Chapter Sixteen Keeping Time

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Keeping Time

"CLEO, FOCUS!" LIRONE snaps at me. "Your tempo is all off again."

I groan, holding back from throwing the music notebook at the wall. Almost a month of studies and I barely have anything to show for it. Yes, I did manage to learn the new role for the opera, mostly . . . leaning heavily on the private lessons Madame finally felt inclined to give me. But Lirone still insisted I should learn to read music on my own.

He has a point. Father always told me that one could never take full advantage of a Talent without knowledge. That was the entire reason he created his book for Anaella and me, to teach us the importance of our skills. "We are not machines, mon coeur," he once said as he put yet another comment in the margins. "Anything worth having takes work. Never forget."

I glance at my purse sitting on a nearby armchair. Even though the danger of the coachman no longer looms over my head, I have left the book there, always in reach and out of sight. I guess I've grown too used to its weight, though it no longer evokes sentimentality within me. Instead, it's a reminder that the pressure on my chest will lift only once my sister is by my side. And that I have to do everything to make sure there are no cracks in this new life I'm building for us.

Letting out a long breath, I compose myself. "Where did I go wrong? "

Lirone rolls his eyes. "You are the one with the Talent . You really can't tell?"

"Are you going to mock, or help?"

He snatches the notebook out of my hands and squints to read it in the faint candlelight. "Right here." He hands it back to me and points to a bar where the rhythm changes from 3/4 to 6/8. "You kept counting like you're in three, when 6/8 is counted in two. Start from the top."

I nod, grabbing the tuning fork by the stem and hitting it lightly against one of the elaborate bedpost columns before pressing it close to my ear. The note reverberates softly. Now I just need to find the note two steps up. My gem pulses, itching to give me the answer, for me to surrender to the magic, but I push it away and focus. I need to do this on my own. I bite into my lip as I hum an upward scale to the right pitch.

Lirone nods approvingly. With no metronome handy, he taps gently on the dresser, giving me a beat. I bob my head with each tap, my voice soft as I mark the new solf`ege line. Lirone insisted on writing new exercises for me himself, claiming my Talent would already be familiar with all the known solf`ege teaching books.

My eyes run ahead, scanning each coming musical interval and translating it in my head.

Do, re, fa, re, la, break, trill on sol, fa, mi, jump an octave, sol, break.

Si bémol.

Bémol!

My throat clenches, and I wince as the note rings false—far too sharp.

Lirone slaps his forehead, singing the correct note back at me with annoying accuracy.

This time I can't stop myself from throwing the notebook. It hits the wall with a thud before landing on the carpet with its pages crumpled.

"What was that for?" Lirone all but stomps over to pick it up.

"It's useless. I'm too tired anyway, and I have a staging rehearsal in the morning."

"You're just lazy. "

"Easy for you to say! You have perfect pitch."

"You think I can read all of this," he waves the notebook over his head, "just because of my hearing?"

I bite my tongue. I asked Lirone once how he knows music so well, but all I got from him was "passion" and "good ears."

"Hearing the notes is not enough to know how to read notation, not to mention rhythm."

"I don't—"

"No, you don't know." His face hardens with anger. "I had no fancy mentors, but I wanted to learn so much that I spent nights in the saloon, begging the pianist to let me stay by his side. I taught myself, from listening and watching. And you . . ." He pushes the notebook into my lap again. "You get everything handed to you, and still you complain."

The image of Lirone standing in a stuffy saloon, surrounded by drunkards, makes my stomach tense. He's just a child. A child showing clear promise and resourcefulness. But just because he doesn't have a Talent, his life can never be fulfilled. If there were new gems, his own musical gift could have been enough to hone a new Talent. But instead, he's forced to live in the streets—lie, cheat. How long has he been alone in this world?

I press the notebook to my chest, shame burning in my cheeks. "I'm sorry."

Lirone huffs. "Just try harder."

"I am trying," I say, but even in my own ears the words sound whiny. What would Father have said if he heard me? "I will do better."

He eyes me with pressed lips before relenting and flopping on the bed next to me. "Maybe it's enough for today."

I nod.

"Lady Sibille is still waiting, you know," he says, after a few moments of silence.

I straighten, my heart beating faster at the mention of Dahlia's name.

"It's been nearly three weeks since you saw her," he points out .

I'm painfully aware of how much time has passed since our dinner. She is expecting progress—progress I'm desperate to achieve with the new promise of having Anaella by my side after this mission. Yet since my carriage ride with the vicomte, my advances have been depressingly futile—foiled by constant rehearsals, silly dinner parties, and people bustling around us, blocking any private moment.

My longing to see Dahlia again, to bring her good news, has been growing inside me with each passing day. With each night filled with dreams of her lush lips kissing mine. Of the sweetness that coated my tongue. And of the way her touch turned from melting softness to passionate hunger as she pressed her body against mine. I thought with time the sensation would fade, yet somehow I still feel as if it happened mere seconds ago.

