Chapter Twenty-One A Songbirda Crow?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A Songbird or a Crow?

MY MIND TELLS me it can't be true, that I must be wrong. Yet, deep inside, I know I'd never mistake anyone else for Anaella.

José's hands wrap around my waist as he moves and blocks my view, bushy eyebrows raised in expectation. The last notes of his phrase are drawn from his lips, and I'm meant to answer, but my head is blank, filled only with the image of my sister.

A flute trills, and Maestro Mette waves his baton, giving me the cue to enter. I open my mouth to sing, and for a second my voice falters. A flash of cold anger passes in the Maestro's eyes; a warning rings in José's tightening lips. The gem pulses again, yearning to take over, to become one with the music, and with the next breath I give in to the magic, my singing stabilizing.

José joins me, our voices melting together in a passionate duet—The Lover willingly offering his life to grant The Enchantress more years, the dagger resting on his chest.

My hand trembles as I let the blade fall—The Enchantress finally accepting mortality, not willing to kill a man she loves for her own gain.

And the final sacrifice.

A whirlwind of harmonies tangle, cascading in gushing waves as The Lover takes his own life to heal The Enchantress's wounds, her name parting his lips in one last call . . . Nova.

The orchestra responds with a final crescendo, a cry for lost love and dreams. The sound reverberates through the hall, lingering for a moment longer before Maestro Mette drops his hands, and the magic is broken with a wave of movement and talking—cast members, crew, and instrumentalists releasing the tension built throughout the show all at once, like a corset snapping open.

Up in the gallery some patrons clap, already on their feet and heading toward the exit. But my eyes go straight to the private booths.

Empty. No sign of either Dahlia or Anaella.

"Bravissima, ma chérie!" José wraps a sweaty arm around my shoulder. "Though you scared me there for a moment."

"I . . . forgot the words," I mumble, scanning the hall, row by row, for any sign of my sister. There is none. Just empty velvet seats in red and gold.

Lady Arnould skips over next to us, planting a kiss on José's cheek. "You were fantastic!"

The costume and makeup for The Mother have added a few years to her round face, but José looks at her as though she's the most radiant of stars.

"Not as fantastic as you!" He untangles from me before grabbing her by the waist and spinning her around while she laughs.

"Settle down! Settle down!" Maestro Mette shouts over the noise.

Next to him, our stage director is standing with lips pressed tight, flipping through a notebook filled with corrections for us all.

I tap my leg restlessly under my skirt. I have no time for this. I need to find Dahlia. To see my sister.

"Well done, everyone!" Maestro Mette wipes his forehead with a white handkerchief. "A successful run-through indeed. Patrice has gathered all his notes for you, and we'll make sure you fulfill each of them well before the premiere in two weeks. "

José leans in to whisper something in Lady Arnould's ear, and she giggles.

"In the meantime . . ." The Maestro clears his throat, throwing us a warning glance. "We think you all deserve some well-earned rest, so we'll leave the commentary for the beginning of next rehearsal."

"Woohoo!" one of the crew members cheers, causing laughter to ripple through the cast.

Maestro Mette nods in response. "Enjoy the rest of the evening."

Nerves on edge, I push toward the stage exit as soon as the words leave his mouth. If I hurry, I might still be able to somehow catch Dahlia and Anaella.

"Lady Adley, a moment, if you please," the conductor calls before I can make it out the door.

I halt, a sudden pressure building in my chest. The rest of the cast pass me by as I turn back with a pained smile. "Yes, Maestro." My tone comes out colder than intended.

I notice Véronique lingering near the curtain at the back of the stage, bent over, as if she's dropped something on the floor. My jaw clenches. If she had truly dropped something, she'd have asked a maid to search for it.

Maestro Mette stuffs his handkerchief into a pocket in his dark blue vest, which is adorned with straight lines of decorated silver buttons. Droplets of sweat cover his forehead, his breathing heavier than usual. Perhaps the singers aren't the only ones who need rest. The ring on his finger shimmers as if his Talent still longs for the music, no sympathy for the tiredness in his bones.

