Her voice gave me chills, all the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up as she moved through the final stanzas of the aria. Was that frisson from Carlotta’s voice? I couldn’t shake the feeling. I felt a distinctly creeping sensation, once again, that I was being watched. My eyes darted all around the stage and side-stage area as I chewed on the inside of my cheek.The viscount was watching Carlotta, looking mildly entertained. There was no one watching me. I was being ridiculous. But still, I couldn’t seem to rid myself of the odd sensation.
As I tried to determine why I felt such unease, someone from the rafters cried, “Watch out!”
A snap, a fluttering of canvas, and suddenly, a beam that was holding up one of the backdrops came crashing down. Carlotta tried to move out of the way, but she was too slow in her full regalia: the beam collided with the side of her head, knocking her down and pinning her underneath it.
I was on my feet before I knew what had happened. Someone was screaming; maybe it was me. I was at Carlotta’s side in an instant. Some of the stagehands grabbed the beam and hauled it from her. “No, no, no, no, no. Not again. Not you too.” I heard myself saying the words as I knelt beside my friend. I couldn’t lose someone else. I couldn’t lose her too. “Lottie…” I whimpered.
She was alive. She had been stunned: not fully unconscious, but she was out of it. Blood ran from an ugly gash on the side of her head where the beam struck. The shimmering gossamer dress she was to wear at the gala tonight would be ruined.
“Call for help!” someone cried out behind me, but all I could do was take Carlotta’s hand and gently squeeze it.
“Lottie, it’s me. I’m here. It’s going to be alright.”
People were circling; someone had a first-aid kit and was tending to the bleeding. Carlotta moaned, her eyes fluttering as if she was trying to regain consciousness. She had to be alright. She had to be alright. I kept thinking it over and over. Not her too. I couldn’t lose her.
“What in heaven’s name happened here?” Madame Giselle, a general on the warpath, stomped toward the place where the set crew gathered around the rope that was supposed to be holdingthe set piece aloft. It was apparently frayed and had snapped as Carlotta stood beneath it.
Several minutes later,medics arrived with a stretcher for Carlotta. I hadn’t moved from her side; I stayed there, stroking her hair, matted with blood, holding her hand. I stood awkwardly as they loaded her onto it, carting her offstage. As I watched her go, dread replaced panic. Worry creased my brow as I turned to face what was to come next.
“The gala is tonight.” The low menacing voice of the viscount spoke somewhere behind me. “It is oversold. Our patrons have paid to see Carlotta. Who will perform the aria?”
A beat of uncomfortable silence followed the viscount’s question, for there was no one who could replace Carlotta.
“Seraphina can do it,” a higher, shakier voice, barely a whisper, spoke up from the gathered crowd of dancers and singers. Maren.
My scalp tightened. My palms prickled. I didn’t feel altogether tethered to the earth as I turned to look at her, and she nodded, almost imperceptibly. She knew about the singing.
There were indistinguishable murmurs from the crowd.
“Who?”
“The ballerina?”
“She’s not a singer.”
My tongue turned to sandpaper.
“Surely, Madame Giselle, there is an understudy,” the viscount hissed. His mouth formed a severe line, pale brows knitting together.
“I’m afraid there is no understudy for La Carlotta.”
“Seraphina can do it. She’s as good as Carlotta. Maybe better. Please. Let her sing for you now. She can do it.”
Dozens of pairs of eyes burned into me. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, as my arms hung limply at my sides, and everything IthoughtI knew to be true slipped away.
Madame Giselle rounded on me. “Is this true?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? I know the piece. I can sing, I guess. I wouldn’t say I’m as good as Carlotta.” I froze as the ground shifted beneath me. I couldn’t even come up with a convincing lie. I just stammered and stuttered like a blathering idiot.
“She is,” Maren interrupted, “she thinks no one knows, but I’ve been hearing her practise for years. Please. Let her sing for you. She’s incredible.”
She had been hearing me practise for years. And she had no idea. No idea that the simple act of her hearing my voice was borderline heretical to me. No idea that she wasexposingme. She might as well have stripped me naked in front of the entire cast and told me to prance.
“Madame Giselle, there’s got to be someone else who can do the solo. Please, I don’t sing in front of people,” I pleaded. But a small voice in the back of my mind whispered to me…Just do it. What does it matter? She’s dead anyway. You kept your promise for years. You deserve this.
“Sing it now—” Madame Giselle glared at me, fury in her eyes, “—and we will decide. This is no longer up to you, Seraphina.”
So, despite the nausea roiling in my gut, and despite the ever-present prickling on the back of my neck that told me that there was something watching me from the shadows, I sang that oath-breaking song, Carlotta’s aria, again, just like I had on the rooftop.
