Chapter Six Sing, Little Bird, Sing

CHAPTER SIX

Sing, Little Bird, Sing

MADAME WAVES HER cigarette holder, rings of smoke circling above her head. "Hurry up! We'll be late!"

"I'm not feeling too well." My stomach gives an uneasy twist and the sour taste of bile reaches my mouth.

Pauline wraps a light shawl around my bare shoulders. "You'll be brilliant, my lady. I'm certain."

I press my lips into a smile, but inside, all my muscles are tight. Madame is already climbing into the carriage, but I'm still standing, frozen, in the doorway. At the end of the ride awaits the opera house, where a crowd of patrons, managers, and music experts are waiting to vote on whether my singing is impressive enough to hire me . . . to make me their lead soprano. The thought alone makes me want to run back inside the house and lock the door.

Madame sticks her head out of the carriage. "I refuse to be late! My reputation is on the line just as much as yours. You will not make a fool out of me."

I jolt at her words, nearly falling down the steps. Basset, the coachman, hurries away from the horses to offer me his arm. But before he reaches me his foot hits a paving stone. He stumbles, his arms flailing for balance .

"Are you alright?" I ask, leaning toward him.

He straightens up. "Thank you, my lady." His eyes meet mine for only a moment, and I draw back.

I lift my chin high. "Don't waste my time again."

He bows, yet the usual timidness I have come to expect from servants is missing. Could he have fallen on purpose? Was he trying to recreate our first meeting?

"Young lady," Madame calls, "if you don't get into the carriage this instant . . ."

I climb inside at once, avoiding the end of her threat.

"Toi toi toi!" Pauline calls right before the horses pull us away.

My confusion must be evident because Madame rolls her eyes. "It brings misfortune to wish ‘good luck' before a performance. We say ‘toi toi toi' or ‘merde' to warn off the evil spirits waiting for your failure."

I cannot tell if she's joking about the evil spirits, but I simply nod and intertwine my fingers, resting my hands in my lap to stop myself from clenching them into fists or biting my nails. I will need a lot more than luck if the coachman exposes me. Will I go to jail if he does? What will happen to Anaella?

"Perhaps instead of sitting there like you've seen a ghost, you should recite your words again." Madame pouts.

"Sorry, Madame. It's just nerves."

"Ha! Nerves . . . I coddled you too much this week."

To call Madame's lessons "coddling" is like calling a horror story a lullaby, yet I keep the thought to myself.

"You are right, though. You are not ready." She takes a puff of her cigarette, and I fight the urge to cough from the smoke. "Your Talent, however, is. If you let it lead, you have nothing to fear."

"And what if I lose focus?" I ask, the coachman's wary eyes filling my mind.

"Do you have anything better to focus on?" She raises an eyebrow. " The music is in your blood, and your ruby longs for the stage. It's time you let it shine."

The carriage comes to a halt, and I peer out the small window. I expected us to reach the main plaza, but instead we are on a narrow street bordered by brick walls.

"The artists' entrance is in the back," Madame says, answering my unspoken question.

I dodge eye contact with the coachman as we step outside. The wall to my left is bare, yet, though the street is grim, silk curtains gleam under chandelier lights through the opera house's open windows—a promise of the glamour contained within the walls.

"Come along!" Madame ushers me in the right direction.

A concierge is waiting for us by the entrance. "Madame, always a pleasure." He bows and opens the door for us.

Madame passes him by without a second glance.

I step forward to follow her when a shadow moves at the corner of my eye. I spin around to face the alley, but only the coachman stares back at me.

"Something the matter, my lady?"

I shake my head. The stress is clearly affecting my mind. I step into the tiny foyer before Madame has a chance to shout at me again. She is already near the top of a tall staircase. I gather the fabric of my skirts and rush after her.

The walls on both sides of the stairwell are covered in photos: colorful posters presenting the newest productions, autographed portraits of famous singers, framed glowing newspaper reviews, each speaking of the legacy of the opera house.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Madame says as she catches me staring. "Your face will join them soon enough. If all goes well today, it won't be long before every person in Lutèce knows your name."

Her words are like an elixir. For just a second, the image of my portrait displayed on these walls enters my mind, the cheering of adoring fans, and the crying of my name. I drop my gaze to the floor with a wave of shame. I'm not here for my own benefit. Fame is not what I should care about. I'm here for Anaella. A pang of guilt stabs at me. I don't even know if the message I sent found her, or if the boy just ran off with the money.

"The stage is right ahead," Madame says.

My legs are numb. Air fails to fill my lungs; I'm light-headed. I have to grab the wall for support to keep myself straight. We are now in a narrow, dark passageway, and Madame stops at a heavy, red curtain.

"Wait here," she says.

"Where are you going?" I'm not sure why I even want her by my side. After hours spent in her company, I can certainly say Madame does not possess a calming energy. Yet beneath her roughness, she wants me to succeed. Without her, I have no one to root for me.

"I need to see that they are ready for you. I will meet you on stage. You don't think I'd let just any pianist accompany you, do you?"

"Oh . . ."

