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Chapter Twenty Ruffling Feathers

CHAPTER TWENTY

Ruffling Feathers

THE DRIPPING CANDLES cast a glow over my painted face as I stare into the mirror of my private dressing room, awaiting the afternoon's rehearsal. My finger hovers over the circle of blush on my cheek, tracing my jawline and down to my collarbone, following the same route Dahlia's kisses marked last night.

My body tingles at the memory of her—her smell, her touch, the taste of her lips against mine. She is not pure, but neither am I—our twisted spirits wrapped together in sweet darkness. There is no going back now. Her siren call has lured me in too deep, and I can't find a bone in my body that still wishes to fight.

I used to imagine what it would be like to surrender entirely to passion, to follow lust. What I wasn't prepared for was the vulnerability—the level of intimacy. Simply sharing a kiss with Dahlia was enough to entrance me. Giving myself to her fully did far more than that. It entwined more than just our bodies—it linked my heart to hers. It shifted my fate and etched something new into my soul.

I'm not really sure what this sensation is, but even my own reflection seems different today: stronger, confident, mature. As though with Dahlia's touch I turned into a woman .

My chest puffs out a bit at the realization, the blush on my cheeks deepening.

Not only has Dahlia granted me a life of power—she has made me worthy of it. She has set me aflame. There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep that fire burning. Stealing the vicomte's Talent is a small price to pay for that.

I smile into the mirror, at the perfect lady Dahlia has created—rich, respected, adored. Someone with a Talent that can leave a mark on the world. On my finger, the ruby sparkles as if the magic inside it is becoming impatient, waiting for the coming rehearsal—a full run-through with the orchestra, going over the entire opera from start to finish.

Standing up, I accidentally shove my purse and its contents spill onto the floor. My stomach clenches at the sight of Father's book, its pages crumpling. I quickly reach for it, then freeze.

Anaella's letter is peeking from under it, staring at me in defiance, as if each word is ready to put me on trial.

The wrinkled page feels heavier than it should as I pick it up and read over the last words in my sister's note.

But Cleo, it's not worth it if it keeps you from home.

I miss you.

Your Ann

"I miss you too," I say to my empty dressing room.

She's wrong, though. After last night, I have no doubt about that. Dahlia will keep her promise. She cares for me, and I will not let her down. And once I succeed, my sister and I will reunite.

Soon Anaella will have her share of luxuries. We will throw grand parties together, and her laughter will ring all the way through our estate halls and out to our blossoming garden. I can already imagine us sitting on a bench, sharing all our secrets as we did when we were children. Once Anaella is by my side, I will no longer have to hide anything from her . . . though the thought of telling her of last night makes my cheeks burn.

Maybe one day she could even meet Dahlia. I never imagined introducing my young innocent sister to a shadowy mob-woman, but Dahlia is so much more than that. I know all my sister cares about is my happiness. Once she sees all the good Dahlia has done for me, for us , she will support me.

This will be the beginning of a different life for Anaella and me—a life I'm already a part of and have no intention of letting go. Anaella will understand, once I can explain it to her.

It is worth it.

I stuff my sister's letter inside Father's book, placing it gently back in my purse—the weight of it a reminder that every note I sing is bringing me one step closer to our reunion.

"It will be worth it," I repeat, just before the doors of my dressing room shoot open and bang into the wall. The sheer force rattles the dresser, knocking over a vase full of flowers; the porcelain cracks as it hits the floor, water spilling and soaking the carpet.

"Comment osez-vous!" Véronique strides into the room, stepping right over the scattered roses. "Mother was right about you Adleys. You have no shame, do you?"

Her mother? What is she even talking about?

"Don't act like an innocent maiden." Véronique advances on me, shoving a newspaper in my face. "We both know you did this just to antagonize me. You don't even like him."

I gape at the headline staring at me from the gossip column.

Vicomte Lenoir and Dame de Adley—a budding romance ?

Under it is a short description of our meeting in the botanical gardens, confirmed by an anonymous eyewitness. A pang of guilt resurfaces, but I have no time to pay it any mind.

No wonder Véronique's blood is boiling.

"Well? Do you deny it?" She crosses her arms. "You went out with a man you know is soon to be engaged!"

I huff and follow her example, crossing my own arms over my chest in defiance. "I know no such thing. If that were true, it would have been your name in the paper, not mine. But you haven't had a single outing with the vicomte all summer. Have you?"

