Chapter Eight Stage Lights

CHAPTER EIGHT

Stage Lights

"YOU HAVE A PLAN, right?" Lirone leans against the wall, munching on yet another praline bonbon. "I'll need to report something to Lady Sibille after you return from the gala tonight."

I suck in a breath and tug at the corseted-bodice Pauline laced me into before she left to check the carriage. Miss Garnier might be a famous modiste, but with the way the boning of this dress digs into my ribs, even with the addition of a padded liner, it's hard to understand why. The sleeves are also too puffy for my taste, matching the fullness of the skirts, which are held up by both horsehair and metal hoops.

Father's words fill my mind as I shuffle around, trying to find a position in which the dress doesn't hurt. "No matter how beautiful a garment may be, if it's uncomfortable, no woman will ever shine in it."

My eyes dart toward the drawer hiding Father's book. I'm certain if I dared to look through it, I'd find a note in perfect cursive telling me to use whalebone instead of that rigid steel boning to fix this bodice. So far, I've managed to muster the strength to open it only once, but just a glance at his neat handwriting was enough to bring tears to my eyes. The separation from home has been getting harder with each passing day.

"Will you stop standing in front of the mirror already?" Lirone rolls his eyes at me in his reflection .

"I have to perform in a few hours, in front of the entire social elite of Lutèce." I shake my head as I turn to him. "Not to mention that I must get close to Vicomte Lenoir, who I'm pretty sure wants nothing to do with me. And I can barely breathe in this dress."

"So you don't have a plan to win the vicomte over?"

I let out a huff and sit by the vanity. I don't have a plan, but I can't bring myself to admit it; not when every word I tell him travels straight from my lips to Dahlia's ears.

"Of course I do," I say.

"Well, what is it?" He crosses his arms over his chest in what I'm certain is supposed to be a serious pose, but he's so young it almost makes me laugh. Looking away from him, I grab a cotton pad from the dresser, already sprinkled with rose powder, and fluff it over my cheeks.

Just as Dahlia promised, Lirone's been visiting my room every day since our meeting. But so far, aside from receiving my invitation for the gala, I've had nothing to report. My rehearsals at the opera house have been short and concise, but, most importantly, private. Madame told me that Maestro Mette has decided to keep me as a surprise, which means my rehearsals with the orchestra were for his ears alone. I haven't met any of the other singers, and not even Madame was allowed inside. And so, all my hopes of making social connections—or perhaps seeing the vicomte again in the opera house corridors before the gala—have come to nothing.

Tonight, though, our meeting is guaranteed.

Not that I have any idea what to do when I see him . . . How does one get the attention of a man? Though I doubt his ego has been bruised, I've not been acting exactly like the shy, groveling ladies he is used to. Will he still care to speak to me?

"Fine, don't tell me," Lirone says when I don't reply. "But know that Lady Sibille does not like receiving bad news."

"I'll have good news by tomorrow." The conviction in my voice is surprising, even to me. "Speaking of news . . . "

Lirone rolls his eyes again and shakes his head, making his messy curls bounce. "I already told you, I gave your letter to that nurse. Your sister hasn't written back yet."

"But—"

"I'm not hiding any letter!" He flips the pockets of his patched-up jacket inside out, revealing a series of holes the size of his fingers.

I purse my lips, the crimson wax of my lipstick making them stick together. I wrote to Anaella nearly two weeks ago, but she still hasn't replied. Could it be that the nurse didn't pass on the letter? Or perhaps my sister is simply too mad at me? Or too ill to respond? The possible reasons circle over me like vultures.

I twist around in my seat, my knuckles turning white as I grip the intricately carved wood on the back of my chair and stare at Lirone. "Will you please go there again and—" A knock on the door makes me jump to my feet.

"My lady, the carriage is waiting," Pauline calls.

I turn to look at Lirone, but he's already gone. The only evidence left of his presence is the brief ripple of the tapestry hiding the secret passage. I have to give it to the boy: he's fast.

I take a second to brush down my black and white gown before opening the door.

"Everything well, my lady? I'm certain tonight will be a success." Pauline curtsies.

"Thank you." I step past her into the corridor and yank the door closed behind me, as if the room itself might reveal my secrets. "I wish you could come with me," I say as I stride toward the staircase, making Pauline rush to keep up with me. "It would be nice to have a friendly face there."

Pauline tugs a stray ginger hair behind her ear. "Perhaps one day, my lady. For now, you'll have Madame at the gala with you."

I chuckle. "Not exactly my definition of ‘friendly.'"

Pauline smiles but stays silent. She accompanies me to my carriage and stays until the coachman helps me inside. Basset hasn't done anything to indicate suspicion since the day of my audition, despite driving me back and forth for rehearsals every day. Clearly, I was being paranoid.

He bows deeply before closing the carriage door after me. I watch the blur of streetlights through the small windows as the horses pull us forward, each light buzzing yellow, glowing like a firefly, showing us the way.