"Don't waste your voice now," she says before striding past the red curtain, leaving me alone in the corridor.

I let out a long, steady breath, wrapping the shawl tighter around myself. This is it. The ruby suddenly feels heavier on my finger. I stare into the gem, visualizing the currents of energy bubbling inside it, fueling my blood. Such a small jewel, yet it holds my entire future.

Absently, I twist one of my curls around a finger. Pauline spent an extra hour last night wrapping strands of hair in soft rags, and another hour this morning shaping the lush locks. Everything has to be perfect—from the milky tone of my skin and the pink blush on my cheeks to the scent of my velvet rose perfume. As if my looks will determine my success.

With each stretched second the unease in my stomach grows. What is taking them so long? I tap my leg under my long skirts. What were the words of the aria again? My mind draws a blank and the panic clutching my throat is enough to make me choke. Tonight, the hawk halts its hunt. The first line rings in my head and I let out a pent-up breath.

A dainty hand pulls the curtain. "They're ready for you. Toi toi toi, my lady," the young maid says as she takes the shawl off my shoulders, revealing my gown.

Madame insisted the garment I wear complement my ruby ring. And so Pauline laced me into an emerald bodice, with off-the-shoulder sheer sleeves and a silk layered skirt that cascades in voluminous waves. In my head, I can hear Father telling me how to reconstruct the pattern. Yet I have no time to think about the dress.

Goosebumps rise on my skin as I step forward into complete darkness. The heels I'm wearing are higher than usual, designed to accentuate the length of my gown, but with my trembling, I'm afraid I might stumble and fall before I reach the stage.

Then, light penetrates through, and I'm right at the stage's wings. At the center sits a grand piano and Madame is perched on its bench. She gives me a curt nod and I straighten my back. But as I walk out onto the stage, all thoughts of posture fly away. My vision is taken by a blur of gold and crimson. Rows upon rows of velvet chairs stretch before me, surrounded by massive columns along the walls that reach all the way up to a huge painted dome—a spectacle of blue hazes laced with delicate clouds, surrounding heavenly messengers. From its center an intricate crystal chandelier towers above us, its height making my head spin. Upon the stage, I'm but a tiny speck of dust, unworthy of the grandeur laid before me.

"Ahem," someone coughs, and I force myself to keep walking to the middle of the stage. "Lady Adley, what a pleasure to have you here."

"The pleasure is mine," I reply, repeating the words Madame taught me.

The man sits in the third row, close enough for me to make out the details of his slicked-back black hair and burgundy suit. He must be Maestro Lamar Mette, the musical director. Madame explained to me that he's the one who oversees all musical aspects of the opera house, and the single most important person I have to impress. Behind him, more people fill the seats, though I cannot tell them apart. They dot the empty rows, their eyes locked on me, ready to judge my abilities.

My Talent.

Maestro Mette leans back into his seat, fingers intertwined and resting on his chest. A flicker of light reflects off a giant gemstone sitting on his middle finger—his Talent on display. "We were deeply saddened by your cousin's retirement," he says. "Her voice was a gift from heaven. She shall be sorely missed."

A snort echoes from somewhere above and I startle, my gaze drawn to the opera box to my right. My jaw drops when I recognize the unmistakable emerald eyes staring at me. The arrogant man who barged into my fitting at the fashion house lifts a glass of champagne to me in a silent salute.

What is he even doing here? Is he a patron? A member of the board? One of the other musicians? The memory of the ease with which he looked at my undergarments bubbles within me, and for a second it's as though all the layers of silk caressing me have been stripped away, leaving me naked before him again. A renewed wave of embarrassment takes hold of me, yet it is clear the man doesn't share the sentiment. He doesn't seem any more humbled today, his chiseled face utterly glinting with amusement. I almost wish I could order him out of the hall the way I did back in the shop.

"What would you like to start with?" Maestro Mette asks, a tinge of agitation in his tone.

"‘Sérénade au Clair de Lune,'" I say, but my voice shakes.

"Can you please speak up?" calls the man from the box, with a smug grin. A flash of anger tightens my chest. Is he trying to humiliate me?

I brush my hands along the length of my skirt, lifting my chin up in defiance. I cannot let him rattle me. "I'll be singing the Moon Serenade, by Annette Devon." My words come out strongly, filling the hall .

"Please," the maestro says.

I turn my head to look at Madame. Her lips are pursed, but she gives me the slightest nod. I close my eyes and she starts playing, allowing the divine harmonies to envelop us.

The ruby pulses with the rhythm and I give in to its beat. Magic flows through my blood as the music takes hold of my body. And when I start to sing, the world fades. All my fears, my anxiety, anger, guilt, all wash away through the song. The music releases all the emotions locked inside, as if showing them both the door and the key.

I don't need to think of the words or the notes; my Talent remembers them better than I ever could. It is a sense of freedom I have never known possible—as if I could jump off a cliff and land safely. But right now, I never want to land. I want to keep flying.

The music winds down, and the last note is drawn from my lips. I'm breathless, as if my body resents the separation from the music. The hall is silent, the type of stillness meant to savor the moment.

