“Excuse the delay,” I say. “Some convincing was necessary.”
“I heard,” says Walter. “Those with a natural talent are generally the ones who need some persuasion,” he adds.
Mia stands on the stage of the Opera House, making herself as small as possible, clutching the book in her hands to her as if her life depends on it.
She glances at me, or wherever she might believe me to be, I am certain she cannot see us with the little light on the stage and the darkness in the auditorium.
She breathes in and out and opens the book.
I see a small smile on her face as her eyes fly over the pages.
I don’t know how many times she has read Macbeth to me, probably a couple of dozen times. I myself am so affluent in it by now that I might do it very well for her.
Only I do not have her talent when it comes to emotional presence and variability. I am a woman of the stage, but my stage has clear rules and does not require me to become so many things at once. I am a Mistress, and that is my role.
Mia is many things, with a talent for becoming everything and everyone, which is why she belongs on stage.
Mia does not read a screenplay. She becomes it. She becomes her books. She becomes the characters, switching seamlessly between them. Which is why she can deliver a performance that even Walter, in his role as the Royal Opera House’s artistic director, has never seen.
Mia begins with the first act, becoming Duncan, the King of Scotland, with a deep voice, then switches to Malcom, one of the King’s sons, with another rich, deep voice—and she bids them all honour with her performance.
“She’s good,” whispers Walter in my ear. Walter is rare in his compliments, but I did not expect anything else.
She reads, no, plays the entire first act, including Lady Macbeth. At some point, she doesn’t even read; it comes from a place deep within her.
“False face must hide with what the false heart doth know.”
She ends her act with the last words of the first act and red cheeks.
Her chest heaves up and down, and my eyes wander to Walter, who claps his hands, getting up and walking down to the stage.
“That was a phenomenal performance, Miss Phillips,” he says and gets onto the stage. Mia flushes like a red rose, and I am falling in love with her all over again.
“Walter Campebell,” he says to introduce himself. “May I issue a special request?”
“Thank you, Sir,” she says and stares at her feet. “Of course.”
“Something your heart speaks truly of,” he says. “I wish to see your emotional depth.”
I can see the horror flicker through her eyes all the way to my seat. I am not going to interfere. This is her moment.
“I am sure there is something,” he says.
“Yes,” she says hesitantly, a weak smile hushing over her face, as she turns towards the auditorium. Towards me. “Something I wrote myself.”
“A universe so vast we only know infinity to describe it, with stars illuminating the darkness of the void, even though they may already have burnt?—
When I look at you, my eyes gaze into the endless roam of our galaxy, losing myself in the vastness of your light?—
When I hear your voice, my soul travels into the depths of Gaia, becoming one with the force of life within you?—
When I feel your touch, my body knows home in the calmness of your ocean, trusting the wisdom of your touch?—
And all I know is: Even when your star burns it’s brightest for one last time, I can always look up at the sky to find you shining within the realm you belong.”
My heart stumbles, goosebumps prickling my skin as warmth rushes through me—something that has never happened before to this extent—as I walk down the rows and up the stage, a fluttery sensation surging through me.
We have never talked about what the difference in age means to her; I have always feared she might one day realise the extent of it,and now I have my answer. She already knows. She and her million thoughts have already figured it out—and found peace with it.