The concierge at the artists' entrance recognizes me at once, and soon I'm climbing my way toward the dressing rooms. I have become rather fond over the last two weeks of one of the smaller rooms by the end of the corridor. A secluded spot away from prying eyes. But a maid stops me before I can enter.

"Lady Adley, your dressing room is ready for you."

I look at her, and then at the closed door. "This isn't my room?"

"No, my lady. Please follow me."

She leads me up another set of stairs to a pair of arched doors. "If you need me, just ring the bell," she says before letting me inside.

My mouth drops. This is nothing like the narrow room I had until now. I'm not even sure "room" is the right word to describe it. It's massive, full of giant mirrors that reflect the golden candles, and adorned with too many flower-filled vases to count. The scent of white roses is almost overwhelming.

All of this is just for me?

My heels sink into the soft ivory carpet as I take a hesitant step, tracing my fingers over the gold cresting rail of an armchair. I'm gaping at the beauty when I notice a flash of red among the white flowers—a single scarlet rose demanding my attention. As I approach it, I notice a black silk string tied to its stem.

Heat travels to my cheeks. I don't need to ask who sent it.

A wish for good luck. A reminder of my mission. But there is also something sensual about it, like Dahlia herself. Each velvety petal speaks of softness, inviting me to delve into its endless layers and sink into the promise of a passionate embrace. Just thinking of Dahlia's lush lips, or the long lashes adorning her dark eyes, stirs something inside me—a sense of unfamiliar desire.

I'm not a fool; I know that Dahlia isn't an innocent maiden. I know I should detach myself emotionally, confine our relationship strictly to business. She is dangerous. A criminal. Yet there is more to her than just a mere outlaw, more behind all that perilous strength. The glimpse she granted me of the woman behind it all is etched within me—the pain, the difficulties she suffered after her brother's death, the raw emotions I accidentally touched with my questions. They are all the source of her immense resilience, the kind of resilience I can only dream of. Her struggles echo my own, as though I can see myself in her. Perhaps she feels the same?

Something about her hidden vulnerability mixed with the clear risk is almost thrilling. I have always lived my life by the rules. I've done everything I was expected to, just as my parents taught me. And where did it get me? Dahlia's way, however . . .

I stare at the golden dressing room, taking a deep breath of the flower-scented air. The Elite get to bask in this kind of beauty every day. Like Vicomte Lenoir—my target. My brief encounters with him have been enough to show me that he's taking all of it for granted—born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a legacy Talent just waiting for him. No matter how handsome he may be—messy curls, undone ties, glinting eyes I cannot forget—men like him drive me mad.

Taking his Talent from him to guarantee my own place in this world seems like a fair exchange.

I'm reaching for the red rose when the door opens behind me. I jump, pricking my finger on one of the sharp thorns.

"So you're the one who stole my dressing room," a woman calls from behind me.

I suck the drop of blood from the tip of my finger as I turn. Standing at the doorway, a lady in a shimmering gown scowls at me. Her dress is made of black lace trimmings over gold velvet bands, creating a mix of textures that only accentuates the glitter of the paillettes covering every inch of it. In comparison to this dress, with its long train and lacy sleeves, my own gown feels too simple.

"I'm sorry?" I open and close my mouth, not sure how to respond. "And you are?"

"Lady Véronique Battu." She flashes a smile with perfect dimples. "As cons?urs, you may call me Véronique. Us sopranos have to stick together, no? I'm sure your cousin has told you about me."

I nod politely, even though her name is unfamiliar to me, and her collegial spirit feels somewhat too sweet to swallow. "Yes, of course. I'm Cleodora—Adley." I stop myself from using my own family name at the last second. I have never introduced myself as Adley before, and the sound of it tastes wrong in my mouth.

"Oh, I know." Véronique steps into my room, a dark lace fan clutched in her hand. With its tip, she lifts one of the closed flower buds before bending to smell it. "I've heard so much about you in the last couple of weeks. I only wonder how I didn't know your name sooner."

"Well, my cousin is a very private person."

It's not exactly a lie. Pauline did tell me that the former Lady Adley never shared much of her personal life. Yet Pauline is just a maid. If Véronique was close to Lady Adley, could she see through the facade Dahlia created for me?

Her blue eyes linger on my face longer than is comfortable, but she gives no indication that my words have stumped her.

"Well, this room was promised to me." She twists a perfect blond ringlet around her finger. "You had better find another one to wait in."

I only manage to huff in surprise before a man walks into the room, a wide grin spread on his face. "Véronique, you aren't picking on the new girl, are you?"

He's bulky and short, a feature made more prominent by the way his navy tailcoat hangs past his knees. Gold cufflinks adorn his sleeves, matching the buckles on his leather shoes.

Véronique opens her fan dramatically at his interruption, revealing an array of beautifully stitched butterflies.

"My fans call me Chevalier Muratore." He kisses the back of my hand, his lips grazing my ruby ring. "But to my friends I'm known as José. A delight to finally meet you."

