does . . . Will I be fired? Will Dahlia fire me too? And what will happen to my sister?

The thought of Anaella pinches my chest. I haven't answered her letter. I'm not sure if it's because I hate lying to her, or if it's because of the guilt I feel for leaving her behind while I play dress-up, no matter how justified it may be. If she were here instead of me, I'm sure she'd handle it all with grace and ease. She has always been the one who knows what to say, what to do, how to act—a lady in every sense of the word, except the title. Yet, somehow, I'm the one who is trying to fake my way through it, forced to keep her away from a life that should be hers. She'd be better at it all—all except the part of being a thief. My sister is too good, too pure, for that.

Unlike me.

My carriage finally rolls up, and the coachman hops off. "My lady, I apologize for the delay."

I wipe a stray tear from my eye. "Not to worry. I wasn't waiting long."

"Are you alright, my lady?" The coachman offers me his arm .

The genuine concern in his voice catches me off guard, and I glance up at him. I see him several times a day, on the way in and out of the carriage, but fear has kept me from truly looking at him until now. He's even younger than I thought, only in his early twenties, his tall hat sitting on tightly trimmed blond hair. His skin is pale, his cheekbones high, giving him a skeletal look that fits only too well with his dark eyes. But I can't see any malice in him. Only pure interest and worry.

"Thank you for your concern, Basset," I say, my voice betraying the unease that grips me. "Unfortunately, I have not had the best day."

"I'm sorry to hear that, my lady. Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't believe there is." I hug my purse, the hard binding of Father's book pressing against my chest. "I simply need a bit more time to adjust."

"I remember the first time I came to the city. I grew up on a farm, so it wasn't easy to become accustomed to all the people and the noise. It must be quite a change from your family's country estate."

I force a smile, but my muscles tense. "Yes, different indeed."

"You must miss your family. I know I miss mine. My sister most of all."

My blood turns cold. "I'm sorry?"

"My sister . . . She was pretty sick when I left. But I knew the money in the city would help the family more."

He's staring right at me, his eyes not shying away from mine the way a servant's eyes should. The weight of it is suffocating, accusing. My breath catches, my throat is tightening, as the meaning of his words seeps in.

That story could not be his. It isn't his.

It's mine .

Suddenly the book weighs like a ton of bricks, pressing hard against my chest as though trying to protect me from him.

"I'm sorry, my lady." He bows his head, finally breaking his gaze. "I overstepped my bounds."

I'm too frozen to speak, to act. Fear crashes into me in waves as I stare at him, but I force my face to remain blank. I cannot show any weakness before him, cannot betray my position .

"Take me home," I order, but the words falter.

He follows my command nonetheless.

The streets roll peacefully outside the carriage window, but inside everything twists and turns, threatening to overflow.

Why hasn't he told anyone yet? Everything around me spirals as I try to make sense of it all. Could I make him keep quiet by paying him? Is that why he hasn't said anything before now? Is he trying to extort me? Or perhaps . . . could he be working for Dahlia? The glint of hope burns within me; I'm praying for an easy way out. But then why would he tell me a fake story instead of admitting it? Still, I have to know.

I don't wait for him to help me out of the carriage once we arrive. I stumble out on my own and rush into the house without looking back. Pauline greets me, but I push her away with the claim of a headache.

As soon as I've closed the door to my room, I head for the window. Throwing my hands up in the air, I start waving my arms like a lunatic. I know they're out there, Dahlia's henchmen—my personal guards. And I need to see Dahlia. Now.

Just as I expected, within moments Lirone emerges in my room, sliding from behind the tapestry.

"What happened?"

"Tell me he works for Dahlia, please."

Lirone's brow creases. "What? Who?"

His blank face gives me the answer. My heart sinks. My secret is no longer safe. It's resting in the hands of a man whose intentions I do not know.

The truth I tried to bury comes to my lips. "He knows."

"What? Who knows what? The vicomte? What the hell did you do?"

I shake my head. "No. Not the vicomte."

"Cleo, what—?"

"The coachman. Basset. He knows I'm a fraud. He knows about my sister."

"That's impossible. How would he even—? "

"He met me before, on the day I broke in here . . . I suspected he recognized me, but I wasn't sure. And then he was sniffing about in my room."

"In your room? But there's nothing here . . ." His eyes dart to the purse still hanging from my wrist. Lunging at me, he snatches it from my hand and spills its contents on the bed.

"Don't touch it!"