Véronique's eyes are burning, as if trying to set me ablaze. "Watch yourself, Cleodora. Keep pushing me and I'll make you regret it." Her voice is a threatening growl.

I let out a laugh, half to irritate her, half to ease the tension building in my chest. "And how exactly will you do that?"

"I have my ways." She takes another step, nearly pressing up against me with her chest puffed out like a bird's. With the feathers stuck in her hair, she looks like one, too.

"What on earth is going on here?" José calls from the doorway.

Véronique spins on the spot and glares at him. "None of your business, José."

His eyes dart between the two of us before landing on the broken vase and scattered flowers. "Perhaps it isn't, but you two had better pull yourselves together and get to the stage. Mr. Agard is fuming."

I bite my tongue; dealing with our angry stage director is the last thing I need at the moment. At least the mention of his name makes Véronique retreat. She lifts her chin and throws me one last glare through slitted eyes before striding out of the room, her heels crushing the roses under them.

José lifts an eyebrow.

I sigh and hand him the paper. He'd pry it out of me soon enough anyway .

"Oh, you are good, ma chérie!" Laughter rumbles in his chest as he scans the page. "C'est incroyable! But you should know she won't forget this."

"This isn't about her." I snatch the paper back.

José's smile grows. "Oh my . . . You like him. I didn't know you fancied arrogant, entitled men. If I'd known, I'd have offered my brother."

I roll my eyes, but my heart races. I did enjoy the vicomte's company, more than I should have. Yet the memory of Dahlia's soft skin against mine is overwhelming in comparison—the curves of her figure, the warmth of the water, the aroma of the oils surrounding us. José truly has no idea who I fancy.

He only laughs. "Come on, we need to get to the stage." He gestures for me to lead the way.

I ring the bell for a maid before stepping out, feeling a small prick of shame for asking someone else to clean up Véronique's mess. But I have no time to deal with a broken vase, not with Mr. Agard's shouts already echoing backstage.

"This is not what I asked for!" His yelling pierces my ears as I approach the wings. "How many times do I have to explain myself? Are you an imbecile?"

"Patrice, relax. We can get this all sorted," Maestro Mette answers.

"Sorted? This woman is making a mockery of me."

Reaching the stage, I freeze. Maestro Mette and our stage director are standing behind the curtains, but next to them is the modiste, Miss Josephine Garnier—the latest victim of Mr. Agard's temper.

"Sir, you are the one making a mockery of me ," she throws back at him. "I don't have to stand here and listen to you insult my art."

"Aha!" Mr. Agard calls when he spots me. "Here is a fine example of your art !" A second later, he is pulling me to the center of the stage. "They call me Le Visionnaire because my productions are a manifestation of dreams! Yet this is the dress you think is going to star in my production? "

I look down at my costume. I was asked to wear it to check if I'm comfortable moving in it on stage, but now I think my comfort is the last thing that matters to anyone here. The gown is not my favorite, I have to admit, even though the tailoring is admirable. It reminds me a bit of lingerie, fashioned from rose-printed chiffon in shades of blues accented with turquoise, and adorned by white ruffles. It's definitely not the type of dress I had in mind for the character of Nova, The Enchantress — a woman in search of immortality in the midst of war.

"I said I wanted her to look like a blooming flower, not a . . . withering garden," he continues, his eyes scanning me up and down before turning back to Josephine. "You, woman, have no vision."

"How dare you?" She puts a trembling hand over her heart, clutching her shining gem. "Maestro Mette, when I agreed to create the costumes, I didn't agree to be belittled and humiliated! My Talent doesn't deserve this treatment. I'm leaving."

"Miss Garnier, please." The Maestro blocks her path. "Let's all take a deep breath."

"I don't need to breathe. I need respect."

The stage director opens his mouth to answer her, but Maestro Mette puts a hand on his shoulder. Stuck between them, I'm like a rabbit caught between three lions. I try to take a step away, but Maestro Mette glares at me to halt.

"How about this . . ." he says. "We'll prepare a detailed description capturing Patrice's vision and deliver it to you this evening, Miss Garnier." He is so careful with his words, it's like he's attempting to defuse an explosive weapon. "After the weekend, Lady Adley can go to your studio and try some other options that might fit better. Can we all agree?"

"I'll accept the terms," Josephine crosses her arms, "if they come along with an apology."

The vein on the director's forehead is bulging again, but I can see Maestro Mette's fingers dig deeper into his shoulder. " Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle ," he utters through clenched teeth. "Please accept my apology." The words could not sound less sincere, but Josephine's pleased grin suggests that this is enough to let the matter drop.

