CHAPTER 40
TARA
The bus barely stops at the seaport before my phone buzzes. Cameron, I think, looking down at the caller ID.
But no. It's Mr. Rudin.
I swipe to answer. “Tara," he says, "apologies for calling so early, but there's been an emergency. Fabiana Farr won't be able to make tonight's opening night performance."
It takes me a moment to register these words.
"But Fabiana says she's never sick."
"She's not. It's that damn lapdog of hers. How fast can you make it to the theater?"
Twenty minutes later, I'm in the back of a black SUV heading toward the Dreamland Theater. I finger the locket around my neck and think:Finally, after all these years, my dreams are coming true.
The car screeches to a stop outside the Dreamland theater. Rudin is waiting for me, pacing like a man about to lose his shirt at the tables in Vegas.
“There you are!”
He grabs my arm before I’m even out of the SUV. He hustles me through the side door, barking orders over his shoulder.
“The seamstress on standby. Wardrobe needs you in costume. Vocal warm-up in fifteen. Don’t talk, drink nothing cold, don’t even breathe wrong.”
I stumble after him, adrenaline flooding my veins. “Mr. Rudin, my voice?—”
“Is it strong?” he cuts me off.
“Strong enough.”
He shoots me a glare. “Better be more than enough. TheNew York Timesmusic critic is rumored to be coming tonight, Tara. Do you want them to write your obituary or your coronation?”
We burst into the dressing hall. Seamstresses descend like vultures, tape measures flying. The same outfit I moth-proofed for Fabiana is thrust into my arms. Deep sapphire silk, glittering under the lights, heavier than anything I’ve ever worn. I clutch it to my chest.
This is real. This is happening.
“Tara!” a voice calls. I look up to see Mindy, the violinist who befriended me on my first day. She beams, squeezing my hand. “I heard. You’re on tonight. You’re going to kill it.”
I swallow. “I’m terrified.”
“Good. That means you’ll sing like your life depends on it.”
She leans close, lowering her voice.
“Don’t let the gossip get to you. Your voice is the only thing that matters."
Heat rises in my cheeks.
The seamstress yanks the richly designed cabin boy outfit over my head, tugging and pinning until the jacket fits like a second skin.
I turn to the mirror and barely recognize myself—glittering, dangerous, like a diva who belongs on that stage.
My heart hammers. This is the night I’ve dreamed about.
And it’s happening on the worst day of my life. But the show doesn’t care about heartbreak.
The show must go on.