Could she feel the same? It's hard to imagine Dahlia losing concentration while daydreaming of our kiss. Yet I wish it were true.

I wish I could talk to my sister about it all, about the candlelit dinner and the way butterflies fluttered in my stomach at Dahlia's gaze.

I wish I could tell her about the kiss.

I remember my clammy hands and racing heart after Gabriel Martin, the baker's boy, and I stole a moment behind his parents' boulangerie. Anaella waited up for me, ready to hear every single detail ten times over. My sister always had a way of painting the world in pink—sitting on the bed, weaving romantic dreams. I need that now.

Every kiss, every touch . . . we always shared our experiences.

But not this time.

"I have another letter for you to take," I say.

"Another?" Lirone props himself up on his elbows. "She still hasn't answered the other twenty."

"I don't care." I stand, reaching for one of the drawers in my vanity. "Here."

Lirone stares at the sealed envelope, his reluctance evident. "I told you not to seal them. I'll have to break it to read anyway. "

I circle my finger over the red wax. He did tell me that, but I simply don't care. Something in the act of sealing each letter makes it real—a stamp that proves I wrote down the words. I've been writing to Anaella each day since the garden party. As if that could somehow make up for how horrible I've been for neglecting her. There is so much I want to tell her, though I don't dare write about the kiss, or my feelings for Dahlia—not while I still have to keep Anaella in the dark.

But my sister hasn't been replying, and each time I ask Lirone about her, all he has to say is that he handed the letter to the nurse. I don't blame Anaella for holding a grudge. I deserve to be kept waiting.

"Just take it," I plead.

"Fine." He relents, stuffing the envelope into an inner pocket of his patched-up jacket. "I'll be back tomorrow night."

The horses slow down as the carriage rolls into the familiar alley, stopping right in front of the artists' entrance to the opera house.

"My lady," the new coachman says as he opens the door for me.

My head butler hired him the morning after I fired Basset. He's a young man, but there's nothing youthful about him—his face remains a somber mask, his shoulders never slacking. He has the air of a proper and upstanding man, someone to erase the memory of the "drunkard" no one dares to speak of anymore.

Lirone's public scene remained on everyone's lips for days, but in a city like Lutèce, even the juiciest gossip is soon replaced. In this case, it was overtaken by a scandalous affair between a patron and a ballerina. Now all that lingers is my own guilt.

Soon I'm handing my hat to a maid before walking onto the main stage. The other cast members are already here, stretching and humming to wake their voices from a long night's sleep.

Maestro Mette is waiting at his conductor's pedestal, while Madame is at the piano, running her fingers smoothly over the keyboard in enchanting scales and arpeggios.

"Settle down, everyone!" Maestro Mette calls. "Patrice and I discussed it, and this morning we would like to skip the overture but start again from act 1, to see how the opening scene works."

Véronique lets out a displeased huff but luckily says nothing. Since we started working with Le Visionnaire , the gentilhomme Patrice Agard, on staging, she's been holding her tongue more often. Despite his honorary titles, the stage director's proclivity for yelling until his face turns red and the vein on his forehead bulges has been enough to keep most of the cast silent.

The rehearsals have also brought another side of Maestro Mette to the surface—a colder side, calculated and precise. It's written on his brow and in the hard line of his clenched jaw, in the way he holds his baton as though it's a sword. It's a side, I learned quickly, I do not want to cross.

The two of them together make for a fearful sight.

"Please take your positions," Mr. Agard says.

Following the stage director's order, José winks at me as we face each other from opposite ends of the stage, and a smile tugs at my lips. At least I have one ally through this.

Madame starts playing and merely four musical bars later José stumbles forward. He wanders across the stage singing in full voice, bringing the story of the battlefield to life with each note.

The rest of the cast has split up, either watching from the wings or sitting in the front rows of the hall as an audience.

José's tenor voice soars as he drops to the ground, and that's my cue.

I gather up my skirts and glide forward, my steps light and ghostly, as instructed. A chair marks the hill I'm supposed to mount, and I nearly lose my balance as I climb on top of it, pretending to watch the scorched earth below.

My ruby is already pulsing, recognizing the music at last. I let the Talent take hold, embracing the lack of control and trusting the gem, as Madame instructed me to. The melody springs from my lips, each note a shimmering drop of magic. My body is no longer my own, and I am no longer myself. I'm Nova, The Enchantress. And like her, my blood is fueled with power.

I sing out a long and mournful trill when the stage director bangs his fist on a desk and my voice all but disappears.

"No. No. No!" He stumps toward me, and my entire body stiffens. "Lady Adley, how many times do I have to tell you, you look at José after your cadenza."

I was looking at José? I didn't notice . . .

"I'm sorry," I say, but he's already turned away from me.

"Chevalier Muratore," he shouts at José. "I need more agony from you. You are looking for survivors on a battleground. There is nothing but death around you. I need to see it in your eyes. The horror!" He doesn't allow José to answer before yelling again. "From the top!"

