CENTRESTAGE
Hours later I found myself unrecognizable in an ethereal flowing white jewelled gown. My hair was pinned artfully into a pile of curls atop my head, a heavy tiara woven into the dark tendrils. Shimmering makeup adorned my face, giving me an otherworldly glow. And I was about to sing in front of hundreds of people. For the first time in my life.
I had indulged myself in fantasies of this moment thousands of times, the scene playing over and over in my mind: how I would stand in front of the crowd, how they would cheer at my great triumph. But I had never thought it was truly possible. It was painful to remember the times I sang with my father as a child. He had been a musical virtuoso—renowned—playing in symphonies all over the world. Any spare moment that wasn’t spent practising ballet with my mother, I spent singing with him: training my instrument—my voice. Those had been the happiest moments of my life. My mother would listen fondly while I sang and my father played the violin. My memories of her were fuzzy around the edges now. It had been so long since she faded away. But I could still see the look on her face when I sang. It had been pure joy and pride.
When I met Carlotta, it was clear her gift was different than mine—bigger—more expansive. If I was like a songbird in a cage, she was an eagle soaring high. But I did havesomething.A power thrummed in me when I sang, something stirring deep within me. I could feel it from the top of my head to the soles of my feet; something untrained and powerful, like a wild beast curled in the darkness. I had been holding it back for so long. I didn’t want to look at it; I was afraid to see what might be hidden there. Perhaps my mother knew. Perhaps that was why she made me swear never to reveal that beast. But I had no choice now. It was time to let her out of the cage.
“Are you okay? You look like you’re going to hurl.” Maren appeared in the doorway of my dressing room. Notmydressing room. Carlotta’s. It should have been her standing here. She would have looked regal—a queen who knew she owned that stage. I looked like I was playing dress-up in my mother’s boudoir.
“I can’t do this.” My eyes widened at the sight of Maren. She was fully decked out in the dramatic ballet costume for the piece with her red pointe shoes and tutu. I should have looked identical to her but instead…
“Of course you can do it. Carlotta wouldwantyou to do it. We believe in you, Fifi.” Maren smiled, adding the nickname for effect. This was all her fault.
“I’m not her. I don’t have enough training. I’m going to fall flat on my face out there and...” I left the rest unsaid. “Why would you tell them I could do this?” I turned toward Maren, feeling a spike of fear as I thought of all the ways I could fail. I could trip. I could forget every word to the song. I could open my mouth and have nothing come out but the croak of a toad. I was spiraling.
“Please. We’ve been hearing you practise for years now. Even though you try to hide it, we know. I think you’re amazing and Idon’t know why you haven’t told us. You should talk to Carlotta about it. When she’s…better…” Maren confessed. I gulped.
“Besides, your tits are too big to be a ballerina.” Maren raised her eyebrows, gesturing to my chest. “You’re going to take someone out with those things one day. Better for singing, I’d wager.” She mimed singing while holding onto her practically non-existent breasts. Maren was always capable of making me laugh, no matter the situation. I guffawed at her comments.
“You are such a bitch!” I wheezed through a fit of giggles. But her pointed teasing had done the trick. I was distracted from my nerves, just in time for the five-minute warning bell to chime. It was time to go. When I turned back to the mirror for one final glance, a single red rose sat on the vanity top. I was certain it had not been there before. A delicate black ribbon wrapped around the stem. So curious. The ribbon appeared solid black at first glance, but as I looked closer, I saw markings. Small markings were drawn in black ink, so they were barely visible. I didn’t know what they meant, but I felt like I had seen something like them before. On a whim, I untied the ribbon and placed it in the folds of the dress. Maybe it would bring me good luck.
Backstage waswhere real magic happened, energy from the audience drifting casually over the stage, leaking in through the heavy curtains before they had even raised. Energy from the performers was like lightning—roiling and flashing. You could feel the electricity between performers as they locked eyes. The knowing looks. This. This was what we lived for. We gobbled that energy up greedily, knowing there was nothing like it anywhere else on Earth. No feeling like the electric crackle between us as we put our whole selves out there for all to see.
The orchestra was warming up, strings humming lightly over the mild chatter of the audience. The heady scent of our rich patron’s perfumes hovered in the air. Everyone was here to see and be seen, and they wore their finest.
The lights dimmed, the stage floor itself turning as black and still as water. Brilliant lights overhead would soon illuminate the gilded accents of the stage—the heavy red velvet curtains, the intricately painted sconces and candelabras that adorned the theatre. And, of course, the centrepiece of it all: the enormous chandelier that glittered at the apex of the opera house. For now, they were all bathed in darkness.
I took my place in the middle of the stage. Centre stage at the opera house was marked with a round golden coin, the size of an apple, with a five-pointed star engraved in the centre. I had stood on it before, hundreds of times, the sight of it as familiar to me as the back of my hand. But I had never stood on it as asinger. Now, I stood on that familiar spot, knowing that soon there would be nothing between my soul and those hundreds of people. I would be baring it all to them—I might as well have been stark naked. And they knew.
They had come to see Carlotta—she was their darling, their prima donna. With a small slip of paper inserted in the program, they all knew thatSeraphina Dallierwould perform instead. I was no diva. I was just a chorus dancer. And I would be judged—my worthiness stacked against Carlotta’s angelic voice, her wild and wicked presence. I had a lot to measure up to.
