Chapter Fourteen Birds in the Garden

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Birds in the Garden

THE GARDENS OF the chateau are like nothing I've ever seen—circling the marble fountains are rows and rows of flower beds in vibrant hues of rouge, violet, navy, and specks of gold, all standing out against cushions of emerald green foliage. The air is redolent with their fragrance and filled with the chirping of birds.

Among the blossoms, gentlemen stroll accompanied by ladies in elegant dresses, their gowns as fresh as the garden itself. Servants in black-and-white uniforms blend among them, carrying trays of canapés and crystal glasses rippling with fizzing drinks. It's the perfect image of luxury.

I only take a few steps before I'm recognized.

Josephine Garnier blocks my path, grabbing my hand sympathetically. "Lady Adley, I'm so happy to see you. I was certain you'd have gone home after that terrible accident."

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world." I pull my hand gently out of her grip. Of all the people at this party, the modiste is the last I want to see.

She's wearing a pink dress again, only this time the shade is soft, befitting the outdoor event. Her dazzling gem necklace rests peacefully on her décolletage and sparkles in the light as she moves .

"I was shocked to hear what happened with your servant." She puts a hand on her chest as if mortified by the mere mention of the disaster. "You did the right thing firing him on the spot. A man like that has no place among civilized people."

I swallow hard, hoping my face doesn't betray my shame. At least Lirone's plan worked—the accident is front and center as a conversation topic.

"After such an event, most people would look a mess," she continues. "But you are as lovely as a rose. And your dress! I couldn't have created a better one myself!"

Of course she'd find a way to pat herself on the back, seeing that my closet holds nothing but rows of her designs. I let out a polite laugh at her joke.

For a second she just stares at me with her brow raised comically high. Then her wild laughter overpowers mine, forcing me to take a step back in discomfort.

"Cleodora." Madame is suddenly by my side. "The concert is about to begin."

"If you'll excuse me." I bow my head to Josephine, but she just nods, still laughing.

"Keep your guard up with that one," Madame says under her breath as we walk away.

"I'm sorry?"

"Miss Garnier might seem unhinged at times, but don't let it fool you. Her wits are as sharp as a guillotine."

"Why are you telling me this?"

She stops abruptly and takes a drink from the tray of a passing servant. "I'm your mentor. It's my job to look out for you."

"You've barely looked at me since the art exhibition. You didn't even offer to help with studying for the role, though everyone can see I'm in over my head."

Madame's face hardens, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You don't need my help. You're not in over your head—you're too much inside your head. True, it's not an opera your gem has honed, like everything you've sung until now, but your Talent should be enough to help you sight-read to a tolerable degree." Her words are reassuring, but the sneer on her face betrays her true intentions. "And you are welcome at any exhibition you like."

"Is this about Renée? Did you not want me to meet your partner? I don't know if I offended you somehow, but I don't care that you are both wom—"

"Take my advice or don't," she says, cutting me off. "That's all there is to it." She strides past me, effectively ending the conversation.

No matter what she says, it's clear she's mad at me. Madame might claim her lack of help is innocent, but I know when I'm being punished. I just wish I knew for what.

A group of gentlemen walks by, tilting their hats to greet me. I force a smile. There are too many curious eyes around for me to break down. Too many people I have to impress if I hope to ever establish myself among them—to appease Dahlia.

Pushing down the hurt and nerves, I follow Madame past a rose arch and around a massive green hedge to a separate part of the garden. A wall of palm trees surrounds it, while bronze and marble statues dot the scene—ancient, draped figures, angelic babies playing harps, and majestic warriors in full armor. They are beautiful, ethereal, and cold—perfect figures meant to entertain all who look at them for eternity. For a moment I can relate to them, as though I too am just a flawless vessel designed to allow my Talent to amuse and charm those around me.