But Lirone ignores me, picking up Father's book in his tiny, dirty hands. "I should've tossed this away the moment I saw you had it."

"Don't! It's my Fa—"

"Your Father's, I know." His voice is lower, nothing like a child's. "You think I didn't know you had it? I've been following you since the day you arrived here! You just looked so damn miserable, I figured it couldn't be that bad for you to keep it. After all, no one here knows a bloody thing about you, right?" A bitter laugh escapes his lips. "But the coachman does know you. And he found it, didn't he? That's why you started carrying this with you?" He shakes the book at me.

"I wasn't sure before . . . but now I am. I thought there must be another explanation. And I didn't want to—"

Lirone curses before hurling Father's book on the bed.

I flinch, fighting the urge to run and grab it. "We need to tell Dahlia."

"No!"

"What do you mean, no? He knows about me."

"We cannot tell Lady Sibille. We need to deal with this ourselves."

"But—"

"If you tell her, we're both in trouble." He closes the distance between us and grabs my hand. His fingers are frozen, making me jump as they wrap around mine. "I was supposed to make sure your transition was smooth—without obstacles or risks. No loose ends. But I missed the fact that a member of the staff has seen you before, and I let you keep that incriminating book. And you . . . you kept it from her for far too long. "

I walk to the bed and pick up Father's book with shaking hands. It's open on a random page featuring strokes of pink and writing in cursive letters. I remember the day Mother and Anaella sketched this design. Father and I spent hours figuring out the sewing patterns. He could have done it in minutes without me, but he wanted me to do it myself, guiding me along the way. It was the first dress my sister and I were fully involved in making—her design, my tailoring. I trace the scribbled notes on the page, my eyes landing on one in the bottom corner.

" Jan. 12, 1881. Dress is ready! I couldn't be prouder of my little girls. "

Tears sting my eyes, but I fight against them. Bringing the book with me was a mistake. A desperate need to hold on to a life that's gone. If only I'd fully embraced my new identity, none of this would be happening. My secret would be safe. Anaella would be safe.

My sentimentality brought this on me. And yet I still can't let it go.

I shut the book forcefully and press it to my chest. "What are we supposed to do?"

Lirone is silent, his forehead so creased with concentration that I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. "Fire him."

"What good would that do?"

"You need to hurt the coachman's reputation. To make sure whatever he says about you will be taken as the blabbering of a fired servant."

"I don't—"

"Do you want to get out of this or not?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you have to! And it needs to be done in public. Somewhere with a big crowd so that everyone can see his incompetence."

"Incompetence?"

Lirone nods. "I'll take care of that part."

"Don't you think I should try and talk to him? He hasn't said anything so far. Perhaps I can pay him or something?"

"And let him hold this over you? To be able to run and talk whenever he wants? No. We need to make sure that even if he tries to talk, it can't hurt you."

"But . . . this will ruin his life."

"And he can ruin yours!" Lirone pushes. "If he exposes you, you will go to jail. Your sister will not be cared for anymore—she could die. And you will lose everything. Is that what you want?"

I fall quiet. Of course he's right, I cannot risk this. Still, I hate his idea, and all the many ways it could go wrong. But what choice do I have? The fear in Lirone's eyes is startling. Just the thought of telling Dahlia has terrified him, and though I have only seen her kind side so far, I am fully aware of her darkness. After all, she kidnapped me the first time we met.

"How did you even find out he knows?"

"I had a bad rehearsal . . . I was feeling down and he pretended to try to cheer me up. I almost believed him until he told me a story about his ‘sister.' There's no other way he'd know Anaella even existed if it wasn't for the book."

"Bad rehearsal?"

"I couldn't read the notes." I wave my hand to dismiss it. "We have more important issues—"

"You couldn't read the notes?" Lirone covers his face with his hands.

"Well, it's not like I had any musical education, you know."

He snaps his head up and glares at me. "You will now."

"Lirone, I really don't think this is the time."

"You will do everything I say. You will keep that thing close to you at all times." He eyes the book, making me involuntarily clutch it tighter. "You will fire the coachman, publicly. And I will be teaching you music every night."

"Wait, you know how to read music?"

He ignores my question. "Say you'll fire him, Cleo. Say you'll fire him, and I'll teach you."

I stare at his stubborn face, so young, yet full of the burdens only grown-ups should carry. But I doubt Lirone ever had the chance to be a child or have a real family. At least I knew the warmth of a loving home once.

With Father's book still embraced in my arms like a relic of a past life, I shake my head and sigh. "Fine. I'll do as you say."