"Do you know why I asked you to stay?"

Of course I know. Anaella's appearance made me lose my concentration, actively interrupting the flow of magic. My singing suffered for it, and now I'm paying the price. But I cannot tell the conductor the truth.

"I'm sorry, Maestro. I lost my focus. It won't happen again. "

Behind me, Véronique gives a soft chuckle. I almost turn to yell at her, but that would only give her what she wants—another reason for Maestro Mette to pick her over me.

He eyes my gem for a long moment in silence, and I have to keep myself from shuffling in agitation. "You were gifted an incredible Talent, Lady Adley," he finally says. "In your cousin's hands this ruby shone. It never faltered. I still hold out hope that you can make it shine just as brightly. Don't make me regret putting that faith in you."

"No, Maestro," I utter, but he's already walking away to the other side of the stage, where Mr. Agard is scribbling furiously in his notebook.

Mouth dry, I turn toward the exit, only to meet Véronique's gaze. She stares at me with a smirk on her face but says nothing, only snickering as I pass.

Darting into the corridor, my heart pulses so quickly I fear it might burst out of my chest. Thoughts swirl in my head in a messy tangle of strands, the fights and the performance twisting together—flashes of sneers, shouts, broken melodies, disappointed eyes, a mint dress, rosy cheeks.

I run through the halls, my head turning from side to side as though Anaella and Dahlia might be around any corner. But there's no sign of them—not in the foyer, not on the Grand Escalier, not in my dressing room. The opera house is too big for me to search, and, in truth, my sister could be anywhere by now, whisked away by Dahlia. The image of her long fingers clasping my sister's shoulder is etched into my brain. Those same delicate fingers that traced over my skin and explored every curve of my body just last night.

Why would Dahlia do this? Why did she involve my sister? How much did she tell her? Why didn't she tell me ?

I clutch my purse and coat—Dahlia's gift—as I finally drag my feet toward the exit. The cool evening air hits my face as I step onto the street, a welcome reprieve from the heat of the day and the gas lights of the stage. The alley is abandoned—none of the usual fans, not even the concierge at the door. For a moment, the odd emptiness crushes me, and all I want to do is scream.

The frustration rages inside me like a clash of notes, screeching all at once in atonal chords. I pull at my hair as I pace, trying to avoid the urge to shout or beat my hands on the ground.

The neighing of approaching horses echoes, and I struggle to regain my composure. I cannot have my coachman see me this way. But the carriage pulling in isn't mine.

The unfamiliar coachman wears all black, matching the pair of dark horses before him. His face is tucked into a gray scarf and a hat hides his eyes. I take a shaky step back just as the side door is flung open.

"Join us," Dahlia calls from inside, her voice like dripping honey. And like a bee, I climb into the carriage. I should have known the empty alley wasn't a coincidence.

Then Anaella's arms are around me, her beautiful brown curls brushing my face as she nestles into my neck. "Oh, Cleo!" she cries. "I missed you so much!"

I squeeze her tight, afraid to let go in case she disappears. It has been over two months since I saw her lying in her bed, plagued with illness. But Anaella isn't the fragile sister I left behind. There is strength in her limbs, a shine to her hair, a healthy glow to her skin. The doctor and the nurse have performed wonders. Dahlia didn't lie to me when she said Anaella has been taken care of. Even her mint dress is new—a simple yet elegant bell-shaped gown, with minimal frills around the collar.

She draws back from me, round brown eyes sparkling with tears. "How . . . I don't understand," she says, her hand running over my face as she studies me—from my makeup, to the costume gown, to Father's coat.

Recognition dances in her eyes as she touches the soft velvet. "Is this . . . ?"