Elegant round tables covered in white cloths sit atop the freshly cut grass, their chairs all facing a massive white canopy. The ensemble is already on the stage under it, tuning their instruments in a cascade of discordant sounds that slowly merge into a single note. The crowd settles in around me, enjoying champagne, and cakes covered in colorful icing.

I notice Maestro Mette sitting in the audience at the front, with José and a few of the other singers. I should join them, but I'm frozen .

Véronique steps forward on the stage, not waiting for an introduction. She looks beautiful. A light blue silk gown drapes from her frame, its entire bodice dotted with pearls that spiral all the way down her skirts in an undulating pattern. With each movement, they capture the light like dazzling rainbow drops. But it's the tiara adorning her blond ringlets that grabs my attention—silver bands interlaced with palmette motifs and topped with a diamond ribbon, while at its center sparkles a heart-shaped aquamarine stone. It's breathtaking.

I have never seen Véronique's gem before. A few years back, in the wake of the great panic when those seven Elite Talents disappeared, many of the aristocracy abandoned the habit of wearing them. After all, physical closeness isn't needed for the magic—the blood we feed the stones binds them to us like an imprint within our veins. Yet being far away from your gem isn't easy. It's like a part of you is missing, calling you to reunite.

I remember how Father's high-class customers stopped wearing their gems for fittings, how they all swore to bring them out only on special occasions—a small reprieve from the ache of separation and a way to flaunt their Talents as riches. They hoped storing their gems in safes would protect them from potential thieves. Somehow, they thought it easier than keeping their blood out of criminals' hands, making the transfer ceremony impossible. As time passed, though, more and more of them started wearing them to the shop again, extra safety measures forgotten and abandoned. Certainly, at this event they have all fallen into a false sense of safety—unaware that right among them stands a thief.

The crowd quiets without Véronique uttering a word; her presence is a magnet no one can ignore. She stands with her chin tucked down, her eyes closed, and I'm drawn to take a step closer to her. She lifts her head, and the first violinist gives the mark. The ensemble of instruments follows his lead, no conductor required for such a small group of musicians.

The strings tremble with each graceful stroke, joining together in a rich harmony. Their sound is clear in the open air, a burst of joyful celebration as vivid as the nature surrounding us. Véronique smiles, pure exhilaration sending tendrils of thrill through the audience. Then she opens her mouth, and the sound is as light and graceful as any of the birds in the garden.

Her tiara shines—it almost gives her a halo—as her voice glides and soars. She is a diva in the full sense of the word—a goddess, a singer with a Talent so bright it deserves to be celebrated.

Goosebumps cover my arms at her brilliant trills, like a songbird in flight. How could I possibly compare? Yet, when her song dies and her eyes meet mine, there is a glint of fear in them. No. Not fear. Disdain. Jealousy.

Because all her threats and gloating don't change the fact that I'm still the lead singer, the one who was requested personally by the marchioness. With Lady Adley's Talent I'm not just her equal—I'm her rival.

Suddenly, my ring feels like a massive weight on my finger.

The crowd claps and the marchioness steps forward. "Magnifique!" She raises her glass. "Thank you, Lady Battu, for such a marvelous opening."

Everyone cheers again as Véronique curtsies before walking off the stage.

"And now," the marchioness continues, "I'm very pleased to welcome a special guest to the stage. Please give a warm round of applause to ‘Lutèce's Nightingale'—Dame Cleodora de Adley."

The crowd's polite cheers turn into an enthusiastic wave and my legs carry me forward as if I have no will of my own. A maid takes my purse for safekeeping, while whispers about carriages and accidents accompany me on my way to the stage. Not a single person has missed the newest piece of gossip I'm starring in.

My stomach churns again, pain stabbing my back as a wave of nausea passes through me. Perhaps I should have taken that opium tea this morning after all . . . My body truly has the worst timing.

Just breathe. This is an aria my Talent knows, one the former Lady Adley sang countless times and one I've practiced myself more than once. This should be easy .