We spend the next hour just on the first scene, and by the time José and I are allowed a short break, I'm already tired. But mostly frustrated. My Talent is for singing, not acting.

"Don't look so worried." José nudges my shoulder lightly as we step backstage. "Making mistakes is what rehearsals are for."

"You coddle her." Véronique's voice echoes from behind us.

She's leaning on the door frame leading into the dressing areas, her blond hair undone and cascading off her shoulders. Her dress is simple, practical for rehearsals—a light fabric covered in a floral print, with only the slightest lace embellishments around the cuffs and collar. Even I could have sewn this dress within a few hours, and I wouldn't have needed any of Father's notes or a practice muslin to construct it.

"She lacks skills," she continues, her eyes running up and down my length. "Maestro Mette will come to his senses soon enough."

"Véronique, I have no patience for your insistent blubbering today." José sighs. "Stop obsessing about Cleodora and do your job."

Véronique narrows her eyes. "I'm not obsessing."

"If you say so. Come, ma chérie, we only have a few minutes for our break." He interlaces his arm with mine, pulling me along the corridor—my knight in shining armor.

But Véronique isn't giving up.

"You might have managed to learn the music, finally, but you're not fooling anyone," she calls after us.

I pause, closing my eyes for a second to keep calm. "Go rest," I tell José. "No reason we should both miss out on our break."

He shoots Véronique a fake smile before entering one of the dressing rooms up ahead.

Alone, I turn to face Véronique. "Well? Have at it."

She blinks at me, clearly taken aback. I take pleasure in her hesitation. Then she steps toward me.

"You think you have it all figured out, don't you? Waltzing in here with your Talent." Her voice drips with venom. "Well, you're wrong. I have been preparing for my Talent since I was born. I studied music, acting, dancing, even languages. The only reason the Maestro indulges you is your cousin's name." She's so close now that her perfume assaults me—sharp, like a bee sting. "But he already has doubts. After that catastrophe at the garden party, it was bound to happen. You have no idea how to deal with your Talent. You are a wild card—a fleeting excitement. But when the dust settles, I'll be the one left standing. Do you understand?"

I bite my tongue, acid and anger seething within me. I don't care how justified her resentment toward me is, and I don't care about her expertise. Her attack is personal, belittling all my efforts, as if they were nothing but a joke—as if I am nothing but a joke. My nails dig into my skin as I clench my fists, doing all I can to keep from slapping her.

That's when a door slams farther down the corridor. I jump and turn my head to see Vicomte Lenoir walking in the other direction, away from us. Without thinking, I spin around swiftly, feeling my hair hitting Véronique's face .

"My lord!" I call after him.

He stops in his tracks and looks back at us. There's a stack of papers in his hands with sketches of buildings, delicate lines accompanied by countless calculations. He shoves these quickly under his arm.

"Lady Adley, shouldn't you be in rehearsal?" he asks.

Not exactly the greeting I was expecting, but I push it aside. Heat still courses through me, the need to spring into action. To pull Véronique's hair out, or at least shove my newfound understanding with the vicomte in her face.

"I'm on break," I say. "What about you? You seem in a hurry."

He tucks the stack of papers closer to him. "Budget issues," he says, though I'm not sure I believe him. He's holding sketches, not balance sheets. His hair is disheveled even more than usual, his golden vest wrinkled as if he's slept in it, and there's a crease of worry on his forehead.

"I'm certain it's nothing you can't handle, my lord," Véronique offers, her voice now soft and sweet. "My father has been asking about you—you still owe him a hunting trip."

I can't help but roll my eyes, catching myself too late. The vicomte lifts his brow and blinks, a hint of a smile forming on his face. But he focuses back on Véronique. "Please tell him I shall write to him soon to set a date."

"But—"

He cuts her off. "Lady Adley, have you ever gone hunting?"

"No, my lord. I've always considered it a rather masculine pursuit," I say, savoring the shock plastered on Véronique's face.

"A shame. I would have invited you to join."

Warmth creeps to my cheeks at the thought of spending more time with him. Dahlia did tell me to seduce him . . . This is all just a part of the game. "Perhaps I could be persuaded."

There's a spark in his eyes as he laughs, the sound low and warm, so unlike his smug persona. "I'll take that as a challenge. "

Véronique opens her mouth just as a bell rings from the stage, calling us back to rehearsal.

"I won't keep you any longer," he says. "Enjoy your rehearsal, ladies."

He turns away from us, and my eyes follow him until he disappears around a corner.

"I don't know what you think you're doing." Véronique bites into each word, all sweetness evaporated. "But you're playing with fire."

I should probably worry about her more, but I don't care. This is the most progress I've made with the vicomte in weeks. A real step toward stealing his Talent, pleasing Dahlia, and getting my sister back. I should almost thank Véronique for goading me.

The smile is still stretched on my lips when I return to the stage, but Maestro Mette's cold glare and the director's tomato-red face are enough to wipe it right off.