"Papa's," I choke, trying to hold back my tears. I'm surprised she remembers it . . . she was so young. But then again, I'm not the one who used to sleep with Father's book under my pillow. My hand slightly trembles as I brush a stray tear from Anaella's cheek. "It . . . it was a gift." For a split second, my gaze darts to Dahlia. She sits perfectly still on the bench across from us, her face an unreadable mask. Did she bring Anaella to me as a reward—a promise fulfilled? If only I'd had time to prepare.

"Ann . . ." My voice drifts. What do I tell her? How do I explain?

"Oh, Cleo," she says again, grabbing a handful of the fabric in her hand. "Look at you. You are a lady . When Lady Sibille showed up at the store and told me she was your employer, I never thought . . . How? You can sing? Why didn't you tell me?"

"So, she didn't tell you what I do?" I ask, gauging Dahlia's reaction. The warmth and passion from last night are hidden now. She remains a statue, examining the situation in silence.

Anaella shakes her head. "She only invited me to come see you."

"Ann, I swear, I didn't want to lie to you. I wanted to tell you everything, but the situation was . . . delicate. I had to stay away for a while."

Her forehead creases. "I don't understand."

Of course she doesn't. How could she?

As far as Anaella knows I sold my ring, relinquishing it along with Father's broken promises. But in reality, the ring found a way to fulfill its destiny. Only by means my sister could never have imagined.

My thumb instinctively moves to circle the ruby, the movement catching Anaella's eye. Her mouth drops.

"Whose Talent is this, Cleo?" A tremor enters her voice as her gaze shifts between Dahlia and me.

I turn to Dahlia, desperately seeking her guidance. How could she just bring Anaella here without any explanation or warning? How could she drop this on me?

She tilts her head, one eyebrow raised. Testing. Daring. She wanted it this way. She wants to see my reaction.

"Please," I mumble. And a smile blooms on her lips.

"I gifted Cleodora her Talent," Dahlia says. "It's an old family heirloom. In exchange, Cleo now works for me. "

"Doing what?"

Anaella addresses the question to me, but Dahlia is the one to answer. "Acquiring new ‘family heirlooms.'"

The color drains from Anaella's face, and in that moment, she almost resembles again the sick sister I abandoned. "Cleo, what is she talking about?"

"I—this Singing Talent used to be Lady Adley's. You know, the famous soprano." The explanation sounds insane as I speak it, but I need her to understand. "She used to work for Dahlia, and when she retired, I took her place. I'm a lady now, Ann. I have her estate, her money, her career, her name. And you will have it all too!" I clasp her hand in mine. "You can come live with me, as my sister, a young Adley. We can be happy!"

"Adley?" She tastes the name in her mouth. "That's not who we are . . . That's not Papa's name. I don't need a fancy estate. I just want you home."

"We'll have a new home. A better home."

"What about the shop? My designs?"

Dahlia answers before I can attempt to. "If that's your worry, dear, I will make sure to turn you into the most famous designer in Lutèce." She takes a cigar out of her purse and lights it with a steady hand. The sweet aroma of tobacco and spices fills the carriage. She puffs a perfect circle of smoke as she leans back in her seat. "You already have your Talent, Anaella. But both of you should have had one. By giving a Talent to Cleodora, we've done nothing but restore the natural order and bring about justice. And clearly you both deserve to enjoy the finer things life has to offer. Your sister knows I'm a woman of my word, and I give my word to you, Anaella. There will be a masquerade ball, the closing event of the summer social season." Her gaze meets mine briefly, but before I can wonder why, she turns back to Anaella. "We will introduce you to society then."

There is a spark of eagerness in my sister's eyes. That same hunger that awoke within me when Dahlia first offered me my future. Now we can finally share in it together. We can have it all. But then suspicion enters her gaze, her head tilting as she presses her lips together.

"But . . ." She turns back to me again. "What do you do? What does ‘acquiring heirlooms' mean?" From the angle of her eyebrows, I can tell she already knows the answer.

I open and close my mouth, hoping Dahlia will chime in, but when I look at her, she remains silent. This one is on me.

"Well, I didn't . . . I mean, not yet . . . this will be the first. But . . ." I take a deep breath to stop my blabbering before the truth finally leaves my mouth. "I steal Talents."