Maestro Mette's gaze beckons at me from the first row. This is my chance to show him why he chose me for the lead role. I can do this. I give a slight nod and the ensemble starts to play.

I let the music flow through me, the familiar hum of my ruby reacting at once. The sea of faces fades and blurs, leaving only the swaying trees, their branches dancing as if to the beat of the music.

A flash of green grabs my attention—a pair of striking catlike eyes.

The world snaps back into existence.

Vicomte Lenoir winks at me, and a hot flash shoots through my body. But the music doesn't wait for me to collect myself. Letting the Talent take control, my lips part, allowing the notes out.

I sing, the melody and words all coming out perfectly—but something is off.

The usual power of my voice is weakened, and with each note, a raspy, unpleasant sensation grabs my throat as though my vocal cords are covered in gravel. I take a breath, but the air doesn't fully go in; instead it hits my stomach with another stab of piercing pain. The magic still sings in my blood, making my voice ring out, but my body heaves under the pressure to support it.

The warmth of a cello line takes the lead, and my melody winds down to a delicate pianissimo—a shimmering silver line stretching among the clouds of harmony. I sense my muscles tensing before it happens. My stomach twists in agony, and the line breaks. The strings pick up again, and I follow them in a whirlwind of sound, and when the song comes to an end, I'm all but breathless—head spinning, stomach readying to empty itself right there on stage.

Clapping enters my mind as if from far off, and I curtsy, strictly from habit, before stepping away. The marchioness is speaking again, but I cannot understand her words. My head is throbbing. I snatch my purse from the maid as I stumble away from the crowd, past the green hedge and the flower beds, until I'm far enough away that the next singer is just a distant background noise .

Collapsing onto a bench, I try to force air to fill my lungs.

"What was that?" Madame's voice makes me jump. I didn't even realize she had followed me.

"I don't . . ."

"This is your time of the month, isn't it?"

My heart rate accelerates, my nausea threatening to overtake me. Discussing my female calendar with Madame is not something I thought I'd ever be doing.

"I—"

"Foolish girl," Madame snaps. "I blame myself. I should have had your maid report your schedule along with your weight."

She's upset with me, this time openly, but I don't deserve it. Not for this, at least. "I don't understand . . ."

"You're lucky your Talent holds an exquisite singing technique, or this would have been a total disaster. Didn't you sense your vocal cords are swollen?"

My eyes widen. "Is that what it was? Why my pianissimo broke?"

"That, and the lack of support and breath control. You cannot possibly expect your muscles to act normally."

I open my mouth to answer when another cramp passes through me and my hands fly to my belly. Madame's glare softens.

"Are you regular?" she asks, her voice now gentle.

"Not usually," I admit, avoiding her gaze.

"Well, you've been gaining weight, so we can only hope it'll stabilize. I expect to be informed, so I can make certain you will not perform like this again."

I nod as another throb skewers me. I should definitely have taken the opium tincture this morning.

"The Maestro won't be happy, but I'll take care of it," she continues. "But, Cleodora, if you wish to keep your role, you cannot afford to mess up again. Now let's go back to the party."

"Can I have a few minutes? "

"Don't take too long," she says, turning away from me and heading back toward the crowd.

As soon as she's gone, tears spring to my eyes. This day has been nothing but a massive failure. I ruined a man's life. Condemned him to a fate worse than what I've been running from. Humiliated myself in front of the marchioness. Broke while singing for all to see. Lost Maestro Mette's favor. Managed to make Véronique shine even more. And worst of all, I did all of that in front of Vicomte Lenoir.

It'll be a miracle if I can make him see me as anything but a joke after this.

The tears are now streaming down my cheeks, smearing the makeup Pauline worked so hard on and revealing the broken mess I am inside. I reach into my purse. My hands are shaking as I take out Father's book and press it to my chest.

