It's one thing for Rudin and me to appreciate Tara's dulcet tone.
But from what I can see, everyone's fallen under Tara's spell.
CHAPTER 44
TARA
Ihold the final note for what seems like a thousand years.
It takes all my strength, all my focus, to make that note resonate.
I know I have power in my voice. Mr. Rudin recognized it too.
But to really drive the passion and angst in the aria home, I channel the character of Pip.
I imagine his rage after suffering abuse by the captain and crew on that whaling vessel.
I bring to mind the night that Mr. Johnson dared attack me. And the helplessness I felt when that juvenile hall guard tried to violate me in my cell when I was just fourteen.
Like Pip, I was nearly defenseless to fight back.
But I survived.
And now I'm fighting back with my voice. I’m letting it express the rage I've been holding back all this time.
I'm so caught up in the heat of the moment that when I finish my aria, time seems to have passed in seconds.
The next thing I know, the stagehand is yanking the curtain closed.
In moments, the roar of applause fades into the muffled hum of guests leaving for the post-performance afterparty in the lobby.
“You did great, honey,” Mindy whispers, slipping me a water bottle as I stagger backstage. “Better than Fabiana herself.”
My throat is raw, my body shaking, but the music still hums through my bones.
Around me, the cast breaks formation—laughter, embraces, the heady spill of adrenaline.
Even that sarcastic woman, who’d side-eyed me since day one, grabs me in a fierce hug.
“You were excellent, Tara. More than excellent. That voice belongs at the Met itself—not just here on the island.”
“High praise. Thank you,” I say, faking a smile.
I want a moment to myself, a breath of silence—but the stagehands are already herding us toward the wings.
“Mr. Rudin wants us out front. Benefactors. Big wallets,” says a fellow troupe member.
Of course. Opera isn’t just art—it’s business.
I smooth a hand over the cabin boy’s costume I’m still wearing, the sweat-damp fabric clinging to my skin.
No time to change. No chance to disappear.
So I follow the others toward the lobby lights, pulse still racing, bracing for whatever waits beyond the curtain.
The backstage hallway funnels us into the lobby.
Here the audience is already lounging in velvet seats, clinking glasses at the bar. The air is thick with perfume and champagne, all chatter and applause.