Anaella snatches her hand from mine, as if my touch were an open flame. "No." She shakes her head rapidly. "It can't be. You're lying. You wouldn't."

"It's not as bad as it sounds."

"Not as bad ? Cleo, how could you? After what happened to Papa?"

"Leave Papa out of this."

She lets out a burst of hysterical laughter. "Leave him out of this? You are in denial! After everything we've gone through . . ." Anaella's words sting like a whip, mirroring the harshness of her glare. "You know better than anyone what it's like to have your life slip through your fingers, yet you steal dreams without any sense of shame. Do you kill them, too?" She turns to Dahlia. "Is that what you have my sister doing?"

"No," I shout back at her in horror. "Of course not! How can you think that?"

Her chest is heaving. "What am I supposed to think, Cleo? You said that you sold Papa's ring. That you're working for a lady in the city. Clearly, it was all a lie. You agreed to some shady deal and left me . . . And what if you get caught? Did you even think about that? I'll be left all alone."

This isn't how this conversation was supposed to go. I'm clearly not explaining it right. "I'm not going to get caught . . . Dahlia— "

"This woman has twisted your brain." Anaella closes her eyes, her face contorting as if in pain, and she turns to Dahlia again. "Who are you, really?"

"I told you. My name is Lady Sibille." Dahlia takes another deep puff from her cigar. "I run the illicit market of Lutèce. Your sister is one of my . . . employees. And just as I promised her"—Dahlia stretches her hand, stroking my cheek with a single finger that makes my skin prickle—"you, Anaella, are now under my care."

The illicit market. The shadowy organization whispered about in fear—Dahlia runs all of it ? The empire she inherited. I should have seen it. I should have figured it out. She is not a mere shadow woman, she is a true Reine des Ombres—a queen.

There was no faltering when she said it, no sense of shame or guilt. Is she not even the slightest bit worried about sharing that information so openly?

For all the connection we shared, she never did tell me much. Apart from her magical hold on me, do I really know Dahlia at all?

Anaella lifts her chin in defiance. "I don't need your care."

Dahlia laughs, a hollow sound that makes my skin crawl. "You definitely did when your fever was consuming you from within. My dear, I promise you, I can be your best friend if you'll let me."

Anaella starts shaking. "Cleo, we need to leave. Promise me you will never see this woman again. Come home with me."

"I can't." The words leave my mouth faster than I thought possible, and I can't help but notice Dahlia's lips tug into a smile. I force myself to swallow before continuing. "I need to do this," I say. "I'm doing this for you. For us!"

"Don't lie to me," Anaella says. "You're doing this for yourself! For the fame, the jewels. You know I would never have asked you to do such a thing. Do you think Papa would have agreed? You're wearing his coat, the perfect image of one of the ladies he created it for. But you're not a lady. Not a real one. You're a thief. "

Her accusations pierce my heart like bullets, each one aiming to kill. I want to tell her she's wrong. To prove to her that this is the right thing for us both. To have the chance to share this new life with her and show her what our future could be like.

But before I can open my mouth, she gets up on her feet, crouching to keep her head from hitting the carriage's ceiling. "Stop the horses!" she cries, wobbling as she bangs her fist against the wall.

The coachman obliges, and a second later Anaella throws open the door.

"Where are you going?" I call after her.

"Away from you," she shouts at me through tears before running down the busy street.

I move to follow her but Dahlia grabs my arm. "Let her go."

"What?" I falter as I stare into her eyes—those beautiful, dark pools that make me go weak at the knees. I can feel her gaze penetrating through my defenses, luring me to obey her words, to please her. But Anaella's cry is fresh in my ears. I cannot let her go. With a burst of strength I didn't even know existed within me, I snatch my arm away from her grasp.

"No!"

I throw the word at Dahlia, far more aggressive than I have ever allowed myself to be in her presence.

Before she can stop me, I jump out of the carriage and start running.