His name I know at once: the famous tenor whose voice is said to be so divine it could make angels weep. I have always imagined him taller, and older. But both the singers standing in my dressing room are young; José is somewhere in his late twenties, and Véronique looks not much older than me.

"Please don't let Véronique's soprano drama upset you," he says with a wink.

"Soprano drama?" Véronique repeats after him, fanning herself with sharp wrist movements. "You know as well as I do that this dressing room was promised to me once Adley retired."

"You did one show in her place, Véronique. That's hardly a promise. Now there's a new Adley in the house." José takes a step toward her. "Besides, we have a concert to give! We should let the new girl concentrate." He offers his arm to Véronique, but she just snaps her fan shut and heads out the door without a backward glance.

"And the battle commences." José laughs and turns to me. "Enjoy tonight, ma chérie. I can't wait to hear the new diva! Toi toi toi."

I sink into the armchair as soon as he leaves the room. My head is spinning, and at this point I'm not sure if it's from the dress preventing air from entering my lungs or from Véronique's clear disdain. Suddenly the sweet scent of flowers makes me sick.

I didn't even have the chance to make an impression on the other singers. They clearly made up their mind about me the moment they heard the name Adley. The more time passes, the more I realize the gravity of taking on her Talent—the Elite gems signal more than just powerful abilities; they're a marker of social standing. High society is like an intricate game. Only my dice were rolled before I even saw the board, and now all I can do is try to catch up and understand where I landed and who the other players are.

"Breathe," I say aloud to myself.

One thing at a time. I might have started on the wrong foot with Véronique, even though I never wanted her dressing room . . . but José seems nice. And I'll have enough time to befriend them both.

Besides, tonight there's only one person whose opinion about me I need to change. I glance once again at Dahlia's red rose. I will not let her down. The vicomte is my primary goal, and I can't let anything distract me from that.

A maid rushes through the door. "My lady, the concert is about to begin. You are needed by the stage."

I nod politely and stand to follow. Even though I've been backstage almost every day these past two weeks, I have never seen it bustling with this much activity. Maids dash from one room to the next, while stagehands dressed all in black mutter among themselves. Musical scales drift from under closed doors as singers sneak in one last warm-up before the performance.

"There you are!" Madame appears from one of the rooms.

In all the time we've spent together, I've only seen her wear dark colors—black, brown, shades of gray. But tonight her dress is royal blue silk with wisps of silver chiffon. Her hair is held up by an elaborate flower comb inlaid with a sparkling sapphire. Could this be her Talent? I have never seen her display any jewels before.

"Where have you been?" She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the spiraling stairs leading down to the stage.

"My new dressing room." I glance over my shoulder. "One of the maids took me there. It's upstairs."

"They gave you Old Lady Adley's room already?" Madame blinks in surprise. "That will stir some drama, I'm sure. "

"You mean Véronique? You know her?"

Madame laughs. "I know the ins and outs of not only this theater but the entire music scene of Lutèce, my dear."

I want to ask more, but she's already talking again.

"We don't have time for any of that tonight. You are the first singer on the stage this evening! It's a big honor. The gala is the opening event to the entire summer social season, and you are the symbol of it."

"I know," I say. She's given me the same speech every day since the invitation letter arrived.

"Sing just the way you did in the rehearsals. Don't let the crowd distract you."

"I won't."

"Five minutes!" a stagehand calls.

Madame leads me to the stage wings. The orchestra is already seated on the stage: rows upon rows of string instruments, followed by harps, wind instruments, and percussion. The musicians are all wearing black attire and sitting at attention. Massive curtains block the hall itself from view, chattering voices drifting from behind it.

"Madame, shouldn't you already be in your seat?" Maestro Mette joins us, holding his conducting baton with gloved hands. "Lady Adley, you look absolutely divine," he says.

"Thank you, Maestro." I bow my head.

"Well." Madame clears her throat. "I shall be in the audience." She turns to leave, but stops. "Cleodora, don't forget to enjoy."

Another call comes—"One minute!"—and when I turn back Madame is gone.

A rush of adrenaline pumps through my veins.

"It's a full house," the Maestro says. "Let's make sure they all fall in love with you."

My throat clenches. Suddenly the voices behind the curtains ring louder. There must be thousands of them. I try to take a deep breath and my corset tightens around me painfully. This is not the time to panic .

"Raising curtains!"

The ruby on my finger vibrates, but my mouth feels dry. From the corner of my eye, I see a stagehand leaning close to the ground as he pulls on a massive rope. The heavy red curtains ascend. A roar of applause hits me like a wave of sound, and my vision is blurred by the bright stage lights.

Maestro Mette steps onto the stage and the orchestra musicians rise to their feet. His hand rests on his chest in a gesture of humble gratitude, and as he bows, the light reflects off his ring, his Conducting Talent ready to shine. Other singers have gathered in the wings to watch, and somewhere in my mind I register Véronique and José standing on the other side of the stage. Stepping onto his raised podium, Maestro Mette turns his head to me.

My heart skips a beat. That's my cue.