I knew letting go of my past was a part of the deal. I knew I could never again be the Cleodora Finley whose future was promised inside these pages. But it's as though every step I take strips away a part of me. If I keep going, will anything remain? And what is the point of maintaining this facade if I keep messing up at every turn, my own shortcomings pushing my reunion with Anaella further and further away?

I haven't seen my sister in over a month. I haven't even answered her letter. I disappeared—allowed this role I'm playing to take over. Yet even while failing at it, I'm still here in this lavish world, while she's left behind in darkness.

I cannot keep going this way. Whatever heinous acts I have to commit, whatever parts of myself I have to bury, I need a guarantee that this will all be worth it.

I cover my face with my hands, wishing the world to vanish—hoping that when I open my eyes, I'll be back at Father's shop, with Anaella by my side.

Instead, a cough startles me. I flinch, hurrying to stuff the book back into the purse .

"Having a cloudy day in your everlasting sunny kingdom?" Vicomte Lenoir is leaning on the side of a bronze horse statue. If he thinks anything is odd about me crying over a book, it doesn't show in his tilted smirk.

I don't know what he's doing away from the crowd, and I'm aware I should be grateful he's even still talking to me. But I have no energy left to deal with his smugness. Today won't be the day I win him over.

"I have no kingdom. And no sun." I rise to my feet. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

I try to push past him, but he grabs my arm. An electric shock passes through me at his touch. My head turns back toward him. He's so close that his breath is hot on my neck. A shiver runs down my spine. His hand still grips me, warmth radiating off him in gentle waves. I should pull away, but his touch has left me rooted to the spot.

The smirk is gone, replaced by an uncertain line on his forehead. "You . . ." He suddenly lets me go, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Are you alright?"

It's a stupid question, seeing as tears still smear my face, but the sudden worry catches me off guard.

"You were there. You heard it."

"It's just a concert."

"To you. To me, it's my entire future." I don't know why I'm being so honest with him. All I know is that my emotions are in turmoil, and I can barely hold myself together, let alone bring myself to speak politically. "What are you even doing here?"

"At the party?" He raises an eyebrow; his cockiness has returned.

"No." I will not let him turn this into another sparring match. "Here. With me."

He shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets. "It was getting boring there. I was actually heading for my carriage."

"You're leaving?"

"Wasn't that what you were doing? Or was your plan to sit here and wallow over your diary? "

"That's not my—" I bite my tongue. No wonder he didn't think it odd; he simply sees me as a hysterical woman.

A flash of anger rises in my chest when I notice the smile at the corner of his lips. He's teasing me. Is this his way of offering comfort? I can't decide if his behavior is infuriating or charming. Maybe it's a bit of both. I examine his sculpted face; his expression is guarded, giving nothing away. What game is he playing?

"Well, I would go home," I say, trying to regain control of the conversation. "But if you haven't heard, I lost my coachman. I have no way to leave."

"I can take you."

I blink, waiting for him to laugh. But he's not joking.

"What about the marchioness?" I mumble, suddenly aware of how secluded we are. "We didn't even say goodbye."

"With what you've gone through today, people have enough to gossip about. Believe me, no one will care."

The concert is still going on in the distance, Véronique and José's voices echoing in a passionate duet. Just the thought of going back makes me squeamish. There is nothing I can salvage there, but here I have a chance I never thought I'd get—an opportunity I've been begging for.

The vicomte just stares at me, waiting for my reply.

"Thank you for your kindness, Monsieur le Vicomte ." I add his title and lower my head, trying to regain a measure of decorum. "I'd be delighted."

He bows his head in return, gesturing for me to lead the way.

As we reach the waiting carriages, he speaks again. "Your Talent is impressive, but you are still human."

"Pardon?"

He opens the carriage door, allowing me to climb in first before following and settling himself on the velvet seat opposite me.

"You aren't perfect," he says, as his coachman closes the door behind us.

I don't know if it's meant as an insult, but at this moment I don't really care.