"Thank you," Maestro Mette says, his words shattering the magic.

I wait for him to say more. For others to speak, clap, or call me off the stage. But they are all already moving out of their seats toward the exits, chattering among themselves.

Madame is suddenly by my side. "Walk," she mutters under her breath.

I follow her off the stage, and my nausea is back. Did I just fail? What will Dahlia do once she discovers I couldn't keep up my end of the bargain? Will she take the Talent away? Will she take away the medical care for Anaella?

The thoughts wrap themselves around me like a noose tightening around my neck. I don't even notice Madame has stopped walking until I run straight into her.

"Careful, girl," she says, spinning to face me.

I blink in surprise at the smile on her face. Surely she must be furious I wasn't offered a part ?

"Well, that ought to show those pompous snobs." Her words brim with excitement, an unexpected departure from usual austerity.

"But . . . they didn't even say anything."

"Common practice!" She waves me off. "With that audition, I'm certain there's a bouquet already on its way to your home."

"Indeed," a voice calls from behind us. "After all, it was prepared even before you opened your mouth for the first note."

Leaning in an open doorway, the man from the fashion shop stares at me again. He's wearing a buttoned-down white shirt with a stiff neckline, but his dark tie is loose, and his coat is slung over his shoulder. So improper, it's infuriating. I've spent so many hours getting ready for today, making sure I fit in. And yet he dares to have that judgmental look on his face, as though I'm the one needing to gain his respect.

"Vicomte Lenoir." Madame bows ever so slightly.

"Hélène," the vicomte says, not bothering to move.

No one refers to Madame by her proper title of Lady Corbin, by her own choice. Yet, ignoring both her wishes and her title by using her first name requires an entirely new level of rudeness. A strain tugs at her smile, but she doesn't reply; no one dared to call him out in the shop, either. Whoever this vicomte is, he must be important enough that everyone agrees to play by his rules.

"Congratulations." He turns back to me, his loose tie dangling as he shifts.

I follow the hand-stitched pattern of subtle white polka dots among the deep blue silk of his tie and am hit with the urge to reach out and straighten it . . . or perhaps rip it off? It's almost too much to resist. Heat rises to my cheeks, though I'm not certain if I'm abashed by my own thoughts or by my failure to keep my annoyance in check. I'm certain his bedraggled charms have brought many young ladies to swoon over him, but he won't have that kind of luck with me. I shake my head as he continues.

"I'm certain you'll receive your contract as soon as they finish collecting all the reviews from your audition and cast their votes. "

"Shouldn't you be handing in yours?" I try to mask my emotions with a polite smile.

He smirks in return. "Didn't write one." Pushing away from the wall, he whispers, "It wouldn't change the results anyway." With that he goes back into the room he appeared from and shuts the door behind him.

The ride back to the house passes in a blur, with Madame muttering about youngsters and their lack of respect. She isn't old herself, maybe reaching into her forties, but the vicomte can't be much older than I am. I have already learned that Madame is not a woman who keeps her opinions to herself, nor is she a woman who will appreciate any comment on my part, even if it's only to agree with her. So I keep my mouth shut and nod.

Her mood improves only when we reach the estate to find Pauline waiting for us with a massive bouquet of pink and white carnations. Just as Madame predicted.

It did arrive rather fast . . .

The vicomte's dismissive smile surges in my head, and my excitement wavers for just a second. The audition was a formality.

But so what? After all, the opera house was familiar with my Talent. But it is my voice they have never heard before. The singing was all mine.

And so is my success.

"Well done, my lady," Pauline says once I'm finally back in my chambers and out of my corset. "I had no doubt you would succeed."

"Oh, Pauline, it was wonderful. I've never felt anything like it . . . Standing on that stage . . ." I can't keep the smile off my face. "It was like a dream."

Pauline lets out a laugh as she carries over a porcelain basin. Her fingers brush over my hands as she carefully removes my ring for the washing. For a split second, her round eyes linger on the ruby, her hold on it tightening. There is something eager in the way she looks at it—a mixture of hunger and awe. It passes quickly, though, vanishing as soon as she puts the ring down. But it's a look I could spot anywhere, because until not so long ago, it shadowed my face. It's the same way I used to stare at Talents after Father passed—a stare full of longing. Only now, the Talent provoking it is all mine.

Guilt gnaws at the back of my mind, but the euphoria of today is too intoxicating.

Pauline smiles as she turns to undo my hair. "It's a dream you get to live every day now."

Every day.

My smile grows.

Pauline finally leaves me in my nightgown, closing the door on yet another day. But I'm not ready for it to end. I cannot even comprehend how stressed I felt just a few hours ago. Now, all that's left is pure elation.

I sit by the vanity, staring at the vase holding my new bouquet. I made it. I close my eyes, and the memory of the song plays in my mind—the softness of the melody, the floating quality of my voice as it soared through the hall. I take a deep breath, the scent of sweet blossoms enveloping me.

For just a moment, everything is perfect.

Then a hand lands on my mouth and a voice whispers in my ear, "Don't scream."