Up close, the curtains no longer appear ravenous or threatening. Instead, they welcome me.
I turn to face the rows of seats, straighten my posture at center stage, and take a breath. Opening my throat to widen the space in the back of my mouth, I release the first note. The room begins to spin, but there’s no pain, only the faint lament of a violin—the one from my dreams—as it adapts to my song, rearranging the whine of its strings, shifting its rhythm and melody until it slips across the aria to fit it, like the glove cradling my hand. I shut my eyes and study the violin’s silhouette in my mind, watching those feminine curves grow and sway until they take my maestro’s masculine form. My plain floral dress transforms into a red opera gown, flowing and lush. He latches his fingers to mine and draws my chest against his, my cheek nestled between his sternum and collarbone. His free hand skims my lower back, and we fold into each other like rose petals, so close we move as one. We dance. The violin becomes his voice, serenading me as I serenade him back. The music brightens our synchronized steps, as warm and honey yellow as the sun, flooding our surroundings, relaxing me until there’s no strain anywhere on my body. Though the aria rages from my throat in a powerful crescendo of color—the mood dark, mad, and melancholy—I’m unaffected. Bubbles of serenity encapsulate every staccato, trill, and glissando, then lift them from my vocal cords and roll them off my lips, effortlessly. My partner spins away and sets me free the moment I release the last golden note—in complete control.
The finale stretches, silken and luxurious, before falling in an audible drizzle that coats every wall, rafter, and seat with tremulous emotion.
The room stops spinning, and I’m left standing, strong, powerful . . . victorious. For the first time in ten years, I conquered the music. I did it.
“I did it!” I shout, spinning in place on the stage, my wet floral dress opening like a parasol and sprinkling water everywhere. I haven’t felt like this for so long . . . elated, like when Dad would accompany me, when together we carried the songs.
That unanswered guilt at his absence flutters through my heart again, but can’t find a place to perch. My chest is too full of happiness; it feels effulgent, as if it’s glowing from within. I look down to find it is, and can’t help but wonder if somewhere above me, the Phantom’s chest is glowing, too.
I glance up at the box seats and project my voice, smiling. “Thank you!”
The soft wail of that familiar violin answers, not in my mind, not from the balcony, but from the orchestra pit. One murmuring, sensual note that winds around me like a caress. My cheeks tingle and I press my palms to them, only to realize the black glove is gone from my hand, as if he took it back during our dance. As if he really held me in his arms . . .
Before the magnitude of that discovery can register, the lights burst on overhead, blinding. I shade my eyes.
“Have you lost your mind?” Madame Bouchard’s booming voice bounces around the auditorium.
The minute my eyes adjust, I study the orchestra pit. A glistening pair of yellow-green irises looks back at me. Diable. Other than rows of chairs, nothing else is there. No instrument . . . no Phantom . . . no glove. Since when has a cat been able to sound like a violin?
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” Bouchard’s question slices through my bewilderment.
She’s standing inside the doors I left propped open, one hand on her hip. Her thin lips are stretched in a snarl—a glaring expression even across the span of the enormous room. She has her hair pulled into a tight bun. With the duo-color job, white at the scalp and fuchsia at the nape, she looks like a grumpy powder puff. It would be almost comical, were it not for her latex gloves and the blood smeared across her white apron’s bib. I must have interrupted her while she was working on her latest project. Sunny said there’s a rumor that when she runs out of deceased pets, she sets traps for animals in the forest. The way she looks now, crazed and bloodthirsty, I’m guessing she’s demented enough to peel roadkill from the country road that leads to RoseBlood.
I cringe.
At first, I wonder if she heard me singing . . . if she’s angry again because she thinks I’m trying to horn in on her star pupil and steal the lead role of The Fiery Angel. Then I realize what I’ve done . . . the line of muddy water I’ve tracked across the auditorium’s plush red carpet, as well as the pool surrounding me on stage. I can’t even imagine how bad the white marble in the foyer and corridors must be.
“I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Apparently not. Have you any idea, oiseau chanteur, the extent of damage standing water can cause to marble, wood, and carpet?”
My lips freeze together. Oiseau chanteur . . . songbird.
She did hear me.
“There’s a mop and carpet cleaner there, behind the curtains. Fix your mess before everyone returns and tracks it all over the school. Understood?”