Alas. Maren knew me well. I could feel the effects of the drug take place as my shoulders dropped a bit, and my muscles felt heavier and lighter all at once. I couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped me.
“I’m not changing the subject.” I sighed heavily. “I don’t know, Maren. I was sure he was the one for me. But now, I don’t know. Does that make me an awful person?” The admission slipped out of me as easily as the smoke had, the tight leash I usually kept on my emotions floating away with the smoke on the breeze.
“Why would that make you an awful person?” Maren cocked her head to one side, her short blonde hair flipping over her shoulder.
“Because. Things have… progressed… and… I’m not sure what that means,” I stuttered, beating around the truth of it.
“So does that mean you two finally…?” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
“We did,” I confirmed, trying not to wince. The barriers were really breaking down now.
“And?”
Andindeed. I still hadn’t smoked nearly enough to havethatconversation. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.” I giggled.
“Okay, fine. Prude.” Maren elbowed me playfully, taking one more pull and putting out the joint. We stood in silence for a moment, staring out over the Sequana.
“He brought me to church this morning. After,” I admitted to the darkening sky, not daring a glance at my friend.
Maren blew out a cloud of smoke. “That is a… bold choice,” she said diplomatically. Maren of all people would understandmy ambivalence about the Church. Her brothers had both fought on the side of the resistance.
“His father hates me.” It was another admission—the things I would never usually say out loud—borne on the winds of the dreamweed smoke.
“I’ve heard his father hates everything. And everyone,” Maren offered, “but I can see how that would make things complicated.”
“Do you think I’m crazy for even thinking about pursuing this? With Seff?” My mind was pleasantly numb, all the buzzing thoughts quieted down as the dreamweed took effect.
“I think we can’t always choose what our hearts want. If this is what your heart wants, then no, I don’t think you’re crazy,” Maren said wisely. “Is it? What your heart wants?”
“I don’t know.”
It was the most truthful I’d been in days.
“Well, then I think you need to figure that out. Sooner than later, Fifi.” Maren smiled her warm smile and put an arm around my shoulders. I just giggled in response, I couldn’t help it.
ACCIDENTS AND OPPORTUNITIES
By the next morning, I had no time to ruminate on the swirling thoughts that darkened my mind. It was the dress rehearsal for the gala, and it would be all consuming. I dressed and applied my stage makeup in the harsh light of the ballet chorus change room mirrors. The rouge on my cheeks gave the illusion of a permanent flush, and my lips were painted blood-red to match the special shoes we wore just for this piece. My smoky eye makeup was as dramatic as the piece we would be dancing. I applied a layer of powder to set everything, then slid into line with the rest of the dancers, who were stepping into a box full of rosin to ward against the slippery stage.
Dress rehearsal days were a flurry of activity. Dancers flitted about while the chorus singers in their gaudy baroque dresses took up space in the narrow hallways. The set crew, busy putting the final touches on set pieces, snapped at anyone who got too close to a final coat of paint. We danced our piece through so many times that I thought I was going to collapse with exhaustion.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched—it was a creeping sensation, like ice down my spine. I tried tobrush it off and told myself I was just out of sorts because of the events of the past few days. But the feeling persisted all through the rehearsal—like a pair of dark depthless eyes watching me.
Carlotta tookthe stage after we were finally finished rehearsing—her towering, ridiculous wig visible from the wings opposite. It had to be at least two feet above her actual head. I wasn’t sure how anyone could balance such a thing. I weaved in and out of the performers and stage crew, on my way to stage left, where I could watch Carlotta sing.
But before she began, Madame Giselle interrupted, walking onto the stage through the wings on stage right. The company was a titter, craning to see what was happening. Madame Giselle walked out onto the stage with Viscount Erik de Barras.
“Good morning, everyone, so sorry for the interruption,” Madame Giselle began in her throaty voice, thick with the Lutesse accent. “I would like to take this opportunity, before we make the official announcement this evening, to introduce you to our new owner: Viscount Erik de Barras.”
I thought for a moment I must have misheard Madame Giselle; my heart plummeted to the sound of polite applause by the cast around me. It was jarring—having the viscount here, in my domain. I thought back to the moment at the table in Montmartre, when the viscount insulted the theatre so thoroughly, questioning its value. For a few seconds, I felt like a fish that had been unceremoniously dumped on land—my mind flopping back and forth as I watched the viscount’s imposing figure darkenmysacred space: the stage. But as his lips turned up in a menacing grin, I gained clarity. The archbishop’s sermon came back to me in a flood of snippets and flashes—the viscounthad bought up several “egregious” secular locations in order to claim them for Scion. Was that what he was doing here? There was no other rational explanation. My stomach lurched, like I’d missed a stair.
“Thank you, thank you,” the viscount said, twisting his face into an unflattering grin. “The arts are such an important part of the cultural landscape of this city, and I am proud to be a patron. I am so excited to make the official announcement at the gala this evening, and I can’t wait to see you all perform. It’s going to be an enchanting evening, and I know you’ve all been working very hard, so please, don’t let the bureaucrats keep you from your rehearsal.”
“Would you like to stay and watch Carlotta rehearse? I believe she was just about to perform the aria—it will be opening the whole gala,” Madame Giselle explained.
“That would be lovely.” Again, he had that half-sneering smile. His eyes met mine from across the stage and I held them—I was not going to cower today.
At centre stage, Carlotta rocked onto the balls of her feet, sending her ethereal dress rustling around her. Downstage, the pianist began to play softly, and Carlotta began to sing the piece I had sung on the rooftop the night before. Memories of that night came back in a rush, twisting my stomach into knots, guilt and anger all churning in a vat of shame. Would my mother forgive me, wherever she was now? Forgive me for breaking my promise? I wanted to sing so badly, my fingers flitting up and down as I followed along silently while Carlotta trilled.