She huffs as she takes a look at my dress one last time before striding backstage, her footsteps sounding over the wooden floor as she retreats, muttering about unappreciated art.

The moment she's gone, Maestro Mette lets out a long sigh. I can relate. "Everyone, gather round!" he calls.

The rest of the cast assembles on the stage—singers and dancers ready for a full run-through of the opera. The tension in my stomach lifts; I'm relieved to no longer be standing alone under the scrutiny of the directors. Véronique's shoulder shoves into me as she takes her spot, timing her strike exactly when the directors are looking away.

I let out a tiny groan and rub my arm. Maybe I'll be lucky and Dahlia will choose her Talent as my next target. After all, basking in darkness must have some rewards—a way to hold up my end of the bargain and be rid of Véronique all at once. The thought almost makes me smile.

"We will work our way from the overture until the end without a break," the Maestro announces, and a wave of displeased murmurs follow. He hushes them all with one raised finger. "A few of our patrons will be watching today's run-through. Don't disappoint them." His eyes scan us, resting on each face a few seconds longer than comfortable. "We start in five."

The cast disperses as crew members rush to their stations, checking on props and ropes. I should be moving too, yet I'm rooted in place, looking out toward the hall, in the sudden grip of nerves. A group of patrons enters through the open doors to the gallery level, taking their seats. Three ladies and two gentlemen. But Nuriel isn't among them.

"He's not going to be here," José says in my ear. "Vicomte Lenoir never comes to rehearsals."

A sigh escapes me, though the tension in my chest remains unchanged. Should I be happy? Upset? I still have to play my part with the vicomte—seducing him is what Dahlia expects of me. Yet the disappointment that nestles inside me at his absence is too real for comfort. I'm not supposed to find the thought of seeing him thrilling. He cannot be allowed to have any place in my heart. Perhaps it's best he's not here now, since I clearly need to control myself better.

In the pit, the orchestra members are already tuning their instruments in an array of sounds, and Maestro Mette is taking his place at the raised podium. Pushing my emotions down, I find my place backstage just before he taps his baton for attention. Then the music begins.

The difference between the piano and the fully orchestrated accompaniment is immense. Madame's Piano Talent is incredible, but it cannot be compared to the intense beauty of combining the musicians together into a symphony of Talents. The instruments weave together into one living, breathing unit, filling the entire hall with their harmonies.

The dancers glide over the stage, telling a moving tale of pain—they are the spirits of lost soldiers on the battlefield. They move like wind transformed by music, bringing a wordless interpretation to the soft strings and the quickening beat. The hair of each ballerina is pulled back, gathered together and secured by a silver comb, embedded with a gem. I catch the light glow emanating from the various gemstones, each Talent shining brighter than the one before.

Then José starts singing, and the dancers plummet to the ground in graceful arcs—souls reenacting their deaths, never to rise again. The music swirls around me in a whirlwind, my own Talent responding with gushing magic coursing through my blood and notes leaving my lips.

The Lover and The Enchantress meeting at last—her quest for immortality leading her to him, as the magic in her blood calls her to take his life and have his years as her own. But her plans are derailed, a massive explosion wounding her mortally.

José's warm tenor voice soaring as The Lover in him tends to the wounds of The Enchantress.

The Mother, in a vision, warning against the cost of the immortality spell, with a deep mezzo-soprano voice and fearful notes .

The Sister, wishing the power to be hers, her jealousy ringing all too authentically in Véronique's voice.

And the feelings of The Enchantress for The Lover, my feelings , growing with each heart-wrenching note.

Each scene flows to the next in a blur—music, movement, and emotions combining into the most complicated form of art.

A flash of light enters the corner of my eye—up in the private booths a door has opened. Could the vicomte have decided to come after all, just in time to watch the last scene? The edges of my nerves tingle as I bring another melodic phrase to an end; my eyes wander up to meet him.

But it isn't Nuriel leaning into the red velvet seat.

My heart skips a beat at the sight of Dahlia's perfect porcelain features staring at me. I might be imagining it, but even from afar I can see the seductive hunger in her dark eyes, the smile tugging at her lips. Her hand rests on the shoulder of another lady—a young woman in a mint dress, with brown locks and rosy cheeks.

I know that girl.

This time, my heart stops altogether. I blink, certain my eyes are deceiving me. But the woman next to Dahlia is not a mirage.

She's my sister, Anaella.

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