“I’m sorry. I have to do this,” I whispered to no one. A silent apology to my mother, who may never have cared. Who may have been rambling on, a delusional dying woman. But whose memory I had honoured nonetheless, until now.
A hush spread over the crowd as the curtain lifted. All the nerves that I had felt moments ago left me as I stood there, rooted to the stage. There was nothing more I could doto prepare. It was do or die, and I felt a strange sense of calm descend over me. A soft tinkle of keys sounded from the orchestra, and then, I began.
My voice quivered at first as I grounded myself and found my centre. Fortunately, the song began softly, and the quiver could be interpreted as a coquettish display of innocence. As the powerful aria built, my voice strengthened, undulating and smooth where it needed to be, strong and powerful in other places, sweet as a songbird still in others. My voice trilled, rapidly alternating between notes. I knew how to do this. Iwasa singer. In my soul. And I felt it then. That thrum of power within me. The beast that normally paced in the darkness purred as if she was finally sated. And then she roared, expelling a final shudder as the song lifted to its crescendo. I did not know I could even do what I did then.
My voice raised and lowered, layering in a complicated dance not unlike what I usually performed with my feet. I felt the warmth of my vibrato all the way down to my toes. A smile played across my mouth as if I had a secret. I did have a secret. Whatever this power was, it was otherworldly. I was accessing something wholly new and different. I performed the cadenza at the end, improvising a few runs, flitting up and down, my confidence growing as I remembered my own abilities. I raised my voice one final time before the song came crashing down; I could feel the audience stir. The chandelier above flickered—hundreds of tiny bulbs flashing, once, twice, flickering and guttering out before surging back to life. A phantom wind fluttered from behind me, lifting the ethereal dress and sending the skirts rustling. And it was cold. Icy cold. I could have sworn my breath was coming out in puffs of mist.
Confused murmuring sounded in the audience. I had no idea what I had just done. What sort of unholy power had I accessed? Was it related to my singing, or was it a mere coincidence? Theresidual electricity of it skittered down my bones, every single hair on my arms and neck stood straight up. Whatever it was, and wherever it had come from, I was in a whole lot of trouble. Silence descended in the theatre as I finished the aria. You could have heard a mouse sneeze. Had they hated it? Were they afraid? What had caused the power surge? I was beginning to panic as the silence stretched on—it was agonizing to be standing there. One single person, somewhere in the highest boxes, began to clap. It was as if the spell had been broken, and in no time, the audience were on their feet, cheering, clapping and whooping. Relief cascaded through me. I had won them over.
THE MIRROR
The awkward confusion after the aria was short-lived; the audience moved on, and so did I. The ballet, the chorus and the other pieces performed passed without incident. Even though I had felt something in my body when I sang the end of that cadenza, I wasn’t ready to admit that I had caused any of the strange electrical surge. It was easier to chalk it up to coincidence. A surge in the power grid that had occurred at the same exact moment. That strange wind whipping at my dress and hair was harder to explain, so I pushed it to the back of my mind. My mind was just playing tricks on me, trying to prove that I should never have sung in the first place. That was all.
The performers planned to go out to celebrate after the gala. I wasn’t really in the mood and just wanted to go home, possibly head to the infirmary to check on Carlotta, and overthink what it all meant now. But Maren managed to convince me that Carlotta would have encouraged us to have a good time. We had received word that she would be fine. She had a small concussion and a black eye, but overall, she would be alright. She’d be spending the evening in the infirmary regardless.
The soloist’s dressing room was too big, the vast space yawning open before me as I entered after the gala. Along one wall sat a large vanity mirror surrounded by round light bulbs. The vanity below was fully stocked with every kind of rouge and powder, all sizes of brushes, hairpins, ribbons and anything one would ever need to get into full stage makeup. To the right hung hundreds and hundreds of costumes, each gaudier and more elaborate than the next, voluminous skirts and petticoats in shades of pink, violet, black and gold, each waiting their turn to grace the stage. And at the far side of the dressing room stood a full-length mirror. Framed in ornate gold, it was heads and shoulders taller than me and wide enough that three people could comfortably view their full reflections.
I wasn’t comfortable having this enormous room all to myself; I missed the buzz and hum of the ballerinas’ dressing room—the camaraderie and collective effervescence of having just gone through the same thing together, for better or worse. But I was here, playing the part of the prima donna this evening. I didn’t think I’d ever come close to filling Carlotta’s shoes. But I had done my best. I hadn’t fallen on my face or made a complete fool of myself. So that was something.
I changed into my outfit for the evening and took note of my reflection in the full-length mirror. I wasn’t going out with Seff or his father tonight, and I had chosen my outfit accordingly. The neckline of this sparkling black dress plunged far lower than the curve of my generous breasts. The drop waist accentuated my backside, and the hemline was several inches higher than my thigh-high stockings. I gave a silent thanks to Carlotta as I raided her costume jewellery drawer, selecting a long string of pearls that knotted as it cascaded over my chest. I was in the process of darkening my eye makeup, smoking out the sides in a dramatic angle when a voice—strange and disembodied—drifted through the dressing room.
“Seraphina…” the voice beckoned. It was deep with a lilting accent that I immediately recognized. Because I would never forget the tone of that voice—how it travelled all the way down my spine. But where was it coming from? And how did he knowmyname? I had never given it to him. My breath caught in my chest.
“Seraphina… the mirror…”
I froze, turning my head frantically, trying to locate the source of the voice—the source that I knew to be Ciaran